by Gail Mencini
They stepped inside.
“Buongiorno. May I help you? Would you like a taste?”
“Buongiorno. Thank you.” Sophie smiled at the attractive, thirty-year-old woman with big, dark eyes and tight curls of black hair that spilled out of a high knot on her head.
Will grinned like a six-year-old. “You bet.”
He turned to face the Italian. “Miss, please describe these. They all look delicious.”
The woman smiled and pointed out the flavors: Pistachio, lemon, strawberry, chocolate chip, chocolate, double chocolate, orange, hazelnut, mocha, almond, raspberry, mixed berry, mint, vanilla, peach, and caramel.
Sophie’s mouth watered at the choices and the vibrant display.
Will spoke first, with a broad smile on his face. “I’d love to sample your chocolate, hazelnut, and peach if that is not too much trouble.”
The woman smiled. “Not at all.”
Will took each of the plastic tasting spoons in turn and settled on the hazelnut.
Sophie sampled the lemon, almond, and raspberry. She chose the almond, a flavor not carried by her favorite ice cream store in Highland, a trendy neighborhood not far from the apartment building where she and Will lived.
“Thank you. How long have you been in Montepulciano?” Sophie said.
“Ten years ago I moved here from Florence, where I had gone to university.”
Sophie decided the direct approach was the best. “We are interested in visiting butcher shops. Could you help us locate where these are on our map?”
“Stores where they cut their own fresh meat, or also markets with food ready to eat?”
Sophie and Will exchanged glances.
“Both, if you would, please,” Will said. “I suspect the butchers in town give a woman as beautiful as you all the best cuts, don’t they?”
She smiled and batted her eyes. “That I do not know.”
“What is your name?”
“Tessa.”
Will shook her hand. “I’m Will, and my pretty friend is Sophie.”
Sophie shook Tessa’s hand. Ninety-one years old and still playfully bantering with young women. He must have been quite the ladies’ man when he was younger.
He pulled his street map out of his back pocket and extended it to her. “Tessa, would you please mark the butcher shops with a little “x” and the markets with a dot?”
“Of course I will do this, and you,” the clerk gestured to the cafe tables and chairs outside, “should go and enjoy your gelato before it melts.”
Sophie’s gelato definitely tasted like almonds, but with a creamy freshness that popped in her mouth. She had devoured a third of her small dish when she saw that Will had barely eaten any.
Will scooped gelato onto his spoon and gazed at it with appreciation. He placed the spoon in his mouth, closing his lips over it. He noticed Sophie watching him and blushed.
Sophie rested her hand on his arm. “Don’t be embarrassed. I’m the one who should be for gulping mine down. You’re savoring it.”
Will’s face turned sorrowful. “This dish of gelato is good for me. It helps me forget. Forget what a coward I am.”
“What do you mean? You’re not a coward. You’re a war hero.”
Will’s pained eyes rebutted her words.
Tessa appeared beside their table. She looked at Will’s face and stepped backward. “Scusi. I interrupt.”
“No,” Will said. “I’m an old man with too many memories. Please, sit with us.”
“It looks like you brought our map,” Sophie said, trying to lighten the mood at the table.
“Yes.” Tessa pulled a chair over from a neighboring table and sat down.
“Here,” Tessa spread the folded street guide out. “There are two butcher shops, here” she touched a spot on the guide “and here.” The second one was in a section of town far from where they were. “The markets” she pointed out four “as you see. These two” the ones that were closest to the Duomo “have more items to take and eat on a day trip. They cater to visitors.
“These on the outer edges of the town are for residents, with staples we use in cooking. They also have cured meats plus foods that are easier to purchase than preparing ourselves.”
Will’s face brightened. “Thank you, Miss Tessa. This is helpful. We sure appreciate it.”
Tessa stood.
Sophie jumped to her feet and impulsively hugged Tessa. “Thank you. This is perfect.”
Will scrambled up and reached in his pocket for the photograph of Francesca.
Sophie shook her head at him, thinking Tessa was too young to have seen Francesca.
There was no stopping Will, though. He showed Tessa the old picture. Not surprisingly, Tessa did not recognize Francesca and had never heard of her name or family.
Sophie was eager to head to the butcher shop closest to the gelato shop.
They threw away their trash, thanked Tessa again, and walked outside.
Six leads here in Montepulciano. Will one bring us to Francesca?
51
The first establishment was a small shop, with glass cases along one side. Those in the rear held raw meat and poultry. The man tending the counters spoke English. He glowed with pride when Sophie inquired about the shop’s history.
“My father was a tailor,” the man said. “He worked here fifty years and his father’s family for generations before. I added these ten years ago.” He tapped the top of the refrigerated case. “Everything inspected. Perfecto.”
Tailors occupied this space. It wasn’t a butcher shop during the war.
“What meat will you want today?”
Sophie remembered her delicious dinner their second night in Florence. “Wild boar.”
“Come the day before your meal. I’ll give you cooking tips.” He thrust out his chest.
Will stepped forward until he stood closer to the clerk than Sophie.
“Thanks for the help. My friend knows how to cook, though, so she won’t need advice. Appreciate the help.” Will nodded to the man.
They went outside. “Strike one,” Will sighed. “Dang it.”
“We have several more leads.”
“I’m not discouraged about this place, or even upset at how that guy made goo-goo eyes at you. It’s that.” Will pointed to the uphill road that led to the Duomo.
Sophie glanced around. She didn’t see anything resembling a taxi or bus. She doubted the ride-sharing services she used in Denver had made their way to the hill towns of Tuscany.
Sophie and Will walked back to the busy thoroughfare. She knew what she had to do.
Half an hour after her call, an older model, dusty, blue four-door Fiat pulled to the curb on the narrow side street.
Joe got out of the car.
“You called. I came.” He looked cheery. Joe’s hair was tousled and his face as red as the first time they saw him.
Joe ushered Will into the front seat of the car and held open the door behind Will for Sophie.
“What model of car is this?” Will said in a gruff voice.
“This beauty is a 2005 Panda, second generation. One of the best-selling models ever in Italy. Pandas are used by the Italian army and some police forces. It’s a fine car.”
At one time it probably was a beautiful car. Joe might be correct about the army and police forces choosing the Fiat for official use, but his car had seen its share of wear over the years.
Joe headed up the hill, alternating his focus between Will and Sophie. He barely glanced at the unforgiving stone walls or occasional pedestrian.
“Is this the vehicle you use when you take tour groups?” Sophie asked.
An elderly woman carrying a large grocery bag in one hand and the leash to a small scruffy dog in the other walked toward them on the right edge of the street. The dog zigzagged back and forth from the wall into the street.
“I take this or rent a van.” Joe pivoted back to look at her.
“Joe—look out!” Sophie pointed at the
woman and her dog.
He swerved left, and the woman jerked her dog’s nylon lead to pull him to safety.
Sophie looked out the back window to verify that the woman and her dog were safe. The woman turned around to look uphill at them. She shook her fist and cursed. The dog stood at his owner’s feet, wagging his tail.
Bangor’s goofy, loving face filled Sophie’s mind. Her stomach cartwheeled. The veterinarian lab hadn’t responded yet to her request for information about Bangor.
52
Joe took Sophie and Will back to their hotel. He offered to drive them to the markets farthest from the Grande Piazza after they had rested. “We can stop for a coffee afterward,” he said.
“I’m pooped, Miss Sophie. I’m not hungry.” Will smiled. “Must be all those pastries I ate today. You can go with Joe now.”
Sophie was desperate for any clue that might lead to Francesca and agreed to Will’s suggestion.
Joe whistled beside her in the car. He glanced over at Sophie. “How come your boyfriend didn’t come along to Italy?”
Sophie felt the heat creep over her face. She pushed aside her embarrassment and spoke with false confidence. “I’m single.”
She astonished herself. Her words sounded confident. Strong. Independent. Much better than “I don’t have a boyfriend because he dumped me.”
Joe’s eyes took a slow assessment of her body. “Are you gay?”
“No.” Sophie lifted her chin. “I like men, but I’m single.”
She saw the market ahead. “That’s it. You’ll interpret, right?”
“Of course.” He motioned for Sophie to walk in first and then sauntered in behind her.
“Buongiorno,” said the man standing in front of the glass displays.
Joe’s hands flew in front of him as he spoke in quick words to the merchant.
The shopkeeper was in his forties and wore snug indigo jeans. His white T-shirt clung to him like a second skin, and black chest hair curled over the shirt’s V-neck.
Cured meats rested in one arm of the refrigerated glass cases, and prepared sandwiches on ciabatta bread, salads, and pastries sat in the other.
Narrow shelves in front of the sandwiches held fresh fruits and vegetables of vibrant hues. Sophie marveled how the produce—grape clusters with tiny round orbs, red Roma and cherry tomatoes, long yellow-green pepperoncini, and glossy, deep purple eggplants—was arranged with the eye of an artist.
Joe waved his hand in Sophie’s direction while asking questions of the shopkeeper.
The merchant directed his short responses to Joe, but his eyes remained locked on Sophie.
Joe picked up three eggplants.
The storekeeper scowled at Joe.
Joe responded by juggling the eggplants.
The seller threw up his arms and cursed.
Joe caught the fruit with soft hands and eased them back into their tray.
The retailer shooed Joe and Sophie out into the street with booming Italian words and a jabbing finger.
That attempt for information was a bust.
Joe hadn’t mentioned Francesca’s name to the merchant, and Sophie had no chance to show the photograph. The shopkeeper made it clear that no one should touch the produce, let alone juggle the vegetables.
Tears dampened Sophie’s eyes. She inhaled a deep, slow breath, and steadied her emotions.
She excused herself from Joe and made the excuse that she wanted to shop for a purse on the way back to the hotel. He motored away.
Good riddance.
She wanted to go—alone—to the other market on the outskirts of the city, as it was not far from where she stood.
She berated herself for trusting Joe, a shyster who took advantage of fellow Americans needing help in a foreign country.
Sophie’s stop in the next store also failed. The current owners bought it five years before and didn’t know the store’s history.
We’re getting nowhere. Will and I may need a new plan, but what?
53
The next morning, Sophie slept through her alarm. The first thing she did was to check the email on her phone. The lab responded. Her hands shook when she opened the message.
Bangor showed no progress with the experimental medications in the first month. We will continue the same protocol for at least two more weeks and determine our next course of action at that time.
We are understaffed and will not be able to respond to your queries in the future. Our goal is to update you every four to six weeks as the clinical trial proceeds. Lab resources are prioritized on clinical research rather than correspondence.
Sophie closed her eyes and pictured Bangor standing in her apartment, wagging his tail at her. Tears filled her eyes. Bangor showed no progress. They also made it clear my queries aren’t welcome.
She wrapped her arms around herself and thought of Bangor as a puppy. He loved to sleep in the crook of her arm when she lay on her sofa and watched a movie at home. He snuggled in and flopped over—belly up and legs spread—safe and secure in Sophie’s arm.
Fight, Bangor. You can do it. Fight.
She glanced at the digital clock on her phone. “Ugh, I am so late.”
Sophie had no choice but to minimize her makeup, as she had done the day before. She had intended to “doll it up” for the shopkeepers she would meet, but sleeping in cost her.
Sophie, Joe, and Will met in the Grande Piazza. Sophie arrived last.
To her relief, Will asked Joe to drive him into the country around Montepulciano. A ride would give Will an opportunity to sit and have a restful day.
Sophie wanted to visit the last markets in Montepulciano alone. She could walk much faster without Will, and Joe wouldn’t be along to act like a goof and anger the owners.
The sunny new day brightened her spirits. Sophie had a list of questions written in Italian by Joe, Francesca’s photo, a smile, and an American Midwesterner’s determination.
Joe and Will hurried off after they drove Sophie to Montepulciano’s second butcher shop. This store was housed in a more recent addition built outside the town walls.
Sophie soon learned this business started in the 1950s, and the owners had moved here from Siena. Zero for two on the butcher shops.
Sophie walked back inside the ancient town. Her route took her by the two remaining markets that sold cured meats. The first was a repeat of the others and also opened after the war.
A nasty blister developed the day before on the back of her right heel. The cute sandals, Sophie decided, weren’t adorable if they caused a raw foot. Today she wore her ballerina flats and covered her blister with a cotton adhesive pad Will gave her.
The last business was a short distance from the main piazza. She stepped inside. The aroma of freshly baked artisan bread hit her nostrils and made Sophie’s mouth water.
Long wooden shelves filled with bottles of olive oil, balsamic vinegar, and wines crossed the left side of the store. Overhead, whole prosciutto hams and different varieties of dried meats hung from the ceiling above the counter, some with a white powder casing on the outside. Crusty bread in a variety of shapes and sizes peeked out of diamond-shaped wooden cubbyholes on the back wall.
Sophie followed her nose to the rear counter like a hummingbird drawn to the smell of sugar water in a feeder.
A woman in her fifties turned to face Sophie. “Buongiorno. May I help you? You would like some bread?”
The answer in her head was a resounding “yes,” but Sophie declined.
“I will cut you a sample.” The woman sliced a thick chunk from the low, broad loaf on the countertop. She offered the piece to Sophie. “This is a ciabatta. A crunchy crust and large crumb.”
How can I refuse such a gracious offer? Sophie thanked her and bit into the bread. The juxtaposition of the firm, chewy crust and the soft interior was a perfect combination.
Sophie usually didn’t eat bread. She used a visual trick of imagining hunks of bread, rolls, muffins, and biscuits stuck to her h
ips, where starches ended up on her body.
In college, Sophie knew the cause of her “freshman fifteen.” She ate an English muffin every day for breakfast. Her “hourglass frame” quickly turned into a diamond on her lower half, large enough to warrant naming rights.
Sophie tried to conjure up her baked-goods-on-the-hips visual before she devoured the entire piece but couldn’t do it. Her body craved carbs after walking around Montepulciano.
“Delicious,” Sophie said to the woman. “Grazie.” Sophie tore her eyes from the wall of bread before she weakened and bought a loaf. She stepped away from the counter. Three Italians who entered the shop after Sophie—a young couple and an older woman—moved to the bread counter to place their orders.
The two glass cases on the left held varieties of cheese, rectangular slices of pizza Margherita, pasta salads, olives, marinated red peppers, sun-dried tomatoes, grilled vegetables, and sandwiches built with a thick slab of fresh mozzarella cheese, green pesto, and sliced raw tomatoes.
Sophie wanted to eat everything.
A man a little older than Sophie walked in from the back room. He held something that resembled salami. “Miss,” he said, “would you like some soppressata or prosciutto? A sandwich we make fresh?”
Sophie shook her head. “No, thank you. Maybe tomorrow my friend and I will come and have you make something for us.”
“A picnic, no? There are many wonderful spots to picnic in the countryside near here.”
“You might be able to help me with one thing.” Sophie moved closer.
“Yes. Of course.”
“This is a lovely market and has a prime location close to the piazza. I’d love to learn its history. Are you the owner?” She suspected it was someone older, but flattery would only help to foster his cooperation.
“No. Angelina’s family owns it. I work here. Me?” He tapped his chest. “I am the boss of sandwiches.”
Angelina, the woman who offered Sophie the ciabatta, wandered over. The man changed places with Angelina to help the other customers with their bread orders.
