details, so obviously Francesca’s own touches. The woman had always had brilliant taste. There were bouquets of hydrangea, roses, and trailing ivy throughout—fragrant, but not cloying. A brightly polished copper container on the table in front of the couch was heaped with lemons so perfect they looked fake, their authenticity betrayed by their aroma. It was going to be a week of tastes and smells, as well as delights for the eye. The late afternoon sun lit an array of Tuscan pottery lining the shelves of an antique bookcase. The vivid colors and exuberant patterns—fruits, vegetables, and whimsical animals—distracted Faith for a moment as she thought how nice it would be to have platters and pitchers like these at Aleford, especially during those endless dark New England winter days.
“I think we are all here, yes?” Francesca said.
The photos she had been sending over the years had not lied. If anything, they didn’t do her justice. She appeared only slightly older than the eighteen-year-old she’d been when she’d worked for Faith in New York City. Her long, gleaming chestnut hair was pulled into a loose knot at the nape of her neck and her skin was smooth, not a trace of a wrinkle, and lightly tanned. If she’d gained baby weight after any of her three children, it had disappeared, but she did retain that glow Faith associated with pregnant women. And it was a glow reproduced on so many of the paintings of the Madonna she’d been seeing since she’d arrived. Mary must have had an exceptionally easy baby—no colic for sure.
“Benvenuti, welcome, everyone,” Francesca said, standing straighter.
“We are going to have a wonderful week, starting now. After we talk a little here, you will find your rooms upstairs. Your names are on cards on each door and your luggage is being placed there now. I hope it is all to your liking, and if you need anything, please let me, Gianni, or one of the staff know.”
Faith did not think it was her imagination; Francesca was undeniably casting a nervous glance at the British couple. Her English was fluent with a lovely lilt, but she’d stumbled over the phrase “to your liking.”
“We will begin by introducing ourselves, break for an hour so you can unpack, rest if you like, and then we’ll meet in the kitchen to make an antipasto to go with the wine tasting that has been arranged for you before our dinner. Tonight I have prepared most of the meal, since you have all been traveling, but for all the other nights, you will be the cooks from start to finish!”
She was beaming, and Faith was happy—relieved to see that most of the faces in the room were reflecting Francesca’s enthusiasm. Only Goth Girl—she had to start thinking of her as “Olivia” instead—and the Brits had neutral expressions.
“Faith and Tom, why don’t you start? It was Faith who gave me my very first job at her catering company when I was studying in the United States many years ago!”
Faith wished Francesca hadn’t revealed Faith’s occupation. She didn’t want to intimidate the others, and also she could evaluate how things were going much better if she’d been incognito.
She nodded to Tom. Let him speak. He was used to it.
“As you’ve just heard, I’m Tom and this is my wife, Faith. We’re delighted to be here and even though my wife has certain skills, mine are limited to opening a can and dialing, so I’m hoping to change some of that by the end of the course. We live in Aleford, Massachusetts, about twenty minutes outside Boston, and have two kids, one who unfortunately has just entered his teens and a third grader who still happily likes to sleep with her stuffed animals.”
This last sentence brought some smiles. Other parents? But what Faith was noting in particular was that given the chance, Tom, the sky pilot, was flying under the radar. She well understood his wish. Invariably, revealing his profession made people want to keep their distances, and watch their mouths, or the opposite.
The couple from New Jersey was sitting on the couch next to the Fairchilds.
“We’re Len and Terry Russo from Livingston, New Jersey, not far from Manhattan, you cross a state line for a totally different state of mind—or so they tell me,” she said. “We’ve heard all the Jersey jokes.” The gentle fun she was poking at herself reminded Faith of that famous New Yorker cover by Saul Steinberg where a map pictured a bustling