Chuffed by my compliment, his smile grew wide. “We are always pleased when Signorina Pezzati graces us with her delightful presence. And we are always especially pleased when she brings us a friend to meet.”
I had begun to grow accustomed to charming speeches like our waiter’s. The slower pace, the willingness of strangers to engage in conversation, and a general acceptance that I hadn’t anticipated had made this two-week excursion one I would never forget.
After he took our orders and left us alone again, I asked, “He refers to you as Signorina Pezzati. I take it you’ve never been married?”
“Ha.” Her eyes flashed and her mouth twisted, not in anger, but in what I would characterize as amusement. “I was practically a child bride. Alas, my father did not like my first husband,” she said, “so I found a new one.”
Before I could ask if she was still married—something I couldn’t help but doubt—the waiter returned with two glasses of wine and a small plate of antipasto he said was with his compliments.
When he left us again, I returned to the topic of her second husband. “Does your father like him?”
Elbows on the table, and holding her glass in both hands, she lifted a melancholy shoulder. “I wouldn’t know,” she said. “He didn’t stay long enough for me to find out.”
My expression must have given me away, because she patted me on the hand. “How strange that must sound to you. Don’t be concerned, it all worked out in the end. We married quickly, divorced even faster.” With a wistful look in her eye, she added, “He was, and is, a handsome, intelligent man.” Dark brows arching over contemplative eyes, she took an absentminded sip and said, “Our marriage couldn’t survive my father’s wealth,” as though that explained anything.
I didn’t press her, guessing that Irena—like Bennett’s stepdaughter, Hillary—had been taken in by a man more eager to share his wife’s riches than willing to share her life. Irena was clearly better off without this man, but it was hardly my place to say so.
She leaned forward. “I went back to my maiden name because I prefer to put all my troubles behind me.” Pressing a long finger against her lips, she swept the room with a self-conscious glance and whispered, “Besides, it is much easier finding future husbands when I am called signorina rather than signora.”
We talked more, about her life here in Florence, about mine in the States, while gyrating bodies danced on the floor below to my right and Angelo maintained his watch on us to my left.
After another round of drinks, we’d gotten to that comfortable place in conversation where barriers begin to drop away. She’d invited me to return to Florence to stay at the villa whenever I wanted, and I’d reciprocated, offering my house with Scott and Bruce and Bootsie, or the Marshfield Inn. I knew Bennett would happily welcome her into his home, but that was for him to offer, not me.
It was finally time for me to bring up the subject I’d been wanting to ask about all evening. “Tell me about Gerard,” I said.
Irena swirled her wine and stared at the luxuriant ruby legs inside the wide bowl. Irena’s glass hadn’t touched the table since we’d been served. It wasn’t that she drank quickly or often; rather, it seemed her habit to keep the stemware suspended slightly above the table held in both hands, using her long fingers for emphasis. From time to time, she gave up one hand’s grip when she gestured to make a point. She moved like a woman accustomed to being watched and liking it.
From my surreptitious glances around the room, I could tell her efforts were appreciated. With her dark, sparkling eyes, expressive brows, and this flirty way of holding her wineglass, she commanded attention. Many eyes were on her. Twice, as we’d been talking, men from other parts of the room made it clear they intended to join our conversation. Both times Angelo had interceded and we’d been left alone.