zucchini blossoms, or too many truffles, Faith completed their order by selecting two kinds of pizza topped with the flowers and carciofi plus a hefty wedge of focaccia made with chickpea flour and stuffed with prosciutto, ricotta, and shaved white truffles. They decided to sample the Verrazzano Rosso Chianti, which turned out to be as excellent a choice as the rest of the menu. By the time they left the wood-paneled, marble space, they felt as if it had become their “nabe,” everyone had been so friendly—pressing some biscotti on them when they left to eat as they roamed the city.
“Italians are so nice,” Faith said. “We need to come back with Ben and Amy.”
“Absolutely,” Tom said. “But this trip it’s just you and me, kid.”
However, when they reached the Piazza del Duomo, they decided to separate for a while. Faith knew Tom would be totally bored by the Ferragamo shoe museum and store and the window-shopping she wanted to do on the rest of Via Tornabuoni. She also thought she’d try to find some little gifts for Amy—maybe something covered with the marbleized paper so typical of Firenze.
“Go on,” Tom said. “I want to gaze on Ghiberti’s Gates of Paradise on the Baptistery right here and then sit doing nothing at all and people watch. Why don’t we meet at three back where Gianni dropped us off?”
The Gates of Paradise, copies now, but burnished to soft gold, reminded Faith she wanted to check out the jewelry on the Ponte Vecchio, too. You never knew what you might find . . .
“Perfect. Give me a kiss and I’ll see you later.”
On the way to Via Tornabuoni, she passed a farmacia and ducked in. How could she not enter a place with such pretty bottles of fragrance and soaps in the window—and a place that looked as if it had been in the same spot since medieval times, surviving the city’s man-made and natural disasters: the Arno flooding, fires, pestilence, Savonarola, the occupation during World War II?
Another friendly Italian immediately greeted her and showed her the testers for fragrances, lotions, and soaps made there. The bottles had labels decorated with famous Florentine paintings, and each sported a different-colored grosgrain ribbon tied around its top. The combinations were intriguing: Rose and Blackberry, Camellia and Coriander, Olive and Sunflower, Fig and Poppy. They smelled as luscious as they sounded. The perfect gift for Amy, and maybe her mother-in-law, too. Marian Fairchild, mainstay of her garden club, The Evergreens, would love the notion of wearing the contents of her trug on her person. The young woman rang Faith’s purchases up and filled the bag with samples, which Amy would be as excited to get as the perfume.
Pleased with herself, Faith decided not to consult the map and started walking toward where she thought Ferragamo was, ending up first at the Uffizi and then the riverbank. She followed it toward the Ponte Vecchio, which was in sight, happy the Germans had not blown it up when they retreated from the city, the only bridge spared. Why didn’t they destroy it? Someone in charge had realized what it would mean to demolish the ancient span, parts of which had withstood floods and other invasions since the fourteenth century? She’d have to ask the Rossis.
She took a quick look at the glittering stalls lining the bridge, giving a sigh at a trio of gold mesh bracelets—a deep wishful sigh—and then felt a shiver, looking at another offering—who would buy one of these copies of Lucrezia Borgia’s poison ring and why? She crossed back and actually found herself on Via Tornabuoni after only a few turns.
Florence was very different from Rome, not as exuberant. It felt older, although it wasn’t; the streets were narrow, the buildings looming over them obscuring the sky. There was less open space, and the colors were more sepia and of course, pietra serena. It was beautiful, but a very different kind of beautiful.
The weather had been warm when they stepped out of the market, even warmer when they left San Lorenzo. The wine at lunch had added to the temperature, and now it was almost too hot. Before she went into Ferragamo, she needed to get something cold to drink. Some cold San Pellegrino. Limonata or, better, aranciate—orangeade. There was a cart near the end of the street and she made her way toward it. A man had just purchased something, and when he turned around, Faith realized it was Jack. She smiled