The Body in the Piazza - By Katherine Hall Page Page 0,24
loudspeaker, first in Italian, and then in English, but hadn’t paid attention. They were at the right stop and she was concentrating on getting off without leaving anything behind. “No, what was it?”
“He was apologizing for the train being seven minutes late. Can you imagine that happening on the MBTA?”
She could not, and it was yet another indication of how civilized things were here.
Francesca had told them to go outside and stand in front of the station and that someone would be there waiting holding a sign that said CUCINA DELLA ROSSI, the name of the school. As they exited the platform, Faith heard the very distinctive ringtone Ben had installed on her phone for the trip: the opening to 2001, which her son was very surprised to learn had been composed by a man named Richard Strauss in 1896, not John Williams. Ben thought his mother needed something that wouldn’t go unanswered, something dramatic. She fished her phone from her bag in a panic and hit “answer” only to hear two voices, one very childlike and the other octaves below, say in unison: “Happy Mother’s Day, Mom.”
Faith tapped Tom—who was smiling broadly—lightly on the shoulder. She was glad that Yankee thrift hadn’t stopped him from arranging this particular roaming charge.
“Oh, you sweeties! What a wonderful surprise!”
“We miss you, Mom,” Amy said, but she sounded quite cheerful. “The Millers are taking us to lunch with Danny and Samantha!”
The two Miller children still living in the Boston area were former babysitters and permanent idols for both her children. Nope, Amy might say she missed her, but life didn’t get any better than hush puppies at Redbones in Somerville, the Millers’ favored spot near both kids’ apartments.
“Have fun and say hi to everyone for us.”
“So, did you get me a scooter yet?” Ben said, the laughter in his voice indicating what he thought the chances were.
“Not exactly, but we did get you something.”
Two somethings: a bright red Vespa holding up a snow globe containing the Colosseum; tacky, but Ben would love it. Also a Ferrari mouse for his computer. She’d find things for Amy in Florence.
She started to hand the phone to Tom, who shook his head and mouthed, “Send them my love.” Yankee thrift had kicked in.
“Love you from Dad and me.”
“Love you, too,” and they hung up, no doubt eager for the chance to sit in awe as Danny, now Dan, Miller described his adventures in the world of IT and Samantha talked about her job at the Gardner Museum, all the while drinking lemonade from Mason jars at the down-home restaurant.
Outside the train station, they spotted the sign immediately, especially as the man holding it was waving frantically at them and calling their names. He rushed over to them.
“I’m Gianni. We are going to have such a meraviglioso time.” The word needed no translation and he grabbed their bags, motioning them to a large van parked in what Faith was sure was an illegal spot, but since there were many other vehicles angled in the same way, it apparently didn’t matter.
“We are waiting for a few more. Two people are already in the macchina. Why don’t you get in?” He had stowed their bags in the back and was returning to his spot, speaking rapidly all the while.
Maybe opposites do attract, Faith thought. Gianni’s wife, Francesca, was a woman of few words, at least when Faith had known her, and exuded a quiet serenity, unless extremely provoked, which Faith had also witnessed those many years ago. She’d seen family pictures over time, but they hadn’t done justice to this extremely handsome man—tall, slender, but muscular, his warm smile and sparkling blue eyes crowned by a picturesque mop of dark brown Michelangelo curls.
They got into the van and had just introduced themselves to the couple inside—Len and Terry Russo from Livingston, New Jersey, whom Faith recalled seeing in the hotel lobby getting their key from Paolo—when Gianni returned with the rest of the guests in tow, and more introductions were made as he put the rest of the luggage away.
Faith had seen all of them before in Rome—in and out of the hotel.
There were the two southern women, Harriet and Sally Culver, an aunt and niece from Louisiana; the passionate couple from the restaurant and gelateria, who turned out to be Sky Hayes and Jack Sawyer, from Beverly Hills; and finally—Goth Girl! Her name was Olivia, apparently no last name or one she wasn’t willing to share, nor did she