“Then we go to Sicily,” Janice said.
“What if Benito has since died, and he has no children?”
“Then at least you know what happened. Do you always think of the worst-case scenario?” Janice asked.
“Yeah, pretty much,” Annie said, grinning back at Janice.
“You have got to stop. I don’t remember you being that way in New York. You’re always the positive one. I’m the cynical one,” she said.
“I hid it in New York because everything was so predictable.”
“How was New York ever predictable?” Janice asked.
“My New York was predictable because I had a job and knew what I was doing every day. I lived in the same place for ten years. Now I’m back home, living with my grandmother, without a job, trying to overcome my father’s legacy, and terrified to marry the most wonderful man I have ever known. I feel a little as if the rug was pulled out from under me,” Annie said.
“You probably needed the rug pulled out from under you. You can’t live with an apartment full of flight attendants forever,” Janice said.
“Have some sympathy,” Annie said
“Well stop this what-if business. Those words will put you in a mental health hospital. If you’re going to do the what ifs go the other way. My high school art teacher always said ‘What if is the gateway to creativity.’”
“Okay, okay. Don’t you need a nap or something?”
Janice grinned at her and leaned back in the seat.
***
They skirted Rome where the traffic was considerably thicker. Annie found herself driving faster, keeping pace with the other cars. She was getting the feel of the Ferrari and she liked it.
In the last hour of the drive, the landscape changed. Hillsides were covered in vineyards, olive groves, and farms. Walled cities sat atop jutting hills providing protection and giving watchers visibility for miles around. Annie thought how different this was from Kentucky, where towns frequently sat down in valleys next to rivers or creeks, not on the tops of hills away from a water source. But medieval times were different; the ability to protect the towns depended on creating a fortress with long views of the landscape.
“Can we take a smaller road or is it the A1 all the way?” she asked Janice, who was studying the map. “It’d be nice to see more of the countryside.”
“Looks like we’re getting off about fifteen minutes from here and then it’s a small road,” Janice said.
The road wound around, up hills and down, passing more olive groves, vineyards, and cheese factories offering tastings of pecorino, the area specialty. Finally, there was the sign to Montefollonico, and they turned onto an even smaller road. Betta had told them it was a very small village—piccolo she had said in Italian—but Annie couldn’t even see a village. Finally, winding around the backside of a hill, it came into view. Like many of the other hilltop towns, it was surrounded by an ancient stone wall.
“Our hotel is actually outside the city wall, at the base of the village. There’s the sign for it,” Janice said.
It felt good to get out of the car and stretch. Annie stood for a moment in the parking lot, enjoying the flowers and trees while Janice barreled her way into the reception area.
When Annie finally followed her inside, Janice was bent over paperwork. A blonde-haired woman introduced herself as Carlotta.
“We have your room ready,” she said and handed Janice a key. “You will like it. It’s a big room with a nice view of the valley. Alfonso will bring your bags. Please follow me.”
They walked around to the side of the building. Carlotta used her own key to unlock the door and usher them inside. “It is quite lovely, yes?”
“Oh yes,” Annie said. The Val d’Orcia stretched out below them in a stunning display visible from the large window.
“Carlotta, can you tell us how to get to Via dei Colli?” Janice asked.
“Si, it’s just on the other side of the village, the only road going down into the valley. It’s a very long road, beautiful for seeing the farms.”
“Do you happen to know Benito Gianelli?”
“No, but I live in Montepulciano. Does this man live on that road?” Carlotta asked.
“Yes,” Janice said. “Or we think so anyway.”
“You can stop and ask along the way, but I would not go tonight. It will be dark soon and the road is narrow with many turns,” she said. “I suggest you have dinner and go tomorrow morning. We have a lovely restaurant here, which is quite good. There are also three restaurants in the village.”
Janice looked at Annie, silently asking for her opinion.
“I’d like to go into the village tonight. Perhaps tomorrow night at your restaurant?”
“Certainly. I suggest for your first night in the village, try La Botte Piena. It is in the middle of the square. I recommend a wrap since it can be windy. The other restaurants are good as well, but this is in the center of town. I will put you down to dine with us tomorrow night and you can let me know tomorrow if you need to adjust your reservation. Alfonso will bring you a map of the area. If you need anything, let me know. Otherwise, I wish you good night.” They thanked her and Carlotta closed the door as she left.
***
An hour later, they had both showered, dressed, and were walking uphill to the village. They passed a bar serving coffee and libations to customers on outdoor tables. Three old men sat by the medieval gate. Janice said “buonasera” to them and they returned the greeting.
Sandstone and brick houses lined the stone streets, the hard surfaces broken by brilliant begonias in terra-cotta planters ranging from red to coral to pink and all shades in between. Climbing vines grew out of pots placed next to the walls. Wooden doors in hues of chestnut brown and walnut had large iron knockers, keeping what lay beyond a mystery to the street traveler.
Iron light fixtures hung from long arms high over the streets. As they walked the stone streets, they discovered a bank, a pharmacy, several churches, three restaurants, and a small grocery store. There were a couple of shops selling everything from small antiques to old jewelry to hand-sewn linens. In less than an hour, they had covered the entire village, walking up and down each street and ending at the entrance to the gardens of the Palazzo. None of the businesses were open.
They sat by the medieval gate and faced the bar, where most of the town’s activity seemed to be centered. Men and women were playing cards together; some had glasses of wine or orange aperitifs. Several were drinking nothing, intent only on conversation.
“Do you want me to ask anybody here?” Janice said.
“I don’t know how without causing a scene. We’re already quite obvious,” Annie said.
“Should I ask the bar owner?” Janice said.
“It’d be like going to Bill’s Diner and asking him about Beulah. He’d call her immediately and ten other people would hear in the process. It’d be all over town before we have dinner. No, let’s wait and ask at the restaurant when we’re not quite so noticeable.”
“Maybe it should get all over town fast, then we will know sooner than later,” Janice said.
“I don’t feel right about it. What if Benito is here and he is Ephraim’s son. This is a private matter for Benito and his family. Maybe no one knows his father was American. Here we come into town like typical Americans blustering our way through to get what we want and forgetting how he might feel in the process. I want to handle it carefully.”
“You’re right. Just remember I am a typical blustering American and a New Yorker on top of that, so it seems like a waste of time, but I get it.” Janice smiled at her.
“Thank you for suggesting this trip and especially for coming with me,” Annie said.
“You’re my best friend. What else am I going to do?” Janice said, and then looked at her watch. “Time for dinner.”
They were seated on the patio in a corner table for two. Drink orders were taken and they were brought sparkling mineral water and a glass of pro
secco.
“This stuff is good,” Janice said. “Less alcohol than wine and plenty of fizz.”
Annie took a sip. “A little like champagne,” she said. “But better.”
A bag of bread was brought out with much ceremony of rolling down the edges of the bag to make the bread more accessible. Olive oil, aged balsamic vinegar, salt and pepper were all placed on the table.
“Scusi,” Janice said to the young girl who brought the bread. “Vive qui a Montefollonico?”
“Io vivo a Montepulciano,” she said, pointing in the direction of another hill across the valley.
“Grazie,” Janice said. “She doesn’t live here.”
A waiter came to take their order and spoke excellent English. They ordered antipasto to share and the special to share, and then each ordered a green salad to follow. The waiter was leaving when Janice asked in English, “Do you live here in Montefollonico?”
“Si, yes, this is my restaurant. I live just there,” he said and pointed to the upstairs of the restaurant.
“Ah, so you are the owner. Do you happen to know Benito Gianelli?” she asked.
“Si, si, I know Benito,” he said. Annie held her breath, waiting.
“Great! We’re looking for his house on this road. Can you tell us where?” Janice pointed to the map.
“No, no you will not find him there,” he said.
Just then, someone from another table called to the owner. “Excuse me,” he said and left them. Annie felt like an eternity passed, but in only a few minutes the restaurant owner returned and pointed to the map.
“Benito used to live there, but no more. His son lives there now.”
“What happened to Benito?” Janice asked.
“He is just there,” the restaurateur pointed down a dark street.
“Down there?” Janice said, pointing.
“Pass the pharmacy, but on same side. A big wooden door, number is fourteen, I think.”
“Grazie,” Janice said, as he moved away. “He’s here,” Janice said, hissing the words across the table.
Annie’s throat constricted and she closed her eyes. Benito was here.
Janice called for the check and thanked the restaurateur when they made their way out.
“We still don’t know who Benito is. We only know he was the one who made the posting,” Annie said, afraid to get her hopes up, as they navigated the cobblestone street.
“There you go again,” Janice said. “It has to be a family member. Have faith.”
Yes, Annie thought. She needed faith. And to pray Benito would receive this news well, if they actually met Ephraim’s son tomorrow.
Via Coppoli was the name of the street. They looked for number fourteen past the pharmacy and on the same side. It was just as the restaurant owner said, a big wooden door with an iron knocker on it. Vines climbed from terra cotta pots on each side of the entrance and wound up and over the top of the door. Above the vines, a small, round window showed only darkness from the inside.
Annie stared at the window, wondering about the living and breathing family beyond. She wished them a restful sleep tonight. If Benito were Ephraim’s son, what she had to tell them tomorrow would change their lives forever.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
BEULAH STAYED IN her room most of Sunday afternoon, trying to get her composure back. The last few days had taken the cake. Not since Fred died suddenly nearly two and a half years ago had she been in such a state. All because her world had been uprooted by a foreign woman who had come in here and tried to take over.
Or was it really Rossella’s fault? Maybe it went back to the whole affair with Ephraim. To have her routine disrupted just as she was trying to sort out what to think about her brother and his long ago indiscretion had just made a hard thing worse.
Honestly, if she looked at the last several months, it had been one thing after another. First, Annie showing up unexpectedly after losing her job; then knee surgery. About the time she recovered from the surgery and worked out a nice routine with Annie, there was the fire in the old stone house.
The paltry insurance check, the disagreement with Annie, Betty Gibson’s nosy blathering, and then Annie finding the mysteriously hidden letters. The revelation about Ephraim’s son and, finally, the houseguest. Well, it was more than one body could take.
Try as she did to practice hospitality in case she might be entertaining angels unaware, she was quite sure Rossella DeVechio was no angel.
***
Monday morning, Beulah drank her coffee at the kitchen table, hoping for a few moments of peace before the day started.
Rossella planted herself in front of Beulah, hands on her waist.
“Tonight, I cook for you.”
“Yes, we agreed yesterday,” she said, growing wary.
“And you not be here while I cook, okay?” Rossella said, now wagging a finger back and forth.
“You don’t want me to help set the table or do anything?”
“No set table, no help cook. No be in kitchen all day.”
“Okay, Rossella,” she said and sighed. “I won’t be here. When do you want me out?”
“I give you one more hour. Then I take over,” she said and waited for Beulah to nod her agreement. When she did, Rossella broke into a smile, leaned down and kissed her on both cheeks. “Good! You like tonight. No garlic.”
After Rossella left, she looked around the kitchen longingly. Just knowing she couldn’t be in here today made her want to cook. Instead, she would look on the bright side. There was a list of errands she needed to run in Rutherford and that would keep her busy.
There were only a few days left until Annie returned. If she could maintain self-control until then, everything would get back to normal. Whatever normal meant these days.
***
Beulah finally went home when she had run every possible errand she could think of between Somerville and Rutherford. As she opened the back screen door, a mixture of spices wafted from the kitchen. Suspicious, she sniffed again, but did not smell garlic. Rossella was humming to herself and didn’t seem to realize Beulah had walked in the back door.
Ignoring me, she thought, hoping I won’t come in the kitchen.
Rossella was busy with her hands and working at something in the sink. Beulah edged up to the kitchen door and peered around the doorframe. A plucked chicken was in the sink and Rossella was using both hands to squeeze out the pinfeathers. A red feather floated to the floor. That chicken did not come from Kroger. That feather belonged to one of Annie’s Rhode Island Reds.
Beulah felt her face flush with heat. Enough was enough. She straightened herself up to her full five feet five inches and stormed into the kitchen as best she could with a cane.
“What in tarnation are you doin’?” she said.
Rossella glanced over her shoulder.
“We agree I make deener,” she said, turning back to the business of popping out the pinfeathers.
“I never said you could take one of Annie’s chickens,” Beulah said, and planted her feet and her cane firmly into the linoleum.
“You not say I no take chicken,” Rossella said, not even turning to face her. Beulah started to protest, but Rossella’s English stumped her for a second. In that brief pause, she realized she was liable to say something she would have to confess later in her prayers.
“Humph!” she said and marched out of the kitchen and into the dining room where she stopped short.
Her white lace tablecloth was spread out on the table and her best china was at each place setting with a matching cloth napkin. Votive candles in teacups sat around the table, lending a delicate ambience, even though they were not yet lit. Crystal water goblets and Evelyn’s antique wine glasses were positioned just above the top of each knife. Had she stolen Evelyn’s wine glasses, too? If not stolen, then Evelyn was an accomplice.
She had to admit, her table had never looked more beautiful. But just as the thought threatened to soften her, she thought once ag
ain of how that woman was putting her in the position of causing someone to stumble by having wine in her home. If Catholics wanted to drink, fine, but she did not appreciate that woman pushing her beliefs off in Beulah’s house.
Beulah went upstairs and took a long time getting ready, praying for peace and calm, and finally sitting like a prisoner on the edge of her bed. While she waited for the appointed time, she ran her hands over the metal box that sat on the nightstand next to her bed and wondered how Annie was doing. That was the important thing, and she needed to focus on things that mattered, not petty squabbles with a houseguest. It would all be over soon and her routine would get back to normal. Finally, after the umpteenth time of looking at her watch, she went downstairs and sat in the den, a visitor in her own home.
When the first guest knocked on the door, Rossella dashed to open it before Beulah could even stand from the couch.
“Come in, come in,” Rossella said to Evelyn. “Come here and wait with Beulah. I bring you aperitif.”
“Did you know your wine glasses are on my dining room table?” Beulah said.
“Yes, Jake ran them over to her earlier today,” Evelyn said, her eyes shifting away. At least her friend had the decency to look chagrined.
Betty and Joe Gibson came in, followed by Lindy and Tom.
“Law have mercy,” Betty said. “This is fancy, fancy, making us wait in here.”
“Well, you may as well have a seat,” Beulah said. “Rossella is in charge tonight.”
Evelyn and Tom sat next to each other on the couch, with Beulah beside Evelyn. Lindy sat on the arm of the couch next to her dad, Joe took the recliner, and Betty sat in a wingback chair. About the time they all got settled, in walked Jake and Woody.
“Hey everybody,” Jake said, freshly showered in a collared shirt and jeans. Woody was also dressed in jeans, but his shirt collar was frayed and so were the cuffs. He even wore a tie, but it hung too short and was cocked sideways. Some men needed a wife more than others, she observed, and Woody was one of those.
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