It Happened in Tuscany

by Gail Mencini

  “Sophie.” She gave them a weak smile. She couldn’t muster more after broadcasting that she was as useful in the kitchen as pocket lint. “No need to cover for me. Margherita will know instantly that the platter is four short.” Even if the chef didn’t count them, the odor of burnt toast hung heavy in the air.

  Sophie gestured to the dining room. “Perhaps you should have a seat in there while I finish up the food.”

  The handsome man put a hand on the woman’s back to guide her. He turned before he stepped out of the kitchen and winked at Sophie.

  Sophie scooped the tomato topping onto the still-warm bread. The fragrance of garlic meeting tomato and basil made her want to stuff one into her mouth immediately.

  She decided to carry the platter into the dining room so the guests could eat them while they were still warm.

  Margherita met her at the kitchen entrance, on her way to the meeting.

  “I thought I’d take these to your guests before I leave.”

  “Let me,” Margherita said, taking in Sophie’s face and shirt. “It was hot by the fire, no?”

  “Yes.” Please, don’t say anything about the smell of burnt toast.

  “Grazie.” Margherita smiled with warmth. “Sophie, go home and take a shower.”

  “Believe me, I will. I hope the presentation goes well.”

  Margherita kissed the air in Sophie’s direction and carried the bruschetta into the dining room to greet her guests.

  On the way out of the cooking school, Sophie passed a mirror and made the mistake of looking at her reflection.

  Her appearance was worse than she imagined.

  Hair and shirt sweaty and plastered to her skin.

  Black streaks crossed her top over her braless breasts. The clinging, grimy fabric made her look like she had competed in a muddy, wet T-shirt contest.

  At least this shirt is blue, not white. Why did I think leaving my bras at home to save luggage space was a good idea?

  57

  A shower and clean clothes restored Sophie’s appearance but did not alleviate her embarrassment. She sat on the balcony off her room and tried to convince herself the day’s events hadn’t been as bad as she remembered. She failed.

  She got caught in a lie by Margherita, proving definitively that she couldn’t cook.

  She dumped the last batch of toasts into the ashes, showing her ineptitude in front of the prospects Margherita hoped to impress.

  She looked like an unattractive Cinderella covered in soot from a furnace.

  Sophie wanted no more men in her life after the devastating breakup with Russ.

  Until today.

  The Italian man who came to her rescue was handsome with an athletic build, friendly, kind, and spoke English. His eyes sparkled with humor.

  Sophie made a fool of herself in front of him. The fact that he wasn’t available didn’t make her feel any better.

  A brisk knock on the door pulled Sophie away from her pity party.

  Will stood there holding a small bouquet of wildflowers in a coffee mug. “For you, Miss Sophie.”

  His kindness was the best thing that happened all day.

  She offered him a glass of wine on her balcony. Even though entertaining her elderly neighbor in her hotel room might not seem proper, the delightful sunlit terrace provided an inviting spot to chat. Neither of them was eager to see Vincenzo after their earlier run-in.

  Sophie thought about Vincenzo’s crazy words. He claimed that wartime butchers killed both animals and people. He boasted that no one in Montepulciano would help them in their search.

  Sophie refused to put credence in Vincenzo’s claims.

  One thing troubled her, though. Perhaps a mere coincidence, but no one in the city had given them any useful information. No one offered any clues about wartime meat markets or the people who owned them.

  Will described his day with Joe. They covered a little more territory today, he explained. He mentioned a nearby town or two and the picturesque countryside they had driven through.

  “It sounds lovely,” Sophie said. She couldn’t hide the wistfulness in her voice. She’d suffered through a hot, disastrous day while Will ambled around Tuscany.

  Will tapped the rim of his glass to hers. “Tomorrow I’m getting you out of this town. We’re going exploring.”

  “What about Francesca?”

  “We’ll stop in the butcher shops and markets we see and ask questions.”

  “That’s the plan?”

  “Yes, indeed.”

  She sipped her wine. Will’s attitude switch from a hellbent search to “exploring” puzzled her. “What was the best part of today?”

  Will gazed upward at the sky above the open courtyard. “Seeing how gorgeous it is here.”

  Sophie kept quiet, hoping he’d continue.

  He took a tiny sip. “The Rockies are my favorite place on earth.”

  He rubbed his hands together. “I loved the days training with the 10th Mountain boys. Until I got to Italy, I thought the Camp Hale exercises were the hardest challenge I’d ever know.”

  Will swallowed hard. “I hated Italy. I’ve never been so scared.” He shuddered.

  He wiped his eyes with a shaking hand.

  He gulped from his goblet. “Today I saw something else. This part of Italy looks exactly like the photographs in your guidebook: plains, rolling hills, olive groves, and vineyards.” He nodded. “The crops getting ready to harvest are the opposite of the harsh, cold winter I remember.”

  Sophie didn’t know what to say. She wanted to ask more about his time here, the battles he endured and his time with Francesca.

  Will never gave her specifics. Sophie suspected his war years were too painful to recall.

  Did a lifetime of denial and compartmentalization blur the memory of his time in Italy?

  Will I be able to coax out the details?

  58

  They met Joe the next morning in the street outside their hotel.

  “It’s a grand day, isn’t it?” Joe rubbed his hands together. “Let’s go. The car’s around the corner.”

  Will climbed into the front seat and Sophie sat behind him.

  Joe eased the vehicle through narrow streets that wound downhill.

  The calming colors of the continuous buildings varied from a weathered gray to beige to a deep salmon. Red-hued bricks set in arched patterns framed the rectangular doors that interrupted the tall facades.

  Sophie marveled at the charm of this hill town. Arches appeared everywhere—above doorways and windows, around passages between streets, and even in the inlaid designs on the face of the city’s fortified perimeter.

  Pink and red begonias spilled over the window ledges above their heads. Ivy tendrils hung from small ridges along the wall. The colorful plants softened the hard surfaces of the passageway.

  Sophie saw a bright light and distant trees ahead through an open archway.

  “Where are we headed today?” Will asked Joe.

  “We’re heading to Pienza, in the Val d’Orcia.”

  “Is it far?” Will said.

  “No. Only twenty minutes. Fifteen if I take out bicyclists that happen to be in my way.” Joe grinned at Sophie.

  Sophie refused the bait. “What’s the Val d’Orcia?”

  “You know we’re in the Siena province, right?”

  “I thought we’re in Tuscany.” Will looked sideways at Joe.

  “We are, but the region of Tuscany is made up of provinces. This is Siena.”

  Will looked around at the chalky, rolling hills dotted with vineyards and shook his head in confusion. “Looks like farms to me, not Siena.”

  Joe swerved to the shoulder and slowed to a stop. A car whizzed by them on the two-lane road. “Climb out of the car on the shoulder side.”

  Joe walked around and joined them on the shoulder. He squatted down and drew in the dirt adjacent to the pavement. He scratched out a squiggly shape, long and narrow, that tilted left at the top.

&n
bsp; “There are twenty regions in Italy. This,” he said, pointing to his drawing, “is the province of Siena, which is only one part of the Tuscany region.”

  Joe drew a dot in the top center quarter. “The municipality of Siena.”

  On the right side, in the lower third of the territory, he drew another dot. “Montepulciano.”

  Next, Joe drew a line on one edge of Montepulciano that portioned off the lower right side of the territory. “This is the Val di Chiana, the Chiana Valley. It stretches across part of two provinces in Tuscany, Siena and Arezzo, and two provinces, Perugia and Terni, in Umbria.”

  “I will show you the Val di Chiana when we return to Montepulciano. It is where the famous Chianina cattle are raised. Bistecca alla Fiorentina, the Florentine T-bone steak, is made only from Chianina cattle and is served bloody rare.”

  Joe drew a short, wide oval to the left of Montepulciano that extended beyond the border of the province. “This valley, the Val d’Orcia, is where we head today. It is a World Heritage UNESCO site,” he said, nodding with pride, “and runs from here to the Mediterranean. Photographers from around the world come to take pictures of the Val d’Orcia.”

  Back in the car, Joe nonchalantly draped his right hand on top of the steering wheel. He stuck his left elbow out the open window.

  Sophie clenched her teeth in the back seat, thankful only a few cars shared the curvy, two-lane road with them.

  “Pienza was started initially by the Etruscans. One important man born here, Piccolomini, was responsible for creating this ideal Renaissance city. In 1458, Piccolomini became Pope Pious II.

  “The pope built a palace in this town of his birth, the Palazzo Piccolomini, next to the cathedral.”

  Joe glanced over his shoulder at Sophie. “Pienza is noted for its beauty, the Renaissance patterns, and trapezoidal-shaped piazza. It’s also famous as a place of great romance and tragedy.”

  Romance and tragedy?

  59

  Joe refused to explain more but promised to elaborate when they stopped to eat.

  “This,” Joe swept his arm to encompass the trapezoidal court of Pienza, “is the Piazza Pio II. Bernardo Rossellino designed this piazza, which marked the inception of Renaissance urban design.”

  Sophie was surprised at Joe’s knowledge. The piazza’s floor was composed of a pattern of large squares. Red bricks spanned the ground at an angle, with each section bordered by light-colored stone.

  Joe pointed to the cathedral and explained its architectural styles. “Rossellino created the white travertine outside facade in the Renaissance style. The inside, however, has Gothic elements, modeled after an Austrian church.

  “The pope named the Duomo for the Assumption of Mary,” Joe said. He walked up the steps.

  Sophie expected Joe’s dissertation on history and architecture to continue inside, but he stopped at the stand with multilingual brochures. “Deposit the fee, grab a brochure, and away you go. My tour stops here.”

  Sophie and Will walked inside. She studied the pamphlet.

  The juxtaposition of polished wooden pews and a light-filled interior created a magical place. Sophie lowered her hand. She didn’t need to read about the cathedral. Now, she only wanted to soak in the warmth that surrounded her and to capture the memory of this lovely space. Italy transformed Sophie’s thoughts about churches. She found tranquility and beauty in the country’s cathedrals.

  The structure had a rib-vaulted ceiling in each of the three naves, which together resembled a cross. Sunlight poured in from windows on three sides. The pale, soaring columns and the pearl-colored main altar made the inside bounce with light.

  “I’ve had enough,” Will said. “You can stay if you want. I’m going to find Joe and have a cup of espresso. Maybe a pastry, too.”

  “I’ll only be a bit longer,” Sophie said. “Why do you want to leave so quickly?”

  “I like little chapels, simple ones, better.”

  “We haven’t seen any smaller than this.”

  “No. I mean in general, I like little chapels. They’re more private. Intimate.”

  “Describe what you mean.”

  “One of my ski buddies is a rancher in Grand County. He built a chapel on his land. All his kids and grandkids were baptized there. I went up for a couple of them. “

  Sophie wondered why he looked at the floor when he spoke.

  His focus turned to her. He pulled out the snarl that he wore every day back in the apartment in Denver. “You needn’t worry about finding us. I’ll watch for you to come out.”

  If you’re trying to be nice, you should use a kind voice instead of one that snaps at me, Will. I can find my own way around. She again kept her thoughts to herself. “Thanks.”

  At lunch, Will announced he and Joe would visit the butcher shops close to the piazza and ask if anyone knew Francesca.

  “You,” Joe said to Sophie, “may want to go to the Palazzo Piccolomini. The palace is the place of great romance and great tragedy.”

  “A love story? I assume, or hope, that was after the pope died.”

  Joe laughed. “Long after the death of the pope. It was used in a famous motion picture. Can you guess which one?”

  Sophie shook her head. “I have no clue. Which one?”

  “Romeo and Juliet, directed by Franco Zeffirelli.”

  Sophie held her breath. She had seen the film many times, the first with her mom once when she was sick and home from school. Her mother had adored it. Sophie watched Zeffirelli’s version at least once a year.

  She could hardly contain her excitement. “I know it well. Which scenes were shot here?”

  Joe grinned. “The one with Juliet in the beginning in her—”

  “Red dress?”

  Joe nodded. “A few other scenes were shot in the building, too, including when Romeo and Juliet meet by the well during the Mask Ball. The dancing scene was filmed elsewhere, but they could have used the building’s courtyard. It looks like it.”

  Sophie couldn’t believe it. She loved the views of young Juliet running through the family palace and her glow when she meets the dashing Romeo—filmed right here in Pienza.

  “Do you mind if I go to the palazzo while you try the meat markets?”

  “Hell, no,” Will said. “I’d rather spend my time looking at cuts of beef and pork and hanging prosciutto than touring another building.”

  “Same for me.” Joe allowed Will to pay for the meal without any attempt to help cover the cost. “We’ll drop you off, and you can stay there until we’re done with the Francesca search. Be sure to check out the view from the loggia and garden. It’s gorgeous.”

  How will I feel in that space? Every time Sophie saw the film, she cried. No, it was more of a full-on weeping session. The movie reminded Sophie of all that had been stolen from her.

  60

  Sand-colored travertine cloaked the exterior of the palace. The building, unremarkable except for the two floors of expansive windows, was incongruous with the lively frolicking gala where Romeo and Juliet first came in contact.

  Adjacent to the residence, a white round well stood, similar in color to the city’s cathedral. Two decorative columns and a crossbar topped the elaborate “Well of Dogs.”

  Sophie reran the film, Romeo and Juliet, in her mind.

  Shakespeare established the feud between the Capulets and Montagues. He then introduced the fated lovers when Romeo, the son of the Montagues, crashed a glamorous party hosted by the Capulets.

  Sophie dashed into the building.

  The thick walls shielded the inside from the day’s heat. A sign noted Pope Pius II used this as his summer home. She stepped, almost reverently, into the inner courtyard.

  Sophie raised her eyes to peer at the balcony on the piano nobile floor, where the hall opened to rooms on the perimeter. This is where Juliet ran when her mother called to her and first spoke of an arranged marriage.

  Sophie scanned the court. The other tourists entering the palazzo ha
d disappeared.

  She was alone.

  She moved to the center of the courtyard’s inlaid stones. She raised her arms until they extended straight out from her shoulders. She closed her eyes and remembered the orchestra’s lilting music. Her torso and arms swayed in time to the tune.

  Sophie opened her eyes and skipped around the circle of imaginary dancers. She pictured the whirling, twirling exuberance of the movie character Juliet. Sophie spun around and around with her arms held high.

  “Juliet, I presume?” A woman’s voice interrupted Sophie’s twirl.

  Sophie stumbled as her feet tangled from the abrupt stop to her dance. Her face reddened and she turned to face the woman who’d caught her dancing.

  No. Not her.

  Sexy Isabella’s lips curled up in a smirk. Niccolò stood next to her.

  “Don’t worry. You’re not the first American woman who imagines herself to be Juliet.” Isabella’s face bore a superior-looking smile. “Do remember that poor Juliet lost her love and her life.”

  Romeo remained true to Juliet. It was bad timing and bad luck that made Juliet lose her lover.

  Two well-dressed couples entered. Isabella turned and carried on a soft conversation with them.

  “The hanging gardens are famous. The view is spectacular,” Niccolò said. “You may want to go there next.” He pointed to doors that led outside.

  Is this a dismissal, so his friends won’t associate me with him? His face appears kind, not dismissive. Maybe he is offering me a face-saving escape.

  Sophie bolted out the wide doorway leading to the garden.

  The sophisticated grounds definitely belonged on the property of someone rich and powerful. Groomed bushes and hedges bordered precise pathways, which radiated from the central stone wellhead. The beauty and symmetry of the layout brought her a momentary sense of relief.

  Sophie looked through one of the three arches in the ivy-covered rear wall. The breathtaking Val d’Orcia fell away below. Clumps of cypress and deciduous trees spiked up from the tans and greens of the rolling land.

  An Italian villa graced the side of a hill. Tall cypress trees along the driveway created a regal entry to the sunset-colored home. Rows of grape vines dotted the slope above the house.