“As a matter of fact, there is. Nico’s assistant is working on finding us another flight.”
“But if our charter company promised—”
“They warned that there’s no guarantee they can have a new pilot here in time. If Nico can arrange for our transportation sooner, we’ll take him up on it. That’s why I came pounding at your door. We need to be ready to go at a moment’s notice.” Bennett fixed me with a meaningful stare. “Even worse, we may have to share the flight back.”
“Share?” I repeated, annoying myself by doing so. “With whom?”
“That depends upon the luck of the draw,” Bennett said. “I’ve done this sort of thing before and although I’m not fond of sharing flights with strangers, it could be my only hope of making the meeting on time. It’s infinitely better than flying on a commercial vehicle, even first class.”
So much for crawling back to bed. “Thanks for letting me know.”
“Nico is taking care of everything for us. His driver will be ready whenever we need to leave, and he’s having the chef prepare breakfast now so that we won’t have to travel on empty stomachs.”
“That’s very kind of him.”
Bennett turned to leave. “I’ll meet you down there.”
“Wait,” I said. “I wanted to talk with you about that Picasso skull.”
Bennett raised a finger to his lips. “Later,” he whispered.
• • •
BREAKFAST AT VILLA PEZZATI WAS AN EVENT I’d tell my grandchildren about—if I ever had grandchildren. I couldn’t imagine how much effort it must have taken to have gotten such a fabulous meal together so splendidly on such an abbreviated timetable.
The chef had done her very best to include a number of American offerings along with traditional Italian breakfast fare. The food was wonderful, but it was the presentation and the service that stirred me most of all. I felt as though we’d been transported back in time. At dinner last night, we’d had butlers at the ready, but this morning, they were doubly attentive, presenting breads, cooked and cold meats, cheeses, eggs, fruits, and delicious pastries for us to sample, until I had to push myself from the table, knowing that otherwise I might burst.
With my coffee—an Americanized version because I hadn’t quite gotten used to Italian coffee over the past week—replenished yet again, Bennett, Nico, and I sat back to discuss the flight situation.
As we did, a butler came in to hand Nico a linen note. The elderly man groped his shirt pocket for reading glasses, which another butler hurriedly nabbed from a nearby table to present to him. Nico read the note slowly, eyebrows up, mouth turned down. When he finished, he looked at us. “Good news, to some degree,” he said. “There appears to be a flight leaving for the United States this afternoon at two o’clock.” He handed the note back to the butler who’d first presented it and spoke to the man. “Let them know we need more details.”
“Do you know where the flight is scheduled to land?” Bennett asked. “Or who we would be traveling with?”
Nico signaled for more Italian coffee for himself and Bennett. As it was poured, he shook his head. “You know as much as I do at the moment, my friend. My assistant is moving forward to attempt to secure your passage on this particular flight.”
I wondered if that “assistant” was Angelo. I hadn’t seen the big man all morning.
Nico took a slurpy sip of his hot brew. “The good news is, however, that if this works out, you’ll have a more relaxing morning than we’d anticipated.”