pieces of the letter as if it were one document. Davido leaned toward his grandfather so he too could read the decree and immediately felt a jolt of nerves. He recognized the signature. It was that of the Meducci. Both he and Nonno had seen that signature before. It graced the bottom of a very sad letter written to them some two years ago and signed in just the same way, though that signature had been streaked and smudged by tears.

“Your pomodori,” the Good Padre said after a moment’s pause, “by law, are now welcome at any market in Tuscany, including ours.”

Davido waited for his grandfather to take the lead, but Nonno seemed a bit confounded and had yet to look up from the letter. Davido knew why and took it upon himself to continue with the priest. “You are saying we are free to sell our fruit?”

“That and any other economic pursuit,” answered the Good Padre.

Davido turned to his grandfather to be certain that he’d fully heard the news. While he did seem to register what the priest had said, the old man did not look nearly as pleased as his grandson.

“Hmm,” said Nonno with a skeptical frown as he folded the letter and handed it back to the priest.

“Well,” said the Good Padre, tucking the tattered letter into the fold of his frock, “peace be with you.” He stepped toward his mule and vaulted his enormous thigh over his mount with a grace surprising for one so large. The Good Padre paused before prompting his mule. He felt uneasy about leaving them with little more than words upon a torn parchment. “Neighbors,” he said, “have you ever set foot in the village?”

“No,” answered Davido. “Not in all your time here?”

“Your predecessor did not encourage it,” said Davido.

“Ah.” The Good Padre nodded contritely. “I have heard. Well, despite the failings of the few, there is much goodness in these villagers.”

“I do not doubt that,” answered Nonno, “but goodness of heart, so often, is little match for malice of head.”

“True, dear man, true,” said the Good Padre as he turned and looked directly into Davido’s eyes, “but the question is, from which organ do you wish to be led?”

Davido felt a sudden burst of energy hit him right in the heart. He felt his knees go momentarily weak and his eyes flush with tears as he heard the priest’s voice repeat itself inside his head: But the question is, from which organ do you wish to be led?

“Who’s to say,” the Good Padre continued, “how this news here, come evening mass, will bode upon the rabble’s ear? But there is much goodness in this little village. As I too am new to this hamlet and can attest. And if tomorrow’s market you’re brave enough to attend, perhaps we can move this superstition to an end. Now, as for me, at mass and market, I’ll preach my part, that buying your produce be the way to start.” The Good Padre gave a gentle prod to his mule. “Now peace be with you, and Godspeed with tomorrow’s dawn. I will wait at market.”

Davido was stunned, his pulse raced and his eyes were still misty with something like delight. The whole meeting with the Good Padre had been overwhelming and he wanted to shout, Yes, he would be there at market with a thousand pomodori, be anywhere but Florence. “Wait, wait!” Davido yelled.

The Good Padre slowed his mule and turned back over his shoulder.

“Do you like vegetables?” asked Davido as he hurried over to the closest tomato vines.

The Good Padre smiled—a smile of a thousand words.

Quickly, sliding a pruning knife from his back pocket, Davido snipped off a cluster of a half dozen or so ripe tomatoes. “Here,” he said, catching up to the Good Padre’s slow-moving mule. “Take these pomodori. Eat the first few plain, they’re delicious, maybe with a touch of salt and olive oil.” Davido placed the tomatoes into the priest’s enormous hands. “Then take the others and slice them into bite-sized wedges. Toss with olive oil, a squeeze of lemon, salt, sheep’s cheese and fresh-cut mint. Remember, it’s mint that lends the dish a summer’s hin—”

Davido heard a thud and felt a tremor through the tendons and muscles of his feet and ankles, like that of a small earthquake. A prickle of fear now shot through his body as he scrambled to and knelt over the fallen priest. Thank goodness, thought Davido, that it wasn’t a far fall off