the woman, he will tell her he was discovered and if she makes more trouble, we will go to the polizia. She will stay away from us.”
Faith thought a moment. “If anything more happens, you’ll know where to look and he’ll have that hanging over his head, so maybe this isn’t such a bad idea.”
And, she said to herself, now we know it wasn’t one of the group. There was an odd sort of relief in that. She’d been so sure there had been an undercurrent. Well, there still was, but at least it wasn’t slithering.
“Look, you go and stall people a little more,” Francesca said. “Pour more wine. I want to talk to him and be sure.”
Mario had stopped crying and now looked completely terrified. Francesca was scary when she was mad. Faith had seen it once all those years ago and if she’d been Mario, she’d be shaking in her boots, too, or rather the chef Mario Batali–like Crocs he was wearing.
Out on the terrace, there was no need to stall. As at the picnic, no one seemed to want to move. Tom was asking Gianni about buses to Siena. Faith knew he wanted to visit the cathedral and especially the adjoining Piccolomini Library with its sixteenth-century Pinturicchio frescoes. He’d confessed to her that he wouldn’t mind taking a little time off from the culinary part of the week, and it seemed like tomorrow was the best choice. Friday was the last day, and he wanted to be here for that—everyone would depart Saturday morning and the new group would arrive on Sunday, as they had. Thinking about the new arrivals coming on the heels of those departing, Faith knew Francesca was right. She couldn’t fire Mario. Gianni’s sister had filled in before, but it had been difficult for her to leave her family, and she only spoke Italian. Faith resolved to have a little heart-to-heart with the young man before she left, however. She might be across an ocean, but she’d be watching him.
“There is a very good bus from the village. I can take you in the morning. Siena is not far. If you like, you could take my scooter instead,” Gianni said.
Faith saw her husband’s eyes light up. She also saw herself in black throwing a rose on top of a coffin, Ben and Amy clinging tearfully to her. She started to object. It wasn’t Tom’s ability to manage the Vespa, it was the other guys . . .
“It’s very tempting, except Faith wants to stay here, and Gina Lollobrigida isn’t available to sit pillion, so I think I’ll stick with the bus, but thank you.”
“Now that was an actress,” Len said. “I must have been, I don’t know, in my teens and we went to some artsy movie theater in Montclair that was showing old Bogie movies and we saw her in Beat the Devil. Mamma mia!”
“Maybe I should get a pail of water from the pool and throw it at you,” Terry said, gesturing with her half-full wineglass. It seemed she’d toss that, but instead she drained it and gave her husband a wicked look. “So like you’re going to pay for implants?”
Time to change the subject.
“Be sure to bring back some panforte for the kids,” Faith said. “I know it’s sold all over, but it will be special to have it come from Siena.”
Hattie piped up, “It’s not like Aunt Sister’s fruitcake, that’s for sure! I think I still have a couple of them from the 1980s.”
Again Faith gave a thought to the aunt/niece’s food knowledge. Panforte was indeed an Italian fruitcake.
“I don’t know what your aunt’s recipe involves,” she said. “And maybe it’s one of those fruitcakes that’s supposedly been passed around from family to family, trying to get rid of it for years, but panforte is quite different from what we think of as fruitcake. It has dried fruit—always lemons and oranges—almonds and honey, but it’s moist and chewy, thin with confectioner’s sugar on top.”
“It sounds delicious,” Sky said. “I’ve never heard of it.”
Gianni chimed in, “It is from the medieval time and even though you can find it other places, Siena is the place where it’s most famous. Some say that you have to have seventeen ingredients for the seventeen contrade in the town.”
“Why don’t I bring back enough for us to have as dessert tomorrow night?” Tom offered just as Francesca and Mario came outside.
“Grazie mille, Tom. Now, time to work,” she called gaily. “Roll up your sleeves.”
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