It Happened in Tuscany

by Gail Mencini

  Pulling up next to the newly dug grave, Sophie drew in a deep breath and gritted her teeth. She could do this. She had to do it, for Mr. Mills.

  Her heart pounded in her chest. She moved to help her neighbor out of the car, but he climbed out too quickly for assistance.

  Sophie had never met Marie. Mrs. Mills relocated to an Alzheimer’s unit before Sophie moved into the building.

  At the grave, the widower refused to sit. He stood telephone-pole straight, his hands rigid by his sides.

  The minister finished the final prayer and turned to the widower and Sophie. “Are there any words you would like to say as we send Marie to her final resting place?”

  Sophie gulped. She didn’t expect to have any duties today other than to drive her neighbor.

  Mr. Mills snapped to a military salute. After his hand returned to his side, he quarter-turned and marched toward Sophie’s car.

  Sophie gulped. She had to say something.

  “You can rest, Mrs. Mills. God bless you.” Her years of Catholic school kicked in, and her hand moved in the sign of the cross.

  Sophie murmured a quick thank-you to the minister and scurried to her car.

  On the ride back to their apartment building, Mr. Mills stared straight ahead. Neither one spoke.

  I did my part. We made a deal.

  Sophie followed Mr. Mills up the stairs. She decided to microwave a box of macaroni and cheese for herself before heading to the office to meet Mr. Grant. Macaroni and cheese, one of the few dishes she attempted in the kitchen, would be the perfect comfort food to banish all thoughts of funerals from her head.

  Mr. Mills stopped in front of his door and turned to face Sophie. “I want you to come inside with me. There’s something of Marie’s I want to give you.”

  Sophie looked at her watch. She didn’t have much time to spend with the grouchy old man, and she didn’t want to be late for her meeting with the boss.

  “May I come over tomorrow? You must be exhausted.”

  “You’re in a hurry to ditch me. Don’t worry, I’ll be quick.” He opened his apartment door and motioned for Sophie to enter first.

  The man buried his wife today, and now he wanted to give Sophie something that had belonged to her. Sophie had no choice.

  Two things surprised her about the apartment.

  First, Mr. Mills’s apartment was cleaner than the models set up to entice people to rent in a brand-new building.

  Second, the delicate ivory lace curtains, brocade side chairs, and floral love seat in shades of pink and green froze the apartment in the past, when the late Marie selected them.

  “Sit.” He gestured to one of the side chairs. Without seeing if she followed his direction, he walked into the bedroom.

  Sophie sat, ankles crossed, hands folded over her lap. She didn’t usually sit in this manner, but somehow, this chair from another era required formal posture.

  Mr. Mills re-entered the room with one hand held before him. He lowered his hand, palm up, in front of her.

  Sophie gasped. A necklace rested on his palm. A silver chain held an enormous, sparkly, pear-shaped, bluish-gray gem.

  “It’s a sapphire. I gave this necklace to Marie for our fortieth wedding anniversary. It’s the color of her eyes.”

  His hand, still cradling the necklace, jutted toward her. “I want you to have this.”

  Sophie shook her head. “Oh, I couldn’t.” The variation of color in the gem captivated her. She had never seen a more vibrant sapphire.

  “Say thank you and take the necklace. Now.” He offered her this lovely gift with a tone more suited to banishing her from his sight.

  Sophie glanced up at her neighbor. The determined expression on his face convinced her. He wasn’t giving her a choice.

  She gently picked up the necklace and cradled it in her hand. The elderly man backed away, to allow Sophie to stand.

  What words adequately expressed gratitude for this extraordinary gift from a man she hardly knew? Sophie smiled. “Thank you, Mr. Mills.”

  He nodded.

  “How long were you and Marie married?”

  “Seventy-three years.” His voice broke. “Damn. I wanted to make seventy-five.” He turned away and rubbed the tears from his face.

  Mr. Mills crossed the room to the entry door. He turned to face Sophie.

  He studied her face like a detective cross-examining a suspect. “A few weeks ago you blathered on the phone outside my door to that slick boyfriend of yours. Something about booking airline flights and hotels. That’s what you do at that job you complain to him about, right?”

  Now that remark was objectionable on several levels. Slick boyfriend? He eavesdropped on her conversations with Russ, who was definitely not her boyfriend. Not anymore.

  Mr. Mills also accused her of complaining. Sophie might be naïve, or cautious about the unknown, but one thing she had never been was a complainer.

  Where should she start to rebut his accusations? She held out the necklace.

  “You can have this back. We obviously do not see eye to eye on just about anything. I don’t want your wife’s necklace.”

  “I gave the necklace to you. Now be quiet and gracious, and answer my question. You’re a travel agent, aren’t you?”

  Sophie placed the necklace on the entry table and, with effort, peeled her eyes away from the stunning jewel. She looked at Mr. Mills. “No, I’m not. I handle the travel arrangements for my employer and our clients.”

  He grunted. “Finding a travel agent these days is about like finding a man who changes the oil in his own car. Damn near impossible.”

  The timing of this question baffled Sophie. “Why do you ask?”

  “I want to fly to Italy to find my wife.”

  15

  Sophie’s eyes widened with shock. Mr. Mills wants to go to Italy to find his wife? We buried his wife of seventy-three years not more than two hours ago.

  She could only manage one word. “What?”

  Mr. Mills opened the entry door. “Get on to whatever you’re doing that is so damned important. You can come by later tonight or tomorrow for your necklace. We can talk about my trip to Italy then.”

  Sophie wanted an explanation, but even leaving now, she might be late for the meeting with Mr. Grant.

  Sophie waved at the office receptionist and made a beeline for her cubicle. She grabbed a notepad, pen, and her laptop and rushed to Mr. Grant’s office.

  Mr. Grant and his wife had cruised from Venice to Greece and several of its magical islands last year. Sophie made all the arrangements and enjoyed every minute of the planning.

  The company’s owner assigned the penthouse corner office to himself, of course, and furnished the room with soft leather chairs, a commanding mahogany desk, and bookcases behind him. Sophie loved his office.

  Most of all, she loved the full Front Range view of the Colorado Rockies.

  She walked into Mr. Grant’s office. He looked up from the paperwork on his desk. “Hello, Sophie. Would you mind closing the door?”

  The entire office practiced an open-door culture. Had Russ persuaded his father to fire me?

  She closed the door and walked, eyes lowered, to one of the high-backed chairs in front of his desk. She eased herself down on the supple leather.

  Be brave. She looked up at her boss. Startled, her eyes widened. If he’s going to fire me, why is he smiling?

  “Sophie, I want you to work on a confidential assignment for me.”

  Sophie exhaled. She leaned forward. “Of course, I’ll help. Where are you headed?”

  “Not me.” He rubbed his palms together. “Mrs. Grant and I are giving Russ and Angela a honeymoon fit for a prince and princess.”

  Sophie gulped.

  “I want you to make all the travel arrangements, but you can’t tell anyone, especially Russ. I want to surprise them. I’ve told him we’ll pay for the honeymoon as part of their wedding gift, but I want to keep the details secret from the lovebirds.”
/>   Lovebirds.

  Sophie steadied herself. She asked in a level tone, “When do you think they’ll set the date of the wedding?”

  “Everything’s set. Angela’s parents reserved a prestigious venue for the wedding and reception. The block of hotel rooms for the guests is locked down, too. The wedding will be Labor Day weekend next year.”

  He chuckled. “Russ said he liked Labor Day weekend because after the wedding, his darling Angela will never need to labor, except when having his babies.”

  Sophie felt queasy, and her mouth filled with dry, suffocating air.

  If the lovebirds found time to investigate and book everything for the wedding, they’ve probably been planning this for a year.

  Russ broke up with me the day before Christmas. How could they have fallen in love so quickly and gotten all this arranged? Sought-after venues are booked a year or more in advance.

  The truth slapped her in the face. Russ started dating Angela long before he broke up with Sophie.

  Sophie stood and smoothed out the creases in her skirt.

  Her anger kept her voice steady. “Booking a honeymoon trip is outside of my expertise. I will find two highly regarded travel planners and give you their names.”

  “Sophie, you know Russ better than most people. I’d consider this a significant personal favor if you’d handle the arrangements.”

  “I can’t do it.” She took one backward step toward the door.

  His eyes narrowed. “Can’t or won’t?”

  “Both.” Sophie turned and walked to the door.

  Mr. Grant spoke to her retreating form. “You would be wise to reconsider—right now—before you walk out that door.”

  Sophie turned to face him. “I quit.”

  16

  The next morning, in spite of her sleepless night, Sophie jumped out of bed. She hoped the veterinarian could give her tips on how to care for a bulldog with bowel issues—both for her sake and Bangor’s.

  The bulldog’s bathroom needs had risen over the last month. A week ago, she booked an appointment with Bangor’s vet.

  Bangor acted as though he were the one without sleep. She carried him in her arms.

  Light pooled beneath Mr. Mills’s door. Sophie tiptoed by his apartment. She couldn’t stand to hear her neighbor launch into a tirade on how to train her dog.

  What an angry old man. He may not be a dog lover, but why does he take every opportunity to chastise me?

  Sophie touched Bangor’s nose—warm and dry, not a good sign. When she scratched his head between his ears, he didn’t open his eyes or grunt in satisfaction. No wag of his tail, either.

  Sophie sighed with worry. What is wrong with Bangor?

  Sophie stood beside Bangor in the vet’s “dog” room. A bulletin board on the wall displayed thank-you notes and photos of grateful dog owners nuzzling their four-legged family members.

  Bangor stood on the raised examination platform. His body trembled with fear.

  He usually liked his vet visits, for the new smells in the waiting room and the treat he received while she paid the bill. Not today. When they approached the office front door, Bangor pulled back on the leash and whined.

  Does Bangor sense this visit is different from a routine check-up?

  Sophie stroked his back and spoke in a soft, comforting voice. “It’ll be OK, Bangor. After we’re done here, you’ll be better.”

  She prayed this visit would make her words come true.

  The veterinarian, a plump, middle-aged man with laugh wrinkles that framed his eyes, entered the exam room. “Good to see you, Sophie. So our buddy here is having some difficulties, is he?”

  Sophie recounted the progression of Bangor’s GI issues while the vet examined and gently palpated Bangor. When he pressed against Bangor’s belly, the miserable dog whimpered.

  “I’d like to do an ultrasound on Bangor. We’ll have a better idea of what’s causing his problems.”

  Sophie suspected what that meant: a sizable bill and the possibility that something serious plagued Bangor.

  She didn’t hesitate. “Can you do it now? And may I stay with him during the exam? He’ll be scared.”

  Sophie had two options for Bangor.

  Choice one, with a low success rate given the metastases of the tumors, was expensive surgery. This option would cause pain and terror for Bangor, and Sophie couldn’t have afforded enormous vet bills when she had a job, much less now.

  Tears tumbled down her cheeks. She chose the second option.

  Sophie made an appointment to put Bangor down on Monday.

  17

  Cancer riddled Bangor’s body. Sophie carried him up the stairs to her apartment.

  The vet recommended she offer Bangor as much water as he wanted, feed him warm rice, and give him two days of love.

  Sophie returned to her apartment with puffy, red eyes. She cooed to Bangor, gave him his favorite dog treat, and moved him to her bed for a nap. Sophie stretched out on the bed next to her devoted dog, rested one palm on him, and cried. Bangor moaned and moved away from her hand. Her tears started anew.

  She picked him up the way the vet did and positioned him on his doggie bed.

  Sophie heard a knock on her apartment door. She opened it to find Mr. Mills, dressed in rumpled khaki slacks and a white V-neck undershirt.

  “How’s Bangor?” He had given his usual grimace the day off. Rather than demonstrate concern, however, his face held no expression.

  “What?”

  “Didn’t you take that dog to the vet?”

  The nosy neighbor had snooped on her again and listened to her phone calls. The typical sounds of life—voices, a dog’s bark, water running, a cell phone ring—traveled through the thin apartment walls.

  Her eyes welled with tears. “Tumors spread throughout Bangor’s body. I need to put ... put him down.”

  Mr. Mills scowled. “Who was this vet you took him to?”

  Sophie gave him the doctor’s name and explained that the apartment manager had recommended him.

  His scowl returned, and his tone was skeptical. “Hmph. I guess the vet might be OK.”

  “He was voted the top canine veterinarian in Denver the past three years.” Sophie had noticed the framed magazine articles on the wall of the clinic’s waiting room.

  “Sorry to hear about Bangor.” His words were proper, but his tone of voice sounded like she asked the time of day or directions to the restroom.

  No wonder he’s grouchy. He doesn’t have a kind, empathetic bone in his body.

  Her neighbor gave one dismissive nod, turned, and retreated into his apartment.

  Sophie tossed and turned in her bed. Her eight trips outside with Bangor served as a depressing reminder of the appointment she faced on Monday.

  On Sunday, when Bangor wasn’t asleep, he exhibited rare good humor. He refused to eat but happily rewarded her with a steady stream of sloppy, wet kisses.

  How can Bangor be loving and content when his body has betrayed him? Why does he act so happy? Isn’t he hurting?

  The nagging woodpecker of her conscience attacked all night.

  Does Bangor have a chance to survive without the surgery?

  Is putting Bangor down another thoughtless, selfish mistake that will forever haunt me?

  18

  On Monday morning, Sophie gave Bangor a bath and then took a shower to rid herself of the wet dog smell.

  She stood in front of her closet and wondered what one wore to march her best friend to the death chamber. Sophie shuddered. She chewed on her lower lip and fought back the tears.

  She looked in her closet and felt worse.

  The closet still held the tight, low-cut dresses she bought during her days with Russ.

  Sophie hated herself for changing her style to please Russ. She grabbed as many garments as she could hold, carried them out to the space that doubled as an eating area and a great room, and flung the clothes to the floor.

  She returned to the closet, jerke
d the remaining “Russ” clothes out, and dumped them on the pile in front of her TV.

  Sophie considered herself average in the looks department. She’d call herself pleasant-looking, maybe even pretty. Certainly not beautiful.

  Her large brown eyes were the best feature in her oval face. Sophie was most comfortable in simple tops and T-shirts that didn’t cling to her body.

  She visualized an imaginary horizontal line halfway between her neck and her breasts. Except for her one cocktail dress, in her mind, the neckline of Sophie’s shirts should not dip below the line of demarcation.

  She eyed the heap of garments. She bought them because Russ admired those styles. Sophie thought they made her look like a lady of the night. A trip to Goodwill was on her docket. It would be more productive than curling up and crying over Bangor. Sophie nodded with satisfaction. Her closet looked bigger without the suggestive clothes in it.

  The comfortable clothes she put on did nothing to lift the dark fog of her mood.

  Sophie called for Bangor to join her for a ride. He trotted over to her and looked nothing like a dog headed for his last outing. She fought back tears.

  Her neighbor surprised her. He stood in front of his apartment door with an unreadable expression on his face. Mr. Mills wore a pressed, long-sleeved plaid shirt, khaki slacks, and brown shoes that gleamed from a fresh polish.

  “You’re headed somewhere,” Sophie said. “Go on ahead. I’m going to let Bangor walk out of here the last time on his own four legs.”

  “After you.” He gestured for her to go ahead down the stairs. “I’m going with you. You shouldn’t have to be alone for this.”

  Sophie stared at him with shock.

  “What?” Mr. Mills said. “What’s so surprising? I had a dog myself once. Got hit by a car and died. Losing him tore me up for weeks.”

  He gave a curt nod and motioned to the staircase. “After you, Miss Sophie.”

  19