Sheila Connolly - Reunion with Death (2 page)

With a surge of relief I found the welcoming committee was waiting outside of customs, looking uniformly perky—I figured they must have arrived the day before and slept ever since, because I couldn’t imagine being perky at the moment. They waved and smiled and cheered. “You’re the last one!” said somebody who looked remarkably like a pruney version of a woman who’d sat next to me in French classes for two years. What was her name … Christine? Even with the list and the booklet in hand, I hadn’t been able to put a face to all the names. “Time to head out!” she announced. “We’ll be there in time for cocktails!”

Donna, that was it. She had always been relentlessly cheerful, although her accent had been atrocious, even after two years of classes. Some things just didn’t change, apparently. Which made me wonder, had I changed? How much? Would anyone recognize me now?

Our little covey of classmates trailed out of the terminal building, hauling suitcases on wheels. Mine was the heaviest; as I’d feared, I had overpacked. Like the terminal, the parking lot was surprisingly small, and the van we appeared to be aiming for stood out like a great gray box. I realized that I hadn’t given much thought to the logistics of transporting forty people at the same time. If I did the math (slowly, thanks to jet lag) that meant four vans, if everybody got cozy. A caravan of four vans was going to stand out wherever we went—an invading army of middle-aged women.

“I’m the driver,” another woman said loudly, over the sounds of planes and traffic. Her I recognized: Brenda something-or-other. We’d lived in the same dorm for a year, and she looked remarkably unchanged. “I only got here yesterday, so this may be an adventure. But we have a GPS that speaks English! Get your bags stowed in the back so we can head out.”

We shoved suitcases, backpacks, and totes into the rear of the van, then sorted ourselves out among the three rows of seats. Apparently Brenda already had assigned someone to the shotgun position, to read maps and road signs—I thought her name was Denise, but it was hard to tell from the rear. It would all get sorted out later, I hoped.

Brenda managed to find her electronic card, money, and the correct exit, and after a few loops through the parking lot we were on the road for … someplace I hadn’t been able to find on a map. There were a lot of places on our detailed itinerary I’d never heard of. As an art historian, I had once known enough to identify the major cities, and maybe a few of the regions, but the little towns? Not a chance, not unless there was some major monument or work of art there—those places I could name, even if I’d never been there. In any case, I hadn’t volunteered to do any of the driving on this trip: I would be hopelessly lost in minutes. Under the best of circumstances I was directionally challenged. The problem had gotten worse in the last few years, and nowadays I really had to stop and think about which way I was going, on foot or in a car. I kept telling myself I was saving room in my brain for really important things, and I could always ask my cell phone or a GPS for directions. That worked—most of the time.

But now I was among friends, or at least women who shared many of the insidious changes that came with age. From a quick scan of the small group so far, no one appeared particularly decrepit, and everyone exuded enthusiasm. But it was early days yet. How would we all feel in ten days?

Damn it, Laura!
I reprimanded myself
. You sound like an old biddy, always expecting the worst.
Stress and lack of sleep had brought out all my negative traits; at this moment I was sure I was less intelligent, less interesting, and less successful than anyone else on this trip. Everybody else seemed to know each other, chatting happily away, while I had barely kept in touch with a couple of my college roommates, and with only one exception they hadn’t even bothered to come on this trip. Why had I? Was I trying to prove something? To myself? To my daughter?

Stop it.
I was here to enjoy myself, in a beautiful country, in the company of interesting, intelligent women with whom I shared a history. All I had to do was relax and go with the flow. I could do that. I turned to my neighbor, whose name I thought—hoped—was Sharon, and asked the logical question: “So, what have you been doing the past forty years?” And talk flowed easily after that.

According to our itinerary, we were staying at a place called Capitignano, and the nearest town was called Borgo San Lorenzo. My maps failed to show either, and when I’d searched online, I couldn’t seem to find a map that would show both tiny towns and where they were within the country at the same time. In effect, I had no idea where we were, beyond Italy, somewhere near Florence, maybe to the north. I had to keep reminding myself that it was not my problem. Presumably the driver knew where she was going, and I was just along for the ride, so I settled back and admired the scenery. From the airport we took a couple of
Autostrada
—highways I could recognize anywhere, and I enjoyed mentally sounding out the names on the signs. As we drew farther away from the airport, the roads became progressively smaller, and the surrounding hills (or would they be called mountains here?) both nearer and higher, the buildings, mostly stucco or stone, spaced more widely. We went around more than one rotary or roundabout or whatever the heck they were called in Italy, sometimes more than once—there were stacks of signs at each exit from the rotary, and there really wasn’t time to read them all until you were already past them. Driver Brenda took it all in stride, even though she admitted she’d been driving the van only since the day before and was still learning the ropes. No one seemed worried. I certainly wasn’t; I had handed off responsibility once I reached the airport. Maybe my new mantra was NMP, for Not My Problem.

More small roads, more turns. Olive groves, vineyards, fields and verges strewn with red poppies. We passed a couple of towns that looked surprisingly modern, and I had to laugh at myself: had I really thought that everything outside the cities would be quaint and historic? This was, after all, a functioning country (well, except for the government, anyway) and life had moved on since the time of the Romans and the Renaissance, even though there were plenty of remnants of earlier eras almost everywhere you looked. We were in rural territory now. There were lots of buildings built of terra-cotta-colored stucco, with tiled roofs that often sprouted tufts of grass. The buildings seemed to have grown organically, with additions slapped on as needed until the building sprawled over several levels. Every time I turned my head there was another photo opportunity, although I wasn’t much of a photographer and all I had was a point-and-shoot camera and my cell phone. I restrained myself and just looked. I didn’t want to see Italy through a camera lens; I wanted to
see
it.

Up in the front Brenda was recounting some story about driving directions. “When I first heard the directions, I was told that I was supposed to turn right across from the big tree. Then the tree fell down in a storm a couple of weeks ago—see? There is it—so now it’s turn right across from the dead tree lying on the ground. Who knows how long that will last?” She laughed as she made the right turn onto a road twisting its way upward. It was barely wide enough for two vehicles, much less a car and a monster van, and I shuddered to think what would happen if we met someone coming down. Apparently Brenda shared that fear, because she sounded the horn vigorously at each turn, and there were a lot of turns.

The road climbed steadily, passing a few houses on the lower part of the hill, fewer and fewer as we went higher. Finally we came to a left-hand turn, marked by a single sign nailed to a post: Capitignano. “This is it, folks,” Brenda said cheerfully. “Check out the top of the hill.” She slowed to allow us to admire the view, and it was definitely worth admiring.

Beyond the ranks of grapevines and the rows of olive trees, the drive—now definitely one-lane—flanked by tall cypresses led to a cluster of stucco buildings seated regally at the top of the rise. The van’s engine labored to make the grade, but we finally pulled in at a level graveled area in front of one building, where two other matching vans were already parked. It took a few moments for everyone to clamber out of the vehicle, and then we all stood around, looking, I thought, a bit dazed. Brenda herded us into the building.

“There are information packets with updates on the table there, plus name tags for all of you,” she said authoritatively.

I felt a spurt of relief that I wasn’t the only one who didn’t recognize everybody. Name tags would be a blessing.

She was still talking, so I had to focus. “There’s also a sketch map of the property, with the various buildings labeled on it. Your room assignment is in the packet. Some people arrived yesterday and others will be here later. Find your place, unpack, chill out, and we’ll all meet at the big building down the hill, at the opposite end from here, for drinks and dinner at seven.”

I checked my watch: it was already six o’clock. Midday for me back home, so I should be alert, right? I found my packet and pulled out the map, which showed a lot of small buildings.

“Hey, Brenda, can you point us in the right direction?” I asked.

“What? Oh, sure. Where are you assigned?”

I pointed to a blob on the map.

“Right, the back end of the villa. Go around this building, follow the drive past the tennis court and around the next building, then go down the stairs. Your room is at the back. There’s a key in the door, but nobody bothers with them here. Once you get there, you’ll see where we’ll be eating, right down the hill.”

“Thanks,” I said dubiously. We all went back outside, dragged our suitcases from the back of the van, and set off in different directions. The wheels of my suitcase left twin tracks in the neat gravel, and I felt like I ought to apologize to someone. I concentrated on keeping my footing—the paths kept shifting from gravel to flagstone to brick to grass, in no particular order. I passed the tennis court, which clearly hadn’t hosted a tennis game in quite some time; passed the next building, went around to the back and down a short flight of stairs, and found myself in front of two heavy, ornate wooden doors, one of which had a key in the lock. This must be it. I set down my suitcase with a sigh of relief and turned to check out the scene.

Oh my God. From where I stood I had a one-hundred-eighty-degree view of rolling Tuscan hills, stacked up against the horizon. Small villages nestled in the valleys below; here and there a plume of smoke rose. Clouds drifted across the blue, blue sky. On both sides, more olive trees marched down the slopes. In front of me lay two buildings; the larger one must be where we would be eating. No one was in sight; the only sounds were natural. No cars, planes, electronic devices—just blessed silence. Except for a low buzzing: I looked to my right to see a large tree covered with small yellow blossoms, and when I approached it I realized there were bees feasting on all of them. The whole tree buzzed. I retreated a respectful distance and inhaled the sweet scent of the tree, tinged with a hint of wood smoke and maybe a dash of pine—or was it rosemary? It didn’t matter; it was all wonderful.

And it was my home for the next few days. With no little regret I turned my back on the spectacular views and opened the door.

Benvenuti in Italia!

Chapter 2

Once inside the room, my first impression was that it was dark, and I realized that it had no windows. I fumbled for a light switch on the wall next to the door and pressed it, turning on a lamp across the room. It must have had a forty-watt bulb, which didn’t help much. The ceiling was high, crossed by massive wooden beams that looked authentic and old. I parked my bag and wandered through a doorway on the right that led to a second, smaller room, dominated by a desk surrounded by bookshelves; there was a high window over the desk. A narrow hall to the left led to a bathroom at the rear. The floors throughout were made of richly ornamented glazed tiles, as were half the walls in the bathroom.

Back in the larger room I contemplated what to do next. There was no sign of Cynthia, my intended roommate, but that didn’t surprise me. I didn’t want to leave my suitcase in front of the door where we would trip on it, so since I had arrived first, I claimed the sole luggage rack and set it next to the door in the smaller room, out of the way. I opened my suitcase, and as I expected everything was squashed and wrinkled. It didn’t seem worth hanging anything up, which I assumed could be done in the high armoire at the end of the hall, and I knew from experience that after a few days the jumble in the suitcase would only get worse. I left the mess as it was. People would just have to take me in wrinkled clothes.

I sat on one of the twin beds and leafed through the information package I’d picked up. Jean and Jane had kept us updated by email over the past couple of months, the excitement level of the emails ramping up steadily, but now it appeared that there were yet more changes, mainly additions to the already jam-packed schedule. We were going to be very busy campers, and I was glad I had brought my most comfortable shoes. This would not be a trip for fashionistas in three-inch heels. Or was I maligning my classmates? From what I’d seen of them so far, comfort had won out over style.

I was afraid to lie down because there was a good chance I’d fall asleep and miss dinner, or at least the drinks and socializing before dinner. I wanted to get there while people were still wearing their name tags, if I hoped to have a chance of remembering anybody at all. I started to remove my jacket—I’d worn all my heaviest clothing on the plane, since the suitcase was bursting already—and then I realized how chilly the room was. Plastered walls, tiled floor—lovely but cold. There was a thermostat on the wall near the door, but when I poked at it nothing happened. Of course it didn’t: this was June. Who needed heat in Tuscany in June? No doubt it had been turned off for the season. I quickly abandoned any idea of putting on something fancier for our first dinner together and turned instead to thinking about what layers I could add. Thank heavens I’d brought socks.