Restoration: A Novel (Contemporary / Women's Fiction) (29 page)

Tess searched for half an hour before finding the address
Neil Palmer had given her.  The building was near an old Roman aqueduct.  It
was like so many others in Sulmona, old and worn but with a grace antiquities
possess.  The address was a ground-floor apartment whose door faced one of the
smaller piazzas.  She wandered back over to the aqueduct.  She hadn’t planned
anything beyond finding the apartment, so she sat beneath one of the aqueduct’s
stone arches and spied on the door, waiting to catch a glimpse of the people
who lived there.  It seemed like a good plan.

After about an hour, the door opened and a young man
stepped outside.  Before shutting the door behind him, he turned, leaned
forward and kissed someone whose face Tess couldn’t see.  She guessed him to be
Dahnya’s husband, the man who’d changed her last name to Benato.  Tess used the
map as a prop and pretended to be intently reading.  She shifted her eyes as he
walked in her direction.  He was barely into his twenties: tall and reed thin
with black hair and olive skin.  He whistled through his smiling lips as he
walked past her.

After he disappeared into Sulmona’s maze of streets,
Tess’s attention shifted to the apartment again.  She contemplated various
ploys to rouse Dahnya from it but none seemed legitimate.  Tess brought her
knees to her chest, wrapped her arms around them and rested her chin there. 
Having gotten up earlier than usual to make it to Sulmona before the town
awoke, she already was tired.  She hoped to make it to Florence before
nightfall, but that depended on Dahnya’s unwitting cooperation.

As the sun crept up into the sky, Sulmona began stirring. 
Children on their way to school skipped past her in their blue and white
uniforms.  Men and women walked to their jobs.  Across the street, a café
stirred, greeting a few patrons.  Only two of the five tables sitting along the
sidewalk outside the café were occupied.  A tour bus rumbled by.  Its long
metal body and silver roof looked alien in this ancient town of stone and
brick. 

After a couple of hours of waiting, Tess rose to her feet
and stretched.  By now, shopkeepers whose businesses faced the aqueduct must’ve
noticed how long she’d been sitting there.  She eyed one of the vacant chairs
at the café.  Its location would give her a good view of the apartment. 
Sitting there and drinking espresso would be less obvious than sitting where
she was and doing nothing. 

As she moved out from beneath the arch, the apartment door
opened.  Tess froze.  A woman appeared.  An empty basket hung on her arm.  The
markets in Sulmona’s commerce district burrowed into buildings in the streets
behind Tess, and she hoped the woman was heading in her direction and wouldn’t
force her to pursue by choosing the opposite route.

The young woman cooperated and walked in her direction. 
Tess stepped out onto the sidewalk, putting herself in her path.  As she drew
closer, the young woman smiled.  The face that resembled a much younger
Francesca Caponi mesmerized Tess until she completely passed her by.

Tess turned around and used one of the few words she
knew:  “Scusi.”  Within three steps, she was walking abreast with Dahnya.  “I’m
looking for a church around here.”

Dahnya stopped and shrugged regretfully.  “Mi dispiace,
non capisco.  No English.”

Tess nodded her understanding, studying every detail of
the young woman in front of her.  “Sorry.  Thank you anyway.  Grazie.”

“Prego.”

“You’re pregnant!”  Tess said, astounded, as if she
should’ve already known this detail about this stranger.

Dahnya glanced down at her swollen belly that Tess was
staring at and responded, “Baby.”

“Baby, yes,” Tess smiled, thinking of Cassie, wondering if
she was showing yet.  “Bambino.”

“Sí, bambino.”  Dahnya glanced down the narrow street
where she’d been headed before Tess had interrupted her.  She seemed anxious to
be on her way but was patient with the American visitor.  Tess thought she must
have to indulge tourists often, at least often enough to learn a few meager
phrases.  It surprised her that Dahnya didn’t know English.  Her mother did,
but then Tess reminded herself Francesca wielded no influence in her daughter’s
life. 

While Tess was in Rome, English was pervasive.  She
remembered that when she’d traveled to Italy’s renowned cities while still in
college, English was often spoken, not only by Italians; it was the second
language of international tourists visiting there as well.  But here in Sulmona
where Dahnya probably would spend her entire life, she’d never require the necessity
of a second language.  The global world left small towns like Sulmona alone.

Tess gazed again at Dahnya’s swollen belly.  She’d become
a mother soon and raise her child in the simplicity of Sulmona.  The economy of
this small town guaranteed her a life of very modest means.  Tess beheld the
familiar face again, marveling at how much Dahnya looked like Francesca.  So
similar in appearance, yet so different in the lives they lived.  No wonder
Francesca was afraid to meet her daughter.

“Buon giorno,” Tess said, releasing Dahnya from her polite
obligation to offer hospitality to one of her town’s guests.

“Buon giorno,” Dahnya repeated and continued on her way,
disappearing into Sulmona’s narrow streets.

On the drive north, Tess left behind Italy’s more moderate
climate.  Florence resonated with a crisp chill that seemed to crackle in the
December air.  The coffee Tess toted in a foam cup felt good as it filled her
mouth and warmed her.  She pulled the collar of her leather jacket up around
her neck as she walked along the street by the River Arno reacquainting herself
with the city she’d fallen in love with in college. 

This early morning hour, she wasn’t wandering Florence’s
medieval streets alone as she had yesterday in Sulmona.  Tourists and locals
already were trickling down Florence’s sidewalks, but in a few hours they’d
teem with many more, streaming with people, creating human rivers.

She had no particular destination, just the desire to
stretch her legs in the city that legends like Michelangelo, Galileo, Danté and
Machiavelli once called home.  Her favorite sites were familiar to these men. 
As Tess lost herself in some of Florence’s less frequented streets, the tower
on the Palazzo Vecchio guided her just as the medieval palace must have done
for others through the centuries. 

Some of the street vendors were beginning to push their
carts down side streets and set up their mobile shops for the day.  One artist
displayed his watercolors along a stone wall, using it as an easel, and then
arranged his brushes and other supplies on a small table where he could work
and peddle.  She knew she’d find more watercolor artists strategically located
near the sites tourists visited most often.  All would offer scenes of
Florence’s most famous places and vistas.  There wasn’t anything artistically
masterful about any of the street artists’ paintings that a second-year art
student couldn’t reproduce.  They were just souvenirs pleasing to the eye. 

Tess admired this particular artist’s interpretation of
Florence’s tourist-targeted sites.  This is how he fed himself, but she
wondered what he painted for himself in his apartment at night; what his
creative vision demanded he paint.  She wondered what she’d paint while in
Florence. 

He smiled at her, picked up a watercolor and walked up to
her to begin his sales pitch.  She waved him off and continued her stroll.  She
already owned three watercolors she’d bought on her last trip to Florence.

Tess hoped her father and Hillary would visit her here. 
Even if her father couldn’t find enough days not being Dr. Olsen, she’d
encourage Hillary to come on her own.  A visit would allow her to play hostess
to her stepmother, showing off this medieval city.  Hillary was a handbag
hound, and Florence’s abundant leather shops would draw her in. 

If Cassie wasn’t pregnant, Tess was sure she and Brad would
visit, but her sister’s life was entering a new phase.  The last time they’d
talked, Cassie had spoken excitedly about her impending motherhood, and Tess
found herself no longer afraid for her sister.  She looked forward to seeing
Cassie doting over her child and the expression on her face as she gazed at the
infant in her arms.

By lunchtime, Tess had drifted back toward the landmark
tower of the Palazzo Vecchio.  She sat outdoors at an empty table for two in
front of a trattoria in the Piazza della Signoria and ordered a sandwich on the
thick crusty bread she’d discovered she loved while traveling through Italy. 
The rustic Uffizi Palace bordered the piazza.  With its row of crenellations
fringing the top, tall brick squares that looked like a row of teeth with a gap
between each one, the old palace had looked down upon the piazza since the
thirteen hundreds.  The piazza’s vast space was expansive enough to host a
football game.

Standing at the base of the palace walls, a replica of
Michelangelo’s David faced the piazza where the original once stood.  The
original was on display in a museum a few blocks away.  It awed her when she
first saw it.  Pictures never adequately conveyed its grandeur or put in
perspective how big it actually was. 

There was so much great art in Florence.  It surprised her
that Ben had never visited.  He’d been to Paris and The Louvre, of course.  All
serious art lovers feel they must pay homage to the world’s greatest art
collection.  Between bites of spicy Thai food, Tess and Ben had shared stories
of their separate visits to Paris and the sights they’d seen.  It was their
second date.  She’d told him how he’d cheated himself by not going to Florence,
and he’d laughingly promised her he would put it on his “to do” list. 

Gazing at the replica of David, she made a mental
checklist of the places she’d take him.  No doubt his own list would include
the world famous Uffizi Gallery, but there was also so much art built into
Florence’s medieval buildings that she’d awe him by taking him around and
pointing out these magnificent pieces like Ghiberti’s gold doors on the
Baptistery of San Giovanni; reproductions, of course, but faithful to
originals.  These were the obvious “must see” attractions, but now that she
lived in Florence she’d discover the art the locals coveted.

 She couldn’t wait to see Ben’s face when she introduced
him to some hidden gem found in only the most obscure travel guides.  Tess
stopped her musing.  Ben wasn’t coming to Florence, at least not while she was
here, and if he did visit he’d slip in and out without her ever knowing.

 The waiter set her sandwich in front of her.  She stared
down at the food she’d looked forward to savoring, took two meager bites and
enjoyed none of them.  The waiter looked disappointed as she left behind a full
plate.

She walked across the Piazza della Signoria and onto one
of Florence’s broader streets leading to the Cathedral of Santa Maria del
Fiore.  Like the Palazzo Vecchio’s tower, the church’s domed roof and bell
tower were visible throughout most of Florence.  The rust-colored dome was
regal and magnificent, and the bell tower beside it rose from the earth like a
marble scepter. 

Tess hurried down the street eager to challenge the
church’s four hundred, sixty-three steps up to the dome’s cupola and purge Ben
from her thoughts.  After climbing these steps in college, she’d been rewarded
with a spectacular view of Florence.  Just outside the white, pink and green
marbled church, she purchased the ticket that would allow her to punish her
legs and trek up the stairs.  She stopped a few times to rest along the way.

When she reached the top, she stepped out onto the cupola
and moaned when she saw the rooftops of Florence.  The terra-cotta roofs sat on
pale yellow and tan buildings, stretching out for miles.  These were the colors
of Florence and had been for centuries.  She leaned against the chest-high
fencing bordering the cupola, soaking in the view. 

“Scusi,” someone said over her shoulder, then lightly
tapped it.

She turned around.  A young man and woman stood behind
her.  He held out his camera to Tess.

“Picture.”  He tapped his chest and pointed to the
brunette beside him.  In his one English word, Tess recognized the familiar
accent of a fellow American.

She smiled.  “It would be my pleasure.”

The man looked relieved.  “You’re American.”

“Yes,” said replied and traded places with them. 

“We’re on our honeymoon.”  He pulled his new wife close to
him as they leaned against the railing with their backs to the city below. 
“Friends of ours told us we had to make the climb up those stairs and get
pictures from up here.”

“I almost didn’t make it.”  The woman rolled her eyes.  “I
thought my lungs would burst.”

Tess aimed the camera at them.  “It’s worth it, isn’t it?”

“It’s incredible,” she gushed.  “We’ll have to come up
here for our fiftieth wedding anniversary to celebrate.”

“I’m sure the view will remain unchanged,” Tess said.

The man laughed.  “We’ll have to make that our
twenty-fifth.  I think the climb would kill me on our fiftieth.”

“Smile,” Tess said and pressed the camera’s shutter
button, catching them admiring each other’s faces, with Florence’s magnificent
view stretching beyond them. 

“Thank you,” the man said as she handed back his camera.

The couple moved away from her.  She watched as they
leaned on the railing and gazed out over Florence.  The man put his arm over
his new wife’s shoulder, pulled her close and whispered in her ear.  His
private words drew a giggle and a kiss from her.  They were clearly in love. 
Tess thought about Francesca standing on this cupola sharing this same view
with Aletta decades before and Francesca realizing she’d fallen in love. 

The woman glanced in her direction and Tess quickly
averted her eyes, not wanting to seem like a voyeur.  She hung her arms over
the metal rail and allowed the landscape below to mesmerize her.  It was a
shame that for as many trips as Francesca took to Florence, she continued to
deny herself this view that would stir memories of Aletta and reawaken feelings
lying fallow in her heart.