The floor, made of cobalt-blue tile, glimmered cool like a river. Marco urged us to follow it—and him—through a narrow walkway that led deeper into the home.
“Signor Pezzati wishes to visit with you on the terrazzo,” Marco said as we traversed a shadowed room where draperies were shut against the day’s relentless sunshine. The room featured painted wooden ceilings, thick green wall hangings, and a coat of arms displayed proudly above a fireplace that was almost as large as my entire kitchen. I knew Bennett to be an avid collector of antiques and priceless artwork, but what I could see in this room alone made me curious about how the Marshfield stash would stack up against Nico Pezzati’s. Decorated to within an inch of its life, there was almost nowhere in this room for my eyes to rest as I took in the walls, the furniture, and the knickknacks. Every horizontal space was crowded with pieces, some of which, even from this distance, I recognized as extremely rare.
Bennett maintained small talk with Marco as we made our way toward the terrazzo. “How long have you worked with Nico?” he asked.
“I am here for one year,” he said. “Signor Pezzati has been diligent in his teaching of me, and I have learned much of your language. You do not find I am difficult to comprehend?”
“Not at all,” Bennett assured him.
Marco flashed a glance over his shoulder, silently seeking my opinion. I smiled at his eagerness to impress us. “You are far, far ahead of where I would be after only one year of Italian,” I said. “You’ve made remarkable progress.”
“I hope to visit America someday.”
“Be sure to let us know when that day comes,” Bennett said. “You will be most welcome at Marshfield.”
We followed Marco along a circuitous path through several more rooms where the temptation to stop and examine the riches on display was overwhelming. I slowed my pace to be able to take in the plump furnishings, the gold-leaf walls, and the delicious, musty scent of history that permeated every inch of this home. I guessed that Villa Pezzati was about two-thirds the size of Marshfield Manor, but it easily housed three times the amount of treasures.
Marco noticed me lagging. “There will be time,” he said with a knowing grin. “As our guests, you are to stay in this home as your own.”
Marco stepped aside as we entered a wide, airy room obviously added on centuries after the fortress years. Decorated in buttery yellows and white, this room had a far more contemporary feel than had any of the others thus far. A wall of windows faced northwest, and I spotted our elderly host, his hunched back to us, reclining under a terra-cotta awning’s shade. Two men hovered nearby. One stood, almost at attention, on the white-and-gray-patterned flagstone floor. The other looked as though he was having an argument with Pezzati. He paced and gesticulated, his raised voice coming through loud and clear. For all the good it did: Everything he shouted was in Italian.
“Prego,” Marco said. He slid open one of the glass doors to allow us outside, silencing the pacing man’s diatribe. Though he worked hard to arrange his face into a welcoming smile, the man fell short in quelling the blaze of his glare. I glanced to Bennett, who kept his expression neutral.
Bennett and Nico had been boys together at school and had maintained their friendship over many decades. The difference in the two men struck me as Nico struggled to his feet to greet us. The other man, who appeared to be a servant of some sort, reached forward to help the elderly gent.
I’d dreaded the idea of returning outdoors to the hotbox for this reunion , but I was pleasantly surprised. There was an awning above, and an outdoor air-conditioning system, the likes of which I’d never seen before, that wafted cool breezes across the luxurious patio. The view was spectacular. We were surrounded on all sides by wide-trunked trees, the captivating scent of sun-warmed soil, and the ever-present aroma of olive oil filtering through. “This is heaven,” I said.