The Body in the Piazza - By Katherine Hall Page Page 0,51

Jack said slyly, looking at Len, who appeared to find the remark hysterically funny.

Faith tapped Tom on the hand, their signal for “Let’s get out of here.” She had had enough of her fellow classmates for now. A very long day.

“Good night, everyone,” she said, standing up. “And thank you, Gianni and Francesca, again for everything. I don’t think I’ve ever eaten so well on a single day before.”

Tom rose also, but before he could follow his wife into the house, Sky put her hand on his arm and stopped him. “Wait a minute. You’re not a priest, but isn’t it the same? The secrets of the confessional. I mean you can’t tell anyone what someone tells you,” she asked.

“That’s the idea,” Tom said affably. “Fortunately no one’s confessed to murder.”

It was an unfortunate example; the group went dead silent.

This early rising thing was in danger of becoming a habit, Faith thought. Even Tom wasn’t awake when she crept out of bed, dressed, and went downstairs into the kitchen.

Francesca was, though, and most important, had been up long enough to make coffee.

“Let’s do two kinds of panna cotta,” Faith suggested, virtually inhaling the strong cappuccino—the Rossis’ morning favorite and, unlike Americans, something Italians never drank later in the day. “The traditional kind and something a little different—lemon, maybe a spice like cardamom or”—she took a sip—“coffee.”

“Do the cardamom and we can add the flavor easily at the end,” Francesca said.

They got to work. Soon trays of ramekins were filled, ready for the fridge. Mario had put the new container of cream straight into Francesca’s hands, but both she and Faith tasted it to be sure before they prepared the dish. It was fine. Mario was helping put out the breakfast things and Gianni joined him.

“Sit down and eat something, Faith,” Francesca said when the two men were in the other room. “I hate for you to work this way. It’s your time to relax.”

“I am relaxed,” Faith said, adding silently, at least now. There was always something calming about finishing food preparation. She knew everyone would love the dessert, topped with a little fruit or drizzled with one of the local honeys. Maybe the notion of feeding people something tasty was why she always felt this way when she’d taken something from the oven or plated a course.

“How do you think it’s going?”

Francesca handed her a plate with slices of melon, fresh figs, and two warm cornetti on it, placing some preserves within reach.

“I think it’s going beautifully. You and Gianni have thought of everything. I’m sure you haven’t had any complaints about the accommodations, even from Constance Nashe, and you know the food has been great. But what is going to set you apart from other places—besides the fact that you’re both so nice—are things like the excursion to the market yesterday. Without you we would never have met the Baronis, or been able to taste so many different things. It’s a culinary education without the pressure of a classroom. No grades, just fun.”

Francesca nodded. “This is what we are hoping. We want to attract those who know a lot and those who know nothing. Today will be similar. They are all our friends. And wait until you see Jean-Luc’s house. It makes this look like the poor relations! But Faith”—a shadow crossed her beautiful face—“the spoiled cream. I can’t explain it. You don’t think it’s some kind of omen, do you?”

Remembering that as a younger woman Francesca had been somewhat superstitious, Faith put every ounce of conviction she could muster into her reply. “Absolutely not. It could have been on the point of turning, or something like vinegar accidentally got splashed into it. There are any number of logical explanations. The only omens I’ve noticed have been favorable ones—the stars that looked like the whole zodiac had settled in just above your terrace last night and when I woke up I saw a ladybug on the windowsill, always a good sign.”

Francesca seemed reassured, and since noise in the next room indicated that some of the guests had arrived for breakfast, she shooed Faith out of the kitchen, pausing to put more coffee on before going in to take orders.

A few hours later, the biscotti (see recipe in Excerpts from Have Faith in Your Kitchen) were cooling on racks and Faith went upstairs to change before leaving for lunch. Tom had drifted away shortly after they started the dough, and she suspected the pool had proved more of a