The Body in the Piazza by Katherine Hall Page Page A

earth tones that gave way to bright terra-cotta roof tiles; the shutters had been painted a soft green with a hint of silver, like olive trees. Wisteria tumbled from a small iron balcony over the front door, and roses of all shades and sizes filled large planters as well as partially covered the garden walls. These last were exactly as she’d imagined. And there were palm trees!
    Francesca was running toward her, arms outstretched.
    â€œFaith!” She hugged her tight, whispering in her ear, “I am so sorry. So sorry. Paolo called. We knew signore Ives, all of us. But I am also so happy you are here.” She let go and stepped away. “I cannot believe it!” She turned to give Tom a hug and greet the other guests.
    As they crowded into the hallway, a voice drifted out from one of the rooms to the side.
    â€œNow, we absolutely must tell this woman that I bathe in the morning and you bathe in the evening. This is the sort of place that is always running out of hot water. Roderick! Did you hear what I said? We have to—”
    â€œYes, dear, I heard,” he said, cutting her off.
    Even without the use of his name, Faith would have recognized that voice anywhere.
    Maybe not tutti è simpatico .

C HAPTER 4
    F rancesca asked everyone to gather in the spacious living room. Once they were all settled, she stood in front of a fireplace large enough to roast an ox, or, Faith thought, more likely Tuscan boar. She wasn’t sure how long the house had been in the Rossi family, but she knew the main structure was over two hundred years old. She looked at the tiled floor and the stone lintel at the door into the hall, concave with wear, and once more she thought of all the footsteps she was following.
    She was trying to give Francesca her full attention, trying not to let her mind wander back to last night and today’s early morning hours, as it had been periodically, adding a surreal quality to the journey and now the arrival here. She kept seeing Freddy’s face—animated under that hat on the hotel terrace, savoring the carciofi at the restaurant, and contemplative in front of the Pantheon beneath the dark velvet Rome sky. She wanted to remember those faces. The faces when he was alive. But the one that dominated all the others was the last face, his dying face. This was the visage she so desperately wanted to forget.
    Faith forced herself to look around the room instead, taking in the details, so obviously Francesca’s own touches. The woman had always had brilliant taste. There were bouquets of hydrangea, roses, and trailing ivy throughout—fragrant, but not cloying. A brightly polished copper container on the table in front of the couch was heaped with lemons so perfect they looked fake, their authenticity betrayed by their aroma. It was going to be a week of tastes and smells, as well as delights for the eye. The late afternoon sun lit an array of Tuscan pottery lining the shelves of an antique bookcase. The vivid colors and exuberant patterns—fruits, vegetables, and whimsical animals—distracted Faith for a moment as she thought how nice it would be to have platters and pitchers like these at Aleford, especially during those endless dark New England winter days.
    â€œI think we are all here, yes?” Francesca said.
    The photos she had been sending over the years had not lied. If anything, they didn’t do her justice. She appeared only slightly older than the eighteen-year-old she’d been when she’d worked for Faith in New York City. Her long, gleaming chestnut hair was pulled into a loose knot at the nape of her neck and her skin was smooth, not a trace of a wrinkle, and lightly tanned. If she’d gained baby weight after any of her three children, it had disappeared, but she did retain that glow Faith associated with pregnant women. And it was a glow reproduced on so many of the paintings of the Madonna she’d been seeing since she’d