Sheila Connolly - Reunion with Death (3 page)

After a few more minutes of fidgeting, trying to kill time, I couldn’t stand it anymore so I went out in search of some sort of human activity. I armed myself with my camera—I might as well record the spectacular views when I had the time, and while the sun was shining. I stood in front of my door and looked around. Quick inventory, left to right: spectacular view, small building, large building, more spectacular view. I snapped a couple of pictures, then picked my way cautiously down the flagstone path in front of me, stopping every few feet to snap yet more pictures as the view shifted, or the clouds did. At this rate I’d fill my camera’s memory card with hills and sky. When I was about halfway down the hill I noticed other women drifting toward the larger building on the right below, and I hurried to join them. First I made sure I was wearing my name tag, in case people didn’t recognize me. I’d been half a person more slender forty years ago.

It was clear when I reached the building that I was not the first to arrive—not even close. The double doors opened onto a small vestibule, with a bar on one side, where a forty-something dark-haired man with a five o’clock shadow was dispensing a complicated aperitif involving some red liquid plus slices of blood oranges; on the other side two men and a woman were bustling around cooking. On a table in front of the bar were set platters with appetizers—thin slices of prosciutto, small pieces of toasted bread spread with what I guessed was some form of paté, and more—and I realized how hungry I was when I started drooling like one of Pavlov’s dogs. When had I eaten my last meal?

I decided to grab food first, since it was disappearing rapidly, and then a glass of wine. Thus supplied, courtesy demanded I get out of the way so that the next wave of hungry travelers could follow suit, so I followed the crowd up a short flight of stairs into the single large room above. There was a fireplace immediately to the left with a log fire burning briskly, and already a lot of women were sitting or standing around it, many still wearing jackets or windbreakers. A couple of long tables and a scattering of smaller round ones were set for dinner, all garnished with bouquets of wildflowers and grasses, and good smells wafted up from the small kitchen. I wondered briefly how that small cooking space could produce enough food for forty people, but I doubted that we’d go hungry.

I had barely made it up the stairs, juggling a wineglass in one hand and a napkin wrapped around some of the tempting appetizers, when a woman bore down on me. “Laura! Is that really you?”

I looked at her face and drew a blank. I sneaked a look at her name tag and the light dawned. “Connie! You look great!” I meant it: she looked nothing like she had forty years ago, when she had looked like a schmoo, a style not improved by the saggy jeans and sweaters she had favored then. “I saw from the list that you were coming. Let’s sit down and you can fill me in on what you’ve been up to.”

“Great,” Connie beamed. She waved to a couple of other people. “Hey, Pam, Ginny, come join us.” As they approached, she said helpfully, “You remember Laura, right? Art history, wasn’t it?” Pam and Ginny gave hopeful smiles, and I was pretty sure they didn’t remember me any better than I remembered them. At that point I made an executive decision to forget about learning everyone’s surnames and try to keep their first names straight in my head. Luckily, Pam and Ginny sat down with us, and when someone on the staff came around and poured another round of wine, nobody said no. Our chatter followed predictable paths: you look great (did anyone ever say you look like hell?), are you with anyone (apparently it was politically incorrect now to ask if someone was married or even about the gender of a partner), do you have any kids (no pictures, please), what are you doing (more PC talk—it wasn’t cool to ask do you now hold or have you ever held a paying job). But as the talk went on, I relaxed. Nobody was here to judge or to claim superiority in her lifestyle choices—and there was a pretty good range, based on what I was hearing. This might actually be fun.

After half an hour of talk, the volume escalating as the drinks flowed, someone suggested that we find seats for dinner. Our group of four filled one of the smaller round tables, so we stayed where we were. I watched the dynamics of the crowd: obviously some old friends had reconnected, or maybe they had never disconnected, but there was nothing cliquish about the seats people chose. All good. And then food started appearing and the talking died down—fast. Everything tasted wonderful—not fancy, but clearly fresh and local. We dug in with healthy appetites, whetted by travel and by the clean fresh air of the Tuscan hills.

Halfway through the main course, out of the corner of my eye I noticed some new arrivals, including my wandering roommate, Cynthia. Past and present roommate, that was. We’d shared an apartment in Cambridge for a few years right after college, surviving each other’s company without killing each other, and we’d kept in touch since. But life had taken us in different directions, both geographically and professionally, so we were no longer as close as we had once been. I hoped that this sojourn to Italy would help us reconnect.

The latecomers were greeted by Jean and Jane and made laughing apologies for their tardiness, claiming they had gotten lost, more than once. Not for the first time I wondered how we’d ended up with leaders whose names were so similar, which was bound to cause confusion. This was the first time I’d seen them in person since the official reunion at the college a year ago. I’d known them both but not well.

Cynthia spotted me and made her way over to our table.

“Laura, there you are! Are you all settled in already?”

“I got here a couple of hours ago. You remember Connie and Pam and Ginny?” I waved vaguely at the other women at my table.

Cynthia cocked her head. “I think so, but my head is swimming right now. I’m a terrible navigator—can’t tell north from south. Can you squeeze me in at your table? I’ll go cajole some food from the hunky staff.”

We found an extra chair just as Cynthia returned with a full glass of wine, followed by the guy who had been tending bar carrying a laden plate. She gestured to her seat and he set it down with a grand flourish.
“Grazie mille,”
Cynthia thanked him, and he bobbed his head and all but blushed before retreating. Cynthia dropped into the chair. “Isn’t this great? Tell me what I’ve missed so far, while I stuff my face.”

While Pam and Ginny obliged, I studied Cynthia. Back in the day, when we were both young, we’d struck a good balance: tall blonde Cynthia was the charmer, the social butterfly, but with a sharp mind and an eye for long-term strategy. I was shorter and darker, and I was the steady plodder, dutifully collecting footnotes and polishing my thesis. Cynthia had dated a lot of guys, none for long; I had dated not much at all. After we’d gone our separate ways, Cynthia had married twice—that I knew of. The first marriage, for which I’d been a bridesmaid, had ended in a nasty divorce; I wasn’t sure what had happened with the second. She did something I didn’t begin to understand for a high-tech firm that she’d joined when it was a start-up, and if I remembered right she was now an executive vice president for the same firm, thirty-plus years later. She should have great tales to tell about the evolution of the electronic universe during that time. But she was looking stretched thin now, speaking a little too gaily, focusing high beams on whoever she was listening to at the moment. We clearly had some catching up to do, but there was time enough for that later, when we weren’t in the middle of a crowd.

We were halfway through the dessert course and many people’s eyelids were just beginning to droop, when there was the sound of a metal utensil clinking on a glass. Announcement time, apparently. I turned in my seat to see Jean and Jane standing at the far end of the long room.

“Benvenuto, viaggitrice!”
Jean said cheerfully. “I’m so glad you’re all here, and I hope you’ve settled in. I know this place can be confusing, and maybe if I give you the short history it will make more sense. I hope most of you have met the owners, who have so graciously made their place available to us. Please, Barbara and Gerald, stand up so everyone can see who you are!”

A couple only a few years older than our own age stood and waved. American, from what I’d overheard, although apparently they had lived in Tuscany for quite a while. He was a professor, I thought, and I couldn’t remember what she did—other than run the place where we were now staying.

Jean went on, “I hope you’ll all have a chance to get to know them while we’re here. They won’t mind if I tell you about the place. This used to be a working farm, but Barb and Gerry were driving around this area years ago and saw it, and they fell in love with it, just like that. They bought it only a few months later. Now, when they first saw it, only the villa up where we parked was habitable. Believe it or not, all the rest of the buildings here, the ones you’re staying in, were farm buildings. This one was the hay barn—that’s why the brickwork outside the windows is open, to let the air move through so the hay won’t rot or explode. The smaller building next door, where several of you are staying, was where the animals were kept. So, yes, some of you lucky ladies are living in a stable for the next few days. Barb has spent years fixing the place up. Now they take guests and some educational groups—and people like us. Let’s give them a round of applause for making us feel so welcome!”

Everybody in the room, fueled by wine and good food, clapped enthusiastically.

Jane took over. “Just a few details and we’ll let you go for the evening. Rest up, because tomorrow will be a busy day! If you recall your schedule, we’re planning to visit several Medici villas in the area—we thought we’d give you an easy day before we took you to Florence and all its wonderful museums. But first thing in the morning we’ll be visiting a small monastery that was supported by the Medici. And don’t forget—tomorrow night is our murder mystery dinner! Several of our members have been working hard to put this together, and we hope you’ll have a good time!”

I’d seen the description of the evening’s entertainment on the earlier schedules and I’d carefully avoided volunteering for any part of it. I’m a lousy actress—too self-conscious. Once I thought I would outgrow that, but now I just accepted it as who I was. Let others strut their stuff; I’d watch and applaud.

“Oh, and one last-minute addition that we’re very excited about,” Jean hurried to add before we all scattered. “Wellesley College Professor Emeritus Anthony Gilbert, who retired to Italy several years ago after more than forty years teaching Italian literature at the college, has agreed to join us on Friday evening and present a lecture on the Renaissance poets of Tuscany.” She beamed at the group as if she had just handed us a Christmas present with bows on it.

Maybe it was the wine, or maybe the fatigue, but I wondered if there was just the tiniest moment of silence when Professor Gilbert’s presence was announced. I remembered the name vaguely, although I’d never taken a course with him. I had a fuzzy picture of a young man (young—hah! He must have been in his thirties at the time we were on campus) with long legs, who dressed in open-collared shirts and blue jeans, in a day when that was the exception rather than the rule among faculty members. Maybe I was wrong about that lull, for the murmur of conversation resumed immediately.

“We have a lot to look forward to,” Jean said, or maybe it was Jane this time, “so I suggest you all get some rest. Breakfast will be served in this building starting at eight o’clock, and the vans will be leaving at nine, from the main house at the top of the hill.
Buona notte!”

Most people took the suggestion, standing up and drifting toward the front door. There would be plenty of time for talk later, with the luxury of days spreading before us. I looked at Cynthia. “You ready to go? Have you seen the room yet?”

She smiled. “No, I came straight here—just dumped my suitcase outside the door. I didn’t want to miss anything. Where did they put us?”

“Just up the hill. I’ve got a flashlight.”

“Ah, Laura—always prepared. Then I’m ready to go crash. Pam, Ginny, Connie—great to see you, and I’m sure we’ll see more of each other.”

We followed the crowd out into the dark. For once I could lead Cynthia, and I guided her through the dark to our temporary home.

Chapter 3

The flashlight app on my phone got us up the hill without mishap. Even from a distance in the dark I could tell that Cynthia’s suitcase was another one that was smaller than mine. What was wrong with me? Why did I need to carry half my wardrobe around with me? I comforted myself by reminding myself that those people who had brought only shorts and T-shirts were going to freeze. Maybe I could rent out my extra long-sleeved shirts.

I opened the door and turned on the light, then stood back to let Cynthia enter. She stepped in and surveyed our domain. “Just like our dorm room, right? I can’t tell you the last time I slept in a single bed.”

“Bathroom’s down that way.” I pointed. “I can’t testify to the reliability of the hot water.” My statement was quickly followed by a god-awful thumping from the other side of the wall closest to my bed. “But I’m guessing that’s a water heater, so maybe we’ll be lucky.”

“God, I hope so.” Cynthia dropped onto her bed so hard that it bounced. “Any extra blankets?”

“I haven’t looked. Try that bench thingy over there.”

She bounded up and pulled open the seat. “Bingo. Are you going to take a shower?”

“I was thinking about it. I was also thinking about wrapping myself in five blankets and crawling into bed. I should have paid more attention to the weather report for this area.”

“It’s usually wrong anyway,” Cynthia said, studying her cell phone. Then she pulled a second phone out of her bag and turned that on. “Lousy reception, thank goodness.”

“You were planning to work? And now you’re glad you can’t?” I guessed.

“Yes, and yes. Those idiots back home can’t seem to wipe their butts without my help. And they aren’t even kids anymore.”