table, enjoying the scenery of the golden stone buildings with their bright red roofs. The aroma of roasted garlic washed over them. The bowls of soup they devoured perfectly countered the chill of the wind, though Christopher's puzzled
expression showed he found the taste strange. He seemed to prefer the
accompanying triangles of flatbread dipped in the best olive oil.
Katerina found the food comforting. The tasty concoction of vegetables and
white beans recalled a childhood that felt… better than her adolescence, though
still tense and filled with uncertainty.
They made that simple lunch last a long time, busily examining the square.
“You look happy, love,” Christopher told his wife.
“I think I am,” she replied.
“Not sure?” He regarded her quizzically.
“Well, I have a good feeling,” she said, trying to explain what she didn't understand fully herself. “If this is happy, then yes. I am. Something about this
place speaks to me, even though I've never been here before. I'm so glad to be
exploring it, and having you here makes it best of all.”
“How sweet.” He captured her hand and kissed the knuckles. “Thank you,
love. This is quite an adventure for a staunch British sort like me.”
“Ha,” she replied. “In a bygone generation, you would have gone to sea as a
privateer.”
Christopher's eyebrows drew together. “Why do you say so?”
“I don't exactly know,” she replied, smoothing an errant strand of dark brown
hair from his face. “You wear the trappings of a middle-class gentleman, but there's a wild romantic adventurer in your soul. I mean, just look at what you did
for me.”
His lips turned up in a half-smile and he shrugged. “Perhaps. At any rate, I'm
glad to be here with you as well.” He stroked her fingers. She trailed them over
his cheek. “Well, my dear, shall we go back to the station and await our train?”
“Yes, I think so.”
The train ride to Florence took the rest of the afternoon, and by the time they arrived at the station, the sun hung low in the sky. When the couple emerged, an
Italian gentleman immediately approached them. He appeared about sixty years
of age, but in robust health, with shining white hair that contrasted with his bushy black eyebrows.
“Katerina?” He bore down on her with the lumbering gait of a water buffalo.
“Sì.” She gave her husband a worried glance. He laced his fingers through hers.
A conversation in lilting Italian followed, of which Christopher could
understand nothing. His years studying French provided little help because the sounds of the languages were so different.
Then, the gentleman dragged his wife into a tight embrace, squashing her.
She beamed. “Christopher, this is my nonno, my grandfather.”
Christopher reached out and shook hands with the other man. Katerina's
nonno had a powerful grip. Here is another man who works with his hands.
Christopher squeezed back, not to challenge the old lion, but to prove he was no
dandy.
The bushy black eyebrows shot up and then an unrestrained grin broke
