Free The Body in the Piazza by Katherine Hall Page Page A

soon. Tom came on their heels, saying, “I thought you’d be here. But it’s been long enough. We need to take a walk, love.”
    His words suggested she’d been there a while, and she was glad the two women hadn’t overheard him. Although the exchange Faith had overheard could mean nothing more than the one asking the other to smuggle the Gucci scarves, Fendi bags, and Bulgari bracelets that put her way over the limit allowed by customs in her luggage, she didn’t want them to know she’d been eavesdropping.
    â€œAnd I’m hungry, too,” Tom added. “We need to get something to eat before the train.” He took her hand, pulled her to her feet and into his arms.
    â€œYes, let’s take a walk,” she said, holding him close. “It’s our dream trip and I’m not forgetting that. Do you know what I think we should do?”
    â€œHaven’t the foggiest.”
    â€œI want to go to church and see the St. Matthew Caravaggios, especially the one with the dusty feet. I want to pray and light candles for Freddy. And then I want to go to the Trevi Fountain, throw two coins in, and find some more great panini.” Her voice caught at the last words, and she ended with a sob.
    Tom stroked her hair. “This sounds perfect. Just what he would have wanted us to do, I’m sure.”
    Faith shook the napkin out and wiped her eyes. Several pigeons swooped in to peck at the crumbs. She kissed her husband, their embrace lasting long past the pigeons’ consumption of the unexpected treat. The roof was completely empty of all forms of life when they finally let go of each other and went down the stairs to pack.
    I t wasn’t until she got to Termini, the train station, and saw all the families crowding the platforms for a day out, the women holding bouquets, that Faith remembered it was Mother’s Day here, too, Festa della Mamma. Sitting on the train, waiting for it to leave, she thought back to last year’s Mother’s Day. Her family had served her breakfast in bed and she had pretended to be very surprised. Both kids were comfortable in the kitchen, having started cooking with her at an early age. Ben had produced a delicious omelet oozing with fontina and thin shavings of smoked turkey, as a change from ham, he’d explained. Amy had made popovers, and Tom, well, Tom gave her flowers. After church they’d driven down to Norwell, Tom’s hometown on the South Shore, where they’d had a late lunch with the Fairchild clan, afterward piling into canoes for a paddle on the North River.
    Faith’s own mother didn’t believe in Mother’s Day, declaring that every day was mother’s, father’s, and children’s day. That the May date was invented to sell cards, flowers, and perfume. She’d always thanked Faith and Hope for the cards they’d made at school and then the whole occasion had vanished once they were older until Tom appeared, askance at the attitude. His mother got flowers; Faith’s would, too. And Faith noticed that Jane very quickly began to enjoy the custom. She was glad she’d remembered to order them for both mothers before she’d left. But here she was, childless in Italy, and she felt quite a pang looking at all the happy families on the train and with such good things to eat, she suspected, tucked in all those baskets and boxes.
    It was almost departure time, and as usual one lone traveler was making a dash for the doors. Faith was amused to see Goth Girl from the hotel lunge in at the last moment and then search for her seat, the cool expression on her face replaced for the moment by confusion and finally, relief.
    It seemed they were almost immediately in the country, and Faith tried to focus on the passing scenery. A lone line of cypress trees atop a distant hill stood out against the blue afternoon sky. They looked almost human, with their stark limbs lined up for some kind of