Nashe, with Constance by his side.
“Hi. We just pulled in and I was looking for a restroom. I didn’t know you spoke, what was that, some kind of Italian?”
If looks could freeze, Faith would have instantly become a Popsicle. “When I was a girl”—Constance seemed to be trying out for the role of Miss Jean Brodie—“it was considered impolite to eavesdrop. What you may have heard was our own patois, a little pet language. There is a restroom that you enter from outside. The key is on the desk, clearly marked. It is cleaner than one would have expected. Come, Roderick. We will join the others.”
The woman really is insufferable, Faith thought as she grabbed the key and followed them outdoors. And again she wondered why they had signed up for the course when they clearly preferred to go off on their own, although they wouldn’t want to skip this. The Rossis had arranged a Vino Nobile tasting at Contucci Cantina right on the Piazza Grande in the Palazzo Contucci. Faith was pretty sure Roderick would never turn down a free glass of anything bibulous, and Constance no doubt wanted to be able to boast that she’d visited parts of the Renaissance building not normally on view to the public, which the Rossis had arranged.
As Faith rejoined the group, Gianni was speaking. “It’s a short walk to where we’ll be having our picnic. Francesca will lead some of you, and I’ll lead the rest. We’ll be passing by the church of Sant’Agnese, which you may want to visit later to see the Simone Martini Madonna.”
Feeling vaguely like a nursery school class, as if she should be holding on to a clothesline, Faith trailed after Gianni on the narrow sidewalk as typical Italian traffic—tiny cars, scooters, bicycles, trucks, buses—went speeding by. It was another perfect day. Not a cloud in the sky and not too hot. They passed a combination Upim—the very affordable department store chain—and Conad grocery. Maybe she’d be able to lure Tom in with the promise of hardware. He seemed to be able to spend hours contemplating lightbulbs, nails, screws, and especially tools at Home Depot, so an Italian version would be a treat. She could check out the food and maybe find fennel pollen or some other spices to take back.
Gianni opened a weather-beaten wooden door in a high brick wall, and suddenly they were transported into a giardino segreto. You would never have suspected a paradise of lush grass, flowering shrubs, and trees was hidden behind the walls, which muffled the sounds of the outside world. Birds were chirping, bees humming, a few butterflies fluttered prettily. Faith half expected them to turn into Disney-like creations and start singing aloud.
“This house and garden belong to a relative of Francesca’s father,” Gianni explained. “And they are happy for us to use it. Unfortunately they are not able to welcome you today, as they had to be somewhere else, but please come in, and while we eat we can talk a little about Montepulciano. We have picked it as one of our destinations not because of this nice spot for a picnic, although that may be reason enough, but because it has an interesting history and beautiful buildings. The center is also closed to cars, so you can stroll and imagine what it was like before the invention of these useful but unattractive necessities.”
Everyone pitched in to spread the ground cloths, and Faith noticed both she and Francesca seemed to be making sure no snakes were slithering underneath. Faith immediately decided to get Tom to share so she could taste both the mortadella, finocchiona, and pecorino panino and the one with roasted eggplant, zucchini, and robiola. She’d helped Francesca and Mario finish making them, as well as others with tempting salamis and one featuring huge portabella mushrooms. There were also an assortment of olives, a salad with tiny, thinly sliced artichokes, and another with tomatoes and basil. Mario had fetched the fresh rolls from the village early that morning. To go along with the meal, Francesca had packed bottles of sparkling and still water, wine for those who wished, and to finish, fresh fruit and almond biscotti.
Half-reclining in the fashion of the ancient Romans, Tom said, “Tell us about Montepulciano, then. It’s so much fun to say.” He repeated the name of the town, clearly enjoying the lilting syllables.
Gianni grinned. “Like everywhere else around here, the Etruscans were the first inhabitants, or I should say the first we know