The Body in the Piazza - By Katherine Hall Page Page 0,2

Niki would regard Sofia as a “nuisance” even when the baby became ambulatory. Of course things could change once she hit her teens.

And so Tom and Faith would eat, drink, and be merry. Just the two of them, the way they had begun all those years ago.

Meeting at a wedding reception Have Faith was catering at the Riverside Church on New York’s Upper West Side, what Faith did not realize until the wee small hours of that fateful night was that the handsome friend of the groom had come to town from Massachusetts to perform the ceremony, changing out of his robes immediately afterward. Earlier in the evening, Tom Fairchild had literally swept her off her feet: one dance as the party was winding down, one song—Cole Porter’s “Easy to Love”—and one ride across Central Park in one of those horse-drawn carriages she’d previously thought strictly for tourists, never realizing how impossibly, absurdly romantic they were. When Tom had revealed his occupation, surprised that she hadn’t known, it was too late. She was hooked.

Daughters and granddaughters of men of the cloth, Faith and Hope, a year younger, had made a pact to avoid that particular fabric, knowing the kind of fishbowl existence it meant. Years earlier their mother, Jane Lennox, a Manhattan native, had put her well-shod foot down, insisting that her fiancé, the Reverend Lawrence Sibley, could tend to a congregation in her hometown as well as any other place. Sin was not dependent on locale. Well, perhaps in some cases, but she had been firm, and he accepted the call to a parish on the city’s Upper East Side. Jane, a real estate lawyer, found them a bargain duplex when their daughters were born. Not exactly a moss-covered drafty old manse with inadequate hot water, but the Sibley girls had still had to grow up under a congregation’s omnipresent eye—“Are those girls old enough for that kind of makeup?” and “Did you hear about the way the Sibley girls danced at the Young People’s last get-together?” Hope’s occupation—she’d gone straight from Sesame Street to Wall Street with her own subscription to the Journal before she turned ten—met with general approval, Faith’s years in the wilderness trying to figure out what and who she wanted to be less so. Even when she did finally find her true calling, the parish was puzzled. “A cook?” Not until raves started appearing in the Times and elsewhere did they wake up and smell the coffee—coffee it was exceedingly hard to get booked.

Tom was consulting the map. Rome was new to him, too. They’d been to Northern Italy during their honeymoon, but no farther south than Siena.

“We came down Vicolo del Gallo, so this is definitely the Piazza Farnese. The hotel should be on that street over to the side there.” He pointed.

“More like an alley,” Faith said, hoping it would be quiet. The piazza was almost empty, especially compared to the neighboring market square. She knew from the hotel’s online information that the imposing building across from them was the Palazzo Farnese, built during the Renaissance. For many years it had been home to the French embassy. A French flag and the flag of the European Union hung above the wide main entrance. Two ornate fountains that looked like huge bathtubs occupied opposite ends of the large cobbled square.

Another thing to check out in the guide, Faith said to herself. There had to be a story behind them. She’d had every intention of reading up on Roman history and the major sights but, in the end, skimmed the introductions in several books and told herself that this way she’d be coming to everything fresh. She’d memorized a few key phrases that would take her far: “Quanto costa?” and “Vorrei mangiare.” “How much?” and “I want to eat something.” She wouldn’t need Berlitz for deciphering a menu. Faith’s food linguistic skills spanned all nations.

Her plan was to wander, eat, and wander some more. Emilio Bizzi, an old friend originally from Italy who lived near Aleford, where Tom’s church, First Parish, was, had given them his Late Renaissance, Early Baroque suggestions, a tour the Fairchilds were already calling “The Caravaggio, Bernini, Borromini Trail.” It would be fun to follow it all over the city, giving them a focus for the three days they had for this part of the trip. She wasn’t going to miss the Colosseum, though. Or the Spanish Steps. Or the Trevi Fountain. Or . . . they’d just have to