“Were you able to ask her about her brother, Gerard?”
I pointed out Bennett’s window. “Aren’t olive trees lovely? I never get tired of them.”
He gave the passing landscape a cursory glance. “Yes, but—”
“I imagine it would be wonderful to come out here during harvest.”
He opened his mouth, but I kept talking. “Or harvesting grapes. That would be something to see, wouldn’t it?”
I watched concern work across Bennett’s face. “I take it you’d like to come back again someday.”
“There’s an incredible amount of history here. So much to see.” I didn’t know how much longer I could keep up inane conversation, but Bennett seemed to get the idea. Or at least I thought he did when he sat back and folded his arms.
A moment later, however, he asked, “So, you don’t want to share what you know about Gerard, is that it?”
“I think it might be better for us to wait awhile,” I said with what I hoped was a facial expression that communicated my reluctance to talk in front of Angelo. To my dismay, the big man’s body language suggested he was fully tuned in to this conversation. “Let’s talk on the plane, okay? It will be interesting to see who we’re flying back with.”
Bennett waved a hand in the air. “Nothing to be nervous about. I’ve encountered my share of corporate types before. They tend to fall into two groups—the workers and the partiers. The first group never stops talking the whole flight, but they’re so worried about anyone overhearing that they keep their voices down. The second drinks for the first three hours then, sleeps the rest of the way. Either way, we should be in for a mostly quiet flight.”
“I hope you’re right,” I said.
“SlickBlade,” Bennett said absentmindedly. “I wonder where the company is headquartered.”
At the airport, an efficient young woman wearing a trim blue uniform and a wide crimson smile met us at the car. “You are Mr. Marshfield?” she asked in heavily accented English. “And Miss Wheaton?”
As she explained that she would be escorting us to our plane, Angelo and a skycap—I wasn’t sure what they were called in Italy—unloaded our luggage onto a wheeled cart and the skycap rolled it away.
When Bennett and I turned to thank Angelo, the big man nodded acknowledgment, then surprised me by grasping my forearms. The rumble in his voice was low as he said, “Safe travels,” in English.
He pivoted, easing back behind the wheel in barely the blink of an eye. He roared away from the airport as the cheery young woman with the bright red lips urged us forward. “Come along, please, we are nearing time to leave.”
The plane was a little bigger than the one that had brought us to Europe. Because we weren’t flying commercial, there were no security lines to navigate and no boarding passes to obtain. The chipper young woman’s responsibility apparently ended at the tarmac where, under the afternoon sun, she handed us over to another blue-uniformed woman, who introduced herself as Evelyn.
About forty years old, with dark hair pulled back in a tight bun and the hint of a New England accent, Evelyn came across like a self-assured corporate executive: bright-eyed, capable, and all business. I wondered if she was employed by the charter company or by SlickBlade.
“I’ll be your flight attendant today,” Evelyn said. “Welcome. Your pilots will come to say hello before we take off, but for now please rest assured that your luggage is being taken care of, and all you need worry about now is relaxing on your flight home.”
“Are the other passengers—those from SlickBlade—already here?” Bennett asked as she escorted us up the airstairs.