Page 21 of Gelato at the Villa (Suitcase Sisters #2)

Per aspera ad astra.

Through hardships to the stars.

Italian saying

“I could have eaten a bowl of that risotto,” I said when we were back in our room that night after our fabulous dinner with Paulina and the pilgrims. “What was in the sauce that gave it so much flavor?”

“Did you hear me ask Paulina the same question?” Claire grinned. “She said it was amore.”

“Of course the secret ingredient was love. That seems to be Paulina’s secret ingredient to everything in her life.”

“I’ve never had risotto like that. I loved it. Paulina said they use rice that grows nearby so it’s fresh. The chef uses Paolo’s technique of quick-frying the rice in olive oil first so that the hull is crispy while the inside is still al dente.”

I nodded as if I could actually picture how to do that, even though I had never attempted to make risotto, let alone try to fry the rice first to keep it al dente.

“Paulina also said theirs is the best because they mix the butter with the Parmesan first before adding it. She says if it’s done correctly, the mixture looks like powder.”

Again, I couldn’t picture powdered cheese and butter. Shredded, yes. Melted, of course.

“You know,” Claire said, “at one point I thought Paulina and some of the others around the table might be in some kind of cult. But the more we talked, they all seemed normal. It was strange.”

“Strange in what way?”

“I’m not used to being around people who talk about what they believe and pray before they eat. You always pray, but it’s a private thing for you. With her, it was open and as if she assumed everyone wanted to pray with her, because why wouldn’t they? Does that make sense?”

“Yes.” I finished packing my suitcase and put my pajamas aside. “Childlike faith,” I said more to myself than to Claire.

“That’s it,” Claire agreed. “Her faith is so simple. She’s so peaceful. I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone like her.” Claire kicked off her shoes and applied a fresh Band-Aid to her blister. “Are you still going to take a shower tonight?”

“Yes. Do you mind if I go first?”

“It’s all yours.”

I tried to hurry, but it took a while to dry my hair. I hoped the hair dryer wasn’t too loud.

When I exited the bathroom, I saw that the noise hadn’t bothered Claire because she was snuggled in and already asleep with the lights on.

Resting on top of her was the book about St. Francis I had bought at the Libreria Acqua Alta.

I thumbed through the first few pages and saw that Claire had circled a paragraph with her purple colored pencil resting on the nightstand.

The core message of the gospel demonstrated in Francis’s life came from the words of Christ to His disciples and is recorded in Mark 12. Francis demonstrated how to love the Lord with all your heart, soul, strength, and mind and love your neighbor as yourself.

I grinned. Not only because it was one of those “is that odd or is that God?” touches since Claire had circled the verse, but also because the reference was from the Gospel of Mark.

Mark, the follower of Jesus. Mark, the writer.

Mark, the revered lion of Venice whose bones may or may not be buried in the basilica.

I wondered if the coincidence was evident to Claire as well.

I turned off the lights, tucked myself into bed, and said a little prayer. I don’t remember even closing my eyes, I was so tired.

Early the next morning we scrambled to get out the door and had to tromp through a chilling drizzle all the way to the train station. The sky wasn’t the only thing leaking that morning. I was still misty-eyed when Claire and I took our side-by-side seats on the train.

“You okay?” Claire asked.

“I feel like we’re saying a forever goodbye to two friends we barely knew but will never forget.”

Claire fiddled with the recline button on her seat. “Two friends?”

“Beautiful Paulina and beautiful Venice.”

“They were both wonderful, weren’t they? Everything has been so much better than I thought it would be,” Claire said. “And just think. The villa awaits us!”

After we had settled in, I pulled out my journal.

This would be my chance to capture more memories before too many new adventures crowded them from my thoughts.

I balanced the journal on my lap and stared out the large, rain-streaked window as we pulled out of the Santa Lucia station.

We picked up speed across the bridge that connected Venice to the mainland, and soon we were moving too rapidly to take in the scenery.

Claire had tucked her jacket over and around her like a blanket. Her eyes were already closed. She had no problem falling asleep anytime, anywhere. It wasn’t a gift I shared.

For the next half hour I filled more pages of my journal with slightly wobbly handwriting.

I could envision Nathan’s gaze resting on me as I told him I danced with Claire in St. Mark’s Square.

I could picture his grin when I described the taste of the risotto made with love and some secret powder created using butter and Parmesan cheese.

The train pulled into Padua, and Claire looked around, squinting.

“It’s just the first stop,” I said. “We have at least two more hours before Florence.”

She sat up and leaned over to look out the window. “I’m going to find the café car and buy us some cappuccinos. What else would you like?”

“Whatever you pick, I’ll take the same thing.”

The train began to move again. I finished my journal entry and pulled out my book on St. Francis. I knew very little about the Middle Ages and found the author’s explanations helpful. Francis came from a wealthy family and had renounced everything so he could help the poor.

Claire returned with coffee in paper cups and some sort of roll for each of us wrapped in a sealed plastic bag. “Not exactly gourmet,” she said. “But we’re no longer at the Trattoria da Tommaso.”

I gave her an exaggerated pout. “I miss it already.” I held up the book. “Looks like you got a running start on me last night while I was in the shower.”

“I did. I was trying to find out what his deal was with the birds.”

“Did you get to this part where it says that Francis was the first to create a live nativity scene with people and animals? He did that eight hundred years ago!”

Claire swallowed a bite of her breakfast roll. “Here’s a question. Do you think your faith is simple?”

“Do you mean simple like only an uneducated person would believe in God? Or simple like not having a lot of rules and rituals connected to worship?”

“Like Paulina. And like what it said in the book about how we’re created to basically love God and others. Is it that easy? Is that Christianity to you?”

“I think the foundational piece, the first step, is to repent and surrender everything to Christ.”

“The way Francis did.”

“Yes. The way millions of people have done over the centuries. Our surrender to God has to happen first, at the heart level, I think. Then we can love God and love others because His Spirit gives us the power to do that.”

“The teaching I was immersed in was all about the rules. We couldn’t do certain things or say certain things.

Girls had to wear dresses to church and not wear makeup or do anything with our hair that made us stand out.

” Claire put her breakfast roll back in the plastic bag as if she had decided it wasn’t worth eating.

“No one talked about surrendering to God. Or loving anyone. It was all about obeying and following the church rules.”

“I didn’t know it was so rigid.”

“I don’t like to talk about that time in my life.” She paused. “But you know that.”

“Yes, but...” I’m not sure why I leaned in just then and looked at her intently. I wanted to say something meaningful and craft a deeply important sentence on the spot, but no words came to me.

She stared back, her blue eyes slightly hidden behind her bangs. “What? I know you want to say something. Say it.”

“I want to say that your friendship is immensely dear to me. I feel like we’ve gone through so much together ever since we met.”

“We have.”

“And you know how you told me that I need to figure out how to not be afraid all the time? Well, Claire, I think you need to figure out how to heal from the stuff that was so hurtful in your past.”

“And you think Jesus is the answer.”

I grinned. “Of course I do.”

Claire leaned back and stared straight ahead. The conversation door had just closed.

I hadn’t expected her to open up there on the train after all these years of pulling back whenever our conversations moved too close to the part of her that was unhealed. I wasn’t a counselor. I never knew what to say. But I cared for her so much. I hoped she saw that in my bumbling words.

Claire returned to her nap under her jacket. I finished reading my book before the train stopped again. More passengers boarded, and every seat was soon taken. The volume of the many conversations went up a level.

When we were about ten minutes outside of the Santa Maria Novella train station in Florence, Claire roused. “I hope the place where we’re staying is everything it looked like online. And I really hope the cooking class is as great as all the reviews said it was.”

Claire must have been feeling the same qualms I had when we entered Venice, and I had been the one who selected the accommodation and made all the arrangements.

I knew very little about the villa except for the lovely photos I’d scrolled through several times and the welcoming letter from the owners, Amelia and her husband, Gio.

Their story would make a great movie. She grew up at the villa but then went to England to help a friend start an Italian restaurant.

The endeavor never quite got off the ground.

Then she unexpectedly inherited the Tuscan villa, returned to Florence, married, and after three years of renovation, opened a B and B and cooking class in their new home.

Claire and I were captivated by the story, especially the part about how Amelia met Gio in Florence and how they restored the villa together.

We knew that was where we wanted to stay and grabbed the three-night opening as soon as Claire found it on the online calendar because it lined up perfectly with our trip.

The train slowed as it came into the station. Claire checked her phone and said, “Ohhh.”

“What?”

“Small change in plans. We’re supposed to take a taxi to a place called Luogo di Pace. Our host will meet us there to take us to the villa.”

I gave her a raised-eyebrow look and said one word. “Claire?”

“We had options,” Claire reminded me as the train came to a full stop. “We could have chosen to get ourselves to the villa by renting a car or taking public transportation.”

“I know. I’m not questioning our choice to have someone from the villa pick us up. I just wonder why they can’t pick us up directly from the train station.”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you know what this place is where the taxi is going to take us?”

“No.” Claire gave me a hopeful look.

I reminded myself to be supportive of Claire the way I’d wanted her to support me when we arrived in Venice. Our budget-friendly transportation had been a mutual choice.

The crush of people both exiting the train and brushing past us as we tried to maneuver our way through the station was horrible.

I was grateful once more that we were traveling light.

Our first stop was a money-exchange kiosk.

We had used all our euros in Venice and decided to exchange more money this time.

After carefully stashing our cash, we made it outside the terminal and found the sign for the taxis.

It was only a little after eleven in the morning, but the weather was already much warmer than it had been in Venice.

Obviously we were in a major city, which we found a little overwhelming.

The buildings seemed huge and modern. I found it strange to see so many cars after a few days of not seeing or hearing any.

The long line of white taxis moved quickly. When it was our turn, the driver assisted with putting our suitcases in the trunk before we got in. Everything seemed to be going at a quick pace.

Claire told the driver the name of where we wanted to go. He looked at us in the rearview mirror and said, “No.”

“Here’s the address.” Claire showed him her phone.

He turned around and looked us over. “No.”

“No, it’s not a correct address? Or no, you won’t take us there?”

“Why?” he asked.

Claire leaned forward and firmly said, “We need to meet someone at this address. Will you take us there, or should we find a different taxi?”

With a dismissive puff, he put on his blinker and pulled away from the curb. I kept shooting glances at Claire, but she was avoiding me the way I had avoided her on the vaporetto in the fog. She studied the map on her phone.

“It’s only ten minutes away,” Claire mumbled. “I don’t know what the problem is.”

During those next ten minutes, my prayer life grew exponentially. We drove into a seedy-looking area where graffiti covered the walls. My heart raced, and I was coming up with all kinds of alternate plans to escape what felt like a volatile situation.

Before I could offer any of my fragmented suggestions to Claire, the taxi driver turned sharply down a narrow street and came to a quick stop in front of what looked like an old office building that needed some TLC.

Claire paid him, and he exited the car quickly and opened the trunk. I stayed in the back seat, staring at the building and the two ragged-looking women standing by the door.

Claire opened her car door to get out, but I grabbed her arm. “Claire?”