come back.
“Come on, there’s the hotel,” Faith urged Tom, picking up her speed. “We can eat our lunch by the Bernini fountain in the Piazza Navona across from Borromini’s church and then find the nearest Caravaggio. Three birds in one fell swoop.”
A breeze off the river was blowing her thick honey-colored hair across her face. She pushed her sunglasses up on top of her head to keep her locks in place and get a better sense of where she was. From the street, the hotel looked like the ancient monastery it once had been. The Fairchilds paused a moment to take it all in. The outer front door, which had been pulled back, was painted deep blue; its thickness suggested a fortress more than a place dedicated to worship. Large stone urns overflowing with scarlet geraniums flanked the inner door, which led into the lobby. Definitely not Motel 6, Faith thought, or any other U.S. chain. If this lovely space had been stamped out by a cookie cutter, she wanted one for her own batterie de cuisine—someone had exquisite taste. As she moved toward the desk across the gray-and-white marble tiles, she thought about the silent feet of the monks that must have trod here as well and realized that following all sorts of footsteps was going to be one of their greatest pleasures this trip—from the Etruscans to the Romans to Renaissance princes and Baroque beauties with a glance ahead at all those Daisy Millers on the Grand Tour of Europe. Perhaps ending up with Fellini and La Dolce Vita?
“Buon giorno, may I help you?” a pleasant-looking man asked from behind the desk. “Are you checking in?”
What about us shouts American? Faith wondered to herself. It used to be you could tell someone’s nationality from his or her shoes. Then she realized that the name of the U.S. airline was easy to see on their luggage tags and English was more than a good guess.
“Buon giorno,” Tom said. Faith was proud of his accent, especially since he knew less Italian than she did. “We’re the Fairchilds.”
The man virtually leaped around the counter, hand outstretched to grab Tom’s. “Francesca’s friends! I am Paolo! Anything I can do, you must just ask. Francesca and I are from the same village,” he added as he shook Faith’s hand heartily as well. Those magic words: “From the same village,” “Same hometown,” “Went to school together.” Shared space, the international Open Sesame. Faith had known that Francesca, one of the main reasons they had selected Italy as their anniversary destination, knew someone at the hotel. It was why they had booked it, but it was a stroke of luck to meet Paolo the minute they walked in.
Francesca Rossi had been eighteen when she came to New York City with a carefully guarded secret and plan. She was on a student visa and started working for Have Faith when Faith’s assistant Josie Wells went to open her own restaurant, now a legend, in Richmond, Virginia. Francesca grew up cooking with her mother and grandmother in Tuscany, and Faith had been happy to have the young woman on her staff that tumultuous spring just before Faith’s marriage to Tom. It hadn’t been long before she realized that Francesca was keeping more than her nona’s ragu recipe from her. In the weeks that followed, employer and employee bonded on the quest to right an ancient wrong, its roots in post–World War II Italy. Francesca went back home, and the Fairchilds had a joyous visit with her and her family on their honeymoon soon after. The newlyweds had been feted by what seemed like the entire population of the town, high in the mountains outside Florence.
A few years later Francesca herself settled down, marrying Gianni Rossi, a very distant cousin who managed the family vineyard and olive groves. Children and plain old life kept Faith and Francesca from seeing each other in person—the Rossis never made the oft-promised visit to the States, and the Fairchilds didn’t get back to Italy—but the two women had stayed in close touch.
Besides wanting to see Francesca and her family, the Fairchilds were in Italy as gourmet guinea pigs. Francesca had been giving small group and individual cooking lessons for years, relying on word of mouth to promote herself. Now she and her husband had set themselves up as a full-fledged culinary school offering weeklong classes that included accommodations, trips to local markets, and other excursions. Francesca had called Faith, begging her to