It Happened in Tuscany

by Gail Mencini

  Will muttered something Sophie couldn’t understand.

  She saw Joe glance at Will.

  Will spoke in a loud voice. “I remember the name.”

  Sophie’s eyes widened. Once again, I find out he’s not telling me everything. “What do you remember?”

  Will rubbed his forehead. He shook his head. “Can’t recall.”

  Sophie didn’t know whether to feel sorry for Will or be furious with him.

  “Did Francesca mention it?”

  “Maybe. Anthony, her brother, or his friends also might have told me about it.”

  Joe slapped one hand against the steering wheel. “I thought you might be interested, Will, because of its role during the war.”

  They’re both speaking in riddles. “What role?”

  “The war years brought a hard and confusing time for the people here. The Germans forced young Italian boys to the front, they occupied the towns, and took the best of everything—food, lodging, vehicles, and livestock.

  “The Italians didn’t consider the Allies heroes. The Brits and Yanks dropped bombs on Italy’s trains and harbors, including Pisa. Bombs sometimes don’t land where they’re aimed. Children who lost parents, women who lost their homes, these people had no place to go. Some came and took refuge at La Foce.”

  Will’s head nodded. “That’s what I heard.”

  Sophie’s heart lifted with hope. “Were you there, Will?”

  Will’s brow furrowed. “Francesca hid me. She saved my life.”

  Will’s trembling hand, not a handkerchief, wiped his mouth. “As soon as I could move without either bleeding to death or passing out from the pain, I worked my way to the coast.”

  He continued in a soft, slow voice. “The weather was starting to break. It was early April. We’d gotten word of fierce battles at the front, with awful casualties.

  “The brass stationed some U.S. soldiers at Livorno, so I went there. I figured they’d patch me up enough for me to go back and fight with the 86th.”

  Will looked out the side window. “I was wrong. I did the wrong thing.” His palm cupped the back of his neck like a sudden pain had erupted there. Will’s shaking hand dropped to his lap.

  “I should have gone north straightaway, to rejoin them and help break through the line in the Po Valley. Our troops sent those Germans running. On May 2nd, when the Nazi surrender in Italy happened, I was in Livorno.

  “Part of the 86th charged on ahead and met up with the boys in the 44th Infantry coming south from the Battle of the Bulge. A couple of days later, on May 7th, Germany surrendered.”

  Will thinks he made the wrong decision because he went for medical treatment instead of dragging his battered, wounded body to the front. If he could barely walk, he wouldn’t have been much use at the front.

  “No.” Will’s voice rose, now louder and stronger. “I wasn’t at La Foce.”

  Joe continued his story. “Italians caught harboring Allied troops or Italian deserters from the German fronts could be killed and their property confiscated. Brave individuals on the estate hid these soldiers anyway, at great risk to themselves.”

  “I want to see this farm.” Will’s tone left no room for discussion.

  64

  Joe spoke in a conversational tone, apparently unmoved by Will’s confession. “My great-uncle fought in the war. Peter was the reason I started coming to Italy.”

  “Did he tell you about his war years?” Sophie said.

  “All he’d say is that he hated the Nazis. He was wounded in Italy.

  “My mum hailed from England but moved to the U.S. when she married my dad. She and I spent summers with her relatives in the U.K.

  “My uncle and aunt rented a villa here in the summer during my teenage years. They let me tag along with my cousins. Those were fun times and along the way, I fell in love with Italy.”

  Joe drove on and the three of them fell into silence.

  Sophie tried hard to stay alert, but the warm temperature in the rear seat made her sleepy. Her eyes closed.

  Joe’s voice snapped her awake. “Villa La Foce, Sophie. You might want to wake up and see it.”

  He parked the car on a hill overlooking an enormous pale mustard-colored villa and an impressive formal garden outlined by hedges and trees.

  “I never imagined something like this.” Will’s quiet words came out slowly. “It must have looked like paradise to those who hid here.”

  Sophie echoed Will’s serious tone. “Thank you for showing us this, Joe.” Unfortunately, seeing La Foce didn’t bring them any closer to finding Francesca.

  “Let me take you to some of the most photographed trees in Italy.” Joe started the engine.

  A short distance from their panoramic view of the villa, Joe stopped the car and pointed out the window. “Recognize it?”

  Sophie certainly did. A row of tall cypresses snaked alongside a road in a zigzag up the hillside. A wheat-colored field provided the backdrop and contrast for the trees that appeared on many of the Tuscany websites Sophie had surfed before this trip.

  She jumped out and used her cellphone to photograph the curvy line of trees. Her pictures may not look like those she saw on the Internet, but they were hers and documented that she was here.

  “We’ll head back now. There’s one more historic site to see.” Joe’s fingers tapped a silent tune on the steering wheel.

  “Is it far out of our way?” Even though tempted to stop, Sophie feared the toll on Will.

  “No. It’s almost directly in our path.”

  “Is it another estate?” Sophie said.

  “No. A church. A small country chapel.”

  Will straightened up from his slumped position. He turned toward Joe. “Let’s go.

  Maize-colored valleys stretched out beside them. Lines of tall cypress trees dotted the landscape and added interest the way rhythm variations liven a song.

  “Up ahead on the right.” Joe pointed to shapes that broke the horizon in the distance. “See those dark spots with something tan between them? That’s the Cappella della Madonna di Vitaleta: The Chapel of Our Lady of Vitaleta.”

  Sophie gazed at the blip in the landscape and the fields that cascaded from it. “The chapel stands lost and alone on the hilltop.”

  Joe nodded. “That’s why it’s so picturesque, right? Do you want to stop for a photo?”

  “Is the building open? To go inside?” Sophie said.

  “Not today. There’s no car out front, which means it’s closed.”

  “I would like to stop for a picture.”

  “I know the perfect place.” Joe stopped the car at a point where the trees framed the building and the hills fell away on both sides.

  Sophie and Will got out of the car. She took her photos and checked the digital screen to make sure she liked the images.

  Will stood next to the car and stared at the church.

  “Do you recognize it?” Sophie said.

  He looked around in all directions. “The harsh winter gave us frostbit toes, hard ground to sleep on, and sucked the energy from us. The landscape was gray, with bits of white, where snow clung to bushes and trees. Nothing looks like what I remembered.” Will’s arms hung by his sides and he stared at the chapel.

  Why does this structure capture Will’s attention? It’s too small to have secretly harbored POWs.

  Sophie promised herself she would research the church’s history at their hotel while Will napped.

  The car pulled away from the photogenic site. Will’s head pivoted to keep the pretty spot in view until it was no longer visible.

  What is Will thinking?

  65

  Joe parked his car in the Piazza Grande.

  The soft rumbling of a car announced a vehicle’s approach from a nearby street. A black Mercedes-Benz E 300 sedan drove into the piazza and stopped next to them.

  Niccolò emerged from the car. His face radiated with a smile. “Buongiorno.”

  “Ciao,” Joe said.
/>   “Buongiorno.” Sophie got out of the car and smiled at Niccolò. “No motorcycle today?”

  “The Ducati is Isabella’s. I actually prefer something bigger, like this. Of course, the car is Isabella’s, too.”

  A kept man, are you? Sophie chided herself for her thought. It wasn’t her business if Niccolò lived off his girlfriend.

  Sophie’s mind flashed back to when she was ten. Uncle Ted, whom Sophie considered a know-it-all bore, declared it was as easy to fall in love with a rich man as a poor man. Therefore, he said, with a wine glass raised in a mock toast, “Marry a wealthy man.”

  Sophie’s aunt, her mom’s sister, lowered her head when her husband imparted this advice. Mom’s family had been “comfortable,” according to her mother. To Uncle Ted, that apparently meant “rich.”

  There may be a good reason Niccolò doesn’t have his own transportation. Sophie tried to convince herself that this handsome Italian who spoke beautiful English wasn’t a gigolo.

  Will opened the car door and tried to get out. He sighed and sank back against the car seat.

  Niccolò hurried around Joe’s Panda. He placed one arm behind Will and helped him out of the car.

  “Please tell me about your drive today, sir,” Niccolò said to Will. “Where did you go?”

  “Val d’Orcia.”

  “Please tell me more,” Niccolò said. “I’ll walk with you to your hotel, and we can visit on the way.”

  Will’s grouchy face returned. “I can walk to the hotel myself. I’m not dead yet.”

  Niccolò backed up, raising his hands like he had been scolded.

  Sophie mouthed a word silently to Niccolò: “Sorry.”

  Sophie rested her arm inside Will’s bent elbow. “Would you mind if I steady myself on you, Will? Riding in the back seat made me a bit queasy.”

  “Fine. I’ll help you.” Will glanced back at Niccolò. “Humph.” He scratched his chin. “I can tell you what we did today if you want to come by in the morning. I’ll be in the piazza at eight o’clock, if you are really interested.”

  Sophie held onto Will’s arm with both hands, to keep him close to her side. His collapse against the car seat worried her. She hoped she could catch him if he fell.

  “How are you feeling?” Sophie said in the hotel elevator.

  “Fine. How are you?” Will’s tone smacked of sarcasm.

  The man is insufferable. They stopped to collect their room keys. “How about we meet here to go out for dinner at 7 o’clock?”

  “Nineteen hundred hours. Roger.” Will grabbed the long key attached to the equally long brocaded fob.

  “Do you ...” Sophie almost inquired if he needed help but decided she wouldn’t know how to help if he asked.

  Sophie had been an only child. Aunt Mary and Uncle Ted’s two children were born after they’d shipped her off to boarding school in the East. She had no experience taking care of others.

  She pictured the mystical house of worship that appeared to nudge Will’s memory. Maybe she and Will could go there on another day and see if it was open.

  A pang of frustration shot through her. Will he ever share his full story?

  66

  After Will’s door closed behind him, Sophie returned to the common area for her room key. She needed something to drink and fresh air.

  She tiptoed down the stairwell to keep her exit quiet.

  In front of the little bar across the piazza stood Niccolò, Margherita, and Joe. Deep furrows etched Margherita’s brow. Her hands sliced the air furiously to punctuate her conversation.

  Joe tried to interrupt a few times, but each time Margherita silenced him with a chop of her hand. Niccolò stood silent, with an empathetic expression on his face.

  Sophie didn’t think a cheery greeting was appropriate, given Margherita’s demeanor.

  Niccolò nodded up and down, in agreement with Margherita’s torrent of words.

  Sophie walked up to them. She stood a few paces away, close enough to hear without intruding.

  Joe glanced her way. “Here’s our solution. Sophie can do it.”

  Do what? Sophie raised a quizzical eyebrow at Niccolò.

  Joe put his arm around Margherita and kissed her cheek. He murmured quiet words to her, then pressed a twenty euro note into her hand and nudged her toward the coffee shop.

  Margherita disappeared inside. Joe’s demeanor changed immediately. “We have a problem.”

  “What’s wrong?” Sophie asked. “Is there anything I can do to help Margherita?”

  Joe shuffled his feet. “There is. It should be no issue for you, Chef Sophie.”

  “Go on,” Niccolò said. “Tell her, Joe.”

  Margherita reappeared alongside the young man who tended the counter. They each carried two gelati. The young man handed cones to Sophie and Niccolò and retreated inside.

  Joe said, “Everything is better with gelato.” His smile encouraged them to agree.

  “Come.” Margherita headed down the street toward her school.

  Joe fell in beside Margherita and licked his gelato.

  “Shall we?” Niccolò pointed ahead at Joe and Margherita.

  Sophie walked beside Niccolò and allowed a gap to develop behind Joe and Margherita. “What’s going on?”

  “Margherita’s father called. Her mother has surgery tomorrow in Rome. Margherita said it was an emergency operation.” Niccolò placed his hand on Sophie’s forearm to stop their movement.

  He waited for Joe and Margherita to move farther ahead of them. “She wasn’t clear about the nature of the procedure, but her father is quite worried. The way Margherita acts, I suspect Mamma is not doing well. Margherita, of course, must go to be with her. She wanted to drive tonight, but Joe has convinced her, I think, to wait until early morning.”

  Joe had called her “Chef Sophie.” A distressing thought popped into her mind. “Does she have a class scheduled?”

  “No. That bit is good. No classes for the next week.”

  “What help does she need?”

  Niccolò nodded at her with encouragement. “She is to host a small dinner party tomorrow night.”

  “Dinner party? Can’t it be rescheduled?”

  Niccolò gazed down the street like he saw someone he knew.

  An ominous feeling washed over Sophie. “Niccolò?”

  “Don’t worry, Sophie. You can do it. It is only one meal, which will soon be forgotten.”

  In two short sentences he had gone from absolute faith in her to assurance the guests would soon forget her mistakes.

  “Who will be there?”

  His face lit with a smile. “I will.”

  “Who else?”

  “Isabella.” His lips curled up in a tentative smile. “See? It’s a friendly group. We’re your friends.”

  “Tell me everyone.” Sophie glared at him.

  “Besides us, Isabella’s parents and two other couples are coming, an Italian wine distributor and an American importer, both with their wives.”

  Blood rushed from her head. She swayed sideways.

  Niccolò’s arm circled her back. He leaned her against his side to steady her. “Sophie? Are you all right?”

  A dark circle narrowed her vision. The gelato cone slipped from her hand and tumbled to the stones below. She gulped air to fight off the lightheadedness. Her eyes drifted shut.

  Strong arms swept her up. She relaxed and let her head rest against his chest. He smells like a luscious mix of wine and cedar.

  He walked with her and she felt herself lowering and realized Niccolò sat down. His palm rested on her forehead. She opened her eyes.

  “Are you OK?” His face showed concern.

  She moved her head—slowly—and gazed to the right, and then the left. They were sitting on a long seat in front of a pastry store. “I think so. I’m sorry—”

  “No. I need to apologize. I shouldn’t have let Joe assume you would do all the preparations on your holiday.”

  Does he think I
am so concerned about “my holiday” that I won’t help Margherita, someone I consider a friend?

  Sophie sat up straighter. She slid off his lap and sat next to him. “I’m not one to fret about my vacation when a friend is in a pinch. That’s not why I almost fainted. When I get anxious, I get lightheaded and, if I don’t get control of it, I faint.

  “Thank you, though, for preventing me from falling. Oh, my gelato!” She spun her head to look for it. A cat bent over the sticky goo on the ground.

  “No, no. I did not mean that the way it came out. You,” Niccolò used his fingertips to turn her head toward him, “are the person who is willing to travel 10,000 miles to help her neighbor find his wartime sweetheart. You are kind-hearted.”

  The touch of his hand on her jawline sent a shower of sparks through her body.

  I can’t let him affect me this way. He’s Isabella’s fiancé.

  “I can do it, of course.” Sophie’s usual bravado kicked in. This was a truth or dare moment.

  Dare I keep to my claim about my kitchen prowess and try to bluff my way through it? Or should I be honest and admit that I can’t even boil eggs without that ugly greenish ring appearing around the edges of the yolks?

  How about a partial truth?

  “I’m not familiar with Margherita’s kitchen and wouldn’t know what to prepare for such sophisticated visitors.”

  Niccolò chuckled. “Simple Tuscan dishes is all we want. That is what Margherita promised. Sophie, it will be fine. They will know about Margherita’s unexpected journey, and that you kindly offered to take her place.”

  “I think postponing the evening would be best.”

  “They leave the next morning.”

  “There are many excellent restaurants in Montepulciano.”

  He shook his head. “They want a home-cooked meal.” His eyes locked on hers. “I overheard Isabella’s mother and Margherita talking. The school isn’t doing well. This was to be Margherita’s big pitch for a recurring association that would keep her solvent.”