The Body in the Piazza by Katherine Hall Page Page B

arrived. Mary must have had an exceptionally easy baby—no colic for sure.
    â€œ Benvenuti, welcome, everyone,” Francesca said, standing straighter.
    â€œWe are going to have a wonderful week, starting now. After we talk a little here, you will find your rooms upstairs. Your names are on cards on each door and your luggage is being placed there now. I hope it is all to your liking, and if you need anything, please let me, Gianni, or one of the staff know.”
    Faith did not think it was her imagination; Francesca was undeniably casting a nervous glance at the British couple. Her English was fluent with a lovely lilt, but she’d stumbled over the phrase “to your liking.”
    â€œWe will begin by introducing ourselves, break for an hour so you can unpack, rest if you like, and then we’ll meet in the kitchen to make an antipasto to go with the wine tasting that has been arranged for you before our dinner. Tonight I have prepared most of the meal, since you have all been traveling, but for all the other nights, you will be the cooks from start to finish!”
    She was beaming, and Faith was happy—relieved to see that most of the faces in the room were reflecting Francesca’s enthusiasm. Only Goth Girl—she had to start thinking of her as “Olivia” instead—and the Brits had neutral expressions.
    â€œFaith and Tom, why don’t you start? It was Faith who gave me my very first job at her catering company when I was studying in the United States many years ago!”
    Faith wished Francesca hadn’t revealed Faith’s occupation. She didn’t want to intimidate the others, and also she could evaluate how things were going much better if she’d been incognito.
    She nodded to Tom. Let him speak. He was used to it.
    â€œAs you’ve just heard, I’m Tom and this is my wife, Faith. We’re delighted to be here and even though my wife has certain skills, mine are limited to opening a can and dialing, so I’m hoping to change some of that by the end of the course. We live in Aleford, Massachusetts, about twenty minutes outside Boston, and have two kids, one who unfortunately has just entered his teens and a third grader who still happily likes to sleep with her stuffed animals.”
    This last sentence brought some smiles. Other parents? But what Faith was noting in particular was that given the chance, Tom, the sky pilot, was flying under the radar. She well understood his wish. Invariably, revealing his profession made people want to keep their distances, and watch their mouths, or the opposite.
    The couple from New Jersey was sitting on the couch next to the Fairchilds.
    â€œWe’re Len and Terry Russo from Livingston, New Jersey, not far from Manhattan, you cross a state line for a totally different state of mind—or so they tell me,” she said. “We’ve heard all the Jersey jokes.” The gentle fun she was poking at herself reminded Faith of that famous New Yorker cover by Saul Steinberg where a map pictured a bustling Manhattan from Ninth Avenue down absorbing most of the vista, Jersey a tiny strip, the rest of the United States even smaller, and the horizon dotted with China, Japan, and Russia in minuscule type. It was a Manhattan mind-set she shared, much to her husband’s bewilderment.
    â€œWe’re here because we love to cook,” Terry continued, “and, well, as you can see, we love to eat, too.”
    Both Russos were carrying a few extra pounds, but not much. Faith was surprised the woman had mentioned it, and her husband did not appear happy with the remark. The man was actually scowling. They looked to be in their late forties, and when it seemed that this was going to be the extent of Terry’s remarks, Gianni, who had come into the room, said, “The name ‘Rossi’ is ‘Russo’ in Southern Italy, so we’re related!”
    That did the trick, and Len Russo relaxed