Free Palladian Days by Sally Gable

stalking around the kitchenevery night, rattling pots, and moaning like the wind in agony from the injury to his spirit.
    Of course, Remo manages to sell us two sofas before we leave his store. “The villa has over a hundred chairs,” Carl grumbles, “and not one of them is comfortable to sit in.”
    We visit two other kitchen stores, also in vain. Giacomo comes to our rescue. He suggests we talk with Renato Rizzi about something custom-made. Renato is the architect and interior designer from Mirano who designed Giacomo's Caffe Palladio. Naturally Carl's first reaction is that we can't afford it. After discussion (Carl's) and threats (mine) we have a meeting with Renato.
    “We can always say no to what he proposes,” I maintain.
    “I've already said no, but it didn't take,” Carl responds.
    Renato is somewhat awed to be working in Palladio's footsteps, but he is up to the task. Carl and I both like him immediately. He is a sticklike figure at least six foot four in height, with the air of an artist. Carl is relieved to see a calculator among his gear.
    “Whatever you do here must be very big,” Renato says wisely, looking around the room for the first time. He likes the clippings I show him, particularly photos for a freestanding island with a glass vitrine on the front, rising nearly four feet and screening behind it my working counters, sink, stove, microwave, and dishwasher. Carl is mollified when Renato says we should retain the kitchen table that we already have, as well as the French armoire. To our even greater surprise, he says we should also retain the large terra-cotta hood. For a new light fixture, he joins us in a trip to the attic, where he inspects an old eight-armed ceramic chandelier that Dick Rush bought in Bassano and then found no use for. “Perfect!” Renato exclaims. In fact, we end up needing just three custom items in addition to the new appliances themselves: the vitrine-cum-screen, a sink and cooking counter to fit below the terra-cotta hood, and a giant freestanding cupboard-cabinet-refrigerator unit along the south wall. He sketches them quickly. They're beautiful! Moreover, they're symmetrical! Palladio's ghost can relax.
    “Use the calculator,” Carl suggests politely. He wants to hear numbers. Renato works with a firm that can build the custom pieces. Within a few days he's back with final drawings and a firm price quote. Carl has always told me that the way to arrive at the true cost of a project is to double the architect's estimate. He calls it his “Architect's Rule of 2.” So he's moderately surprised to hear that the quoted price from the builder is only 20 percent above the figure that he told Renato was our absolute maximum price. Then he becomes almost pleased when further bargaining reduces the quoted price by 10 percent. Renato promises that everything will be completely installed by September 1, in time for our fall return to Piombino Dese.
    Meanwhile, for the remainder of our spring visit, all I have to do is learn to cook
scaloppine di vitello al marsala
on a two-burner propane stove.
    “It's bigger than the Doge's Palace, Mom!”
    That's Jim's first impression of the villa. Jim is our youngest child, about to start his sophomore year in college. He has never seen Villa Cornaro, even though we have bedeviled him with photographs for the year we have owned it. On a scorching August morning he and I, newly arrived from the Treviso airport, are standing in Piazzetta Squizzato, across the street from the villa. The dry summer dust that clings to the storefronts along Via Roma might seem dreary elsewhere, but here in the Veneto I decide that it's a picturesque cinnamon drape.
    The new kitchen is to be installed in the coming week. Jim and I have flown over from Atlanta to witness the process and be sure that nothing goes terribly wrong. Carl and I at first feel uncertain whether the expense of a special trip is justified, even though I find a bargain plane ticket. The