The Body in the Piazza - By Katherine Hall Page Page 0,4

come for the first session to help work out any kinks that might arise.

When she mentioned the call to Tom, Faith had been extremely surprised when he suggested they make Francesca’s venture the destination for an anniversary trip. Tom’s culinary expertise extended to grilled cheese sandwiches, opening a can of Campbell’s cream of tomato soup, and his tour de force: pouring boiling water through a small strainer filled with his favorite Irish Breakfast tea leaves. He was also very good at ordering pizza from Aleford’s Country Pizza, extra sauce, extra cheese, no anchovies. Faith had explained he might encounter an anchovy or possibly something else overly pungent or unfamiliar—she was thinking lardo, that savory cured pork fat, which looked like what it was, but Tom had dismissed her admittedly halfhearted misgivings—she really wanted to go—and said he’d try anything. Plus, he’d always wanted to learn to make pasta from scratch. Who knew? The school was in the middle of a vineyard, which might have had something to do with his enthusiasm, but Faith accepted Tom’s newfound interest for whatever it was and mentally started packing.

“Normally the rooms are not ready yet, but I will check. I think yours might be,” Paolo said, going back behind the desk. He picked up the phone and soon turned to them smiling even more broadly, if that was possible.

“I think you will like this one, but do not hesitate to tell me if you want another or need anything. I will show you the elevator,” he said, handing them a large key attached to a heavy length of brass elaborately embossed with the name of the hotel.

As he led the way through a pleasant sitting area and a small bar, he said, “I know you are here for this new project of Francesca and Gianni’s, the cooking school. Some of the other people taking the course are staying here, too. A few arrived like you today, some have been here all week. Tutti è molto simpatico.”

Faith was happy to hear this, although Paolo had already struck her as someone who always looked at the glass as half full and would declare most people molto simpatico. She wanted to keep these precious days in Rome to themselves, however, and did not intend to try to track down and assess their fellow students. Time enough when they would be rubbing elbows with them in the Rossis’ cucina.

Paolo ushered the Fairchilds into the tiny elevator and they went up to the third floor, locating their room at the end of a curved hallway. Room 309 was spacious with a high ceiling, soft, pale-green damask-patterned wallpaper, and heavy darker green and gold silk curtains, which Faith immediately pulled all the way back from the tall windows, flooding the space with the late morning light.

“Look, Tom, palm trees!” she cried.

He came over by her side. “Mediterranean, not Floridian, but tropical nonetheless.” He kissed her lightly as he said, “I love that it takes only a couple of palm trees to make you happy. And to think my sister told me after she met you at the shower that you were going to be ‘very high maintenance.’ ”

He kissed her harder, pulling her away from the window. Even as she felt her body responding, Faith spared a fleeting thought for her sister-in-law, who had tried so hard to marry her brother off to someone of her choosing. Tom had never mentioned the “high maintenance” comment before, but it came as no surprise and was the least of Betsey’s almost lethal endeavor.

“Nice-looking bed. Good size,” Tom was murmuring.

Faith recalled the hotel’s description of their double rooms. “A letto matrimoniale.”

Tom was already pulling down the spread.

“An apt, very apt, term, don’t you think, Mrs. Fairchild?”

“So long as we don’t fall asleep. Everyone says the way to get over jet lag is to stay up as late as possible and get on the local time.”

“Oh, I have no intention of falling asleep,” Tom said. “And unless I miss my guess, you don’t either.”

And then there weren’t any more words.

Afterward Tom did fall asleep. He suddenly went from wide-awake to deep slumber, and Faith didn’t have the heart to disturb him. She lay on her side, looking at him. He hadn’t changed much since their chance meeting at the catering job she’d blessed ever since. The laugh lines around his mouth and at the corners of his eyes were more defined, as were the ones on his forehead—the ones that didn’t come from laughing.