Page 34 of Gelato at the Villa (Suitcase Sisters #2)

Life is either a daring adventure or nothing.

Helen Keller

“By any chance, is Vivoli’s a gelateria?” I knew the answer already, so I wasn’t sure why I asked. I had no objections. “We’re coming in low on our splurge-o-meter,” I said. “It’s past noon and this will be our first gelato of the day.”

Claire was already in motion and grinned at me over her shoulder. “Not just any gelateria. This one has been run by the same family for four generations. Amelia said we should go there, but we can’t tell Enzo. Vivoli’s is her favorite gelateria because they make pear gelato, and Enzo doesn’t.”

“Pear gelato?” I had fallen in step with Claire and liked the idea of gelato more and more with each step. “My stomach is feeling better already.”

We had to take a detour because one of the direct streets was blocked off for some reason.

It took us almost half an hour to find the gelateria.

I looked at Claire’s map with her and realized we were almost back to the Uffizi Gallery near the river.

I had heard that Florence was one of the most walkable cities in the world. It seemed we were trying to prove it.

We stepped into the line of customers that trailed out the door of the much-loved gelateria and waited our turn.

My selection came in a cup because they didn’t sell cones.

I went with pear and peach because I could see pieces of peach in the creamy gelato in the case.

Peaches were Nathan’s favorite fruit. Many times, I had watched him select the best ones from our local Saturday market. Nothing was sweeter than a fresh peach.

Except for fresh peaches in world-class, smooth, rich gelato.

I didn’t even know what Claire had along with her pear gelato. My days of gelato envy were over. I was smitten. Peaches and pears at Vivoli’s forever.

As we scraped the sides of our cups with our small spoons, Claire looked at me with a pout. “It’s over,” she said sadly.

“Sorry, Enzo,” I said. “Your gelato with Amelia’s strawberries is scrumptious. But Vivoli’s, you won and will ever remain the standard for the best gelato ever.”

“Yes, sorry, but Enzo, really,” Claire said as if he were standing there listening to us. “Is it even a fair contest if you aren’t willing to at least try creating a version of pear gelato? You could have had a chance. Now we’ll never know.”

“So? What’s next on our self-guided, loop-de-loo walking tour?”

“You know what? I think Sophia’s is nearby.”

I took our empty cups to a nearby trash can.

Claire followed me with her phone in her hand, studying the map. “It is. Yes, Sophia’s is really close.” She looked at me with her lips pursed and her eyebrows raised. It took her a moment before she made her declaration. “I’m going to do it.”

“Do what?”

“Get a spuntatina.”

“Okay.” The thought of more food didn’t sound appealing since the gourmet gelato flavors were still lingering in my mouth. Why would I dilute such exquisite happiness? But since Claire wanted to get something recommended by Amelia, I knew I should give it a go.

The streets Claire led us down had a variety of signs over their doorways.

I saw a bed-and-breakfast place with a planter by the door bursting with amethyst and white phlox.

I caught a touch of their scent as we passed, then we continued by a dental office, a leather goods shop, and two small restaurants.

“Here it is.” Claire stopped and gave me her apprehensive look again. “What do you think?”

“Sophia’s is a hair salon? I thought you were taking us to another place to eat.” I studied Claire’s expression. “Are you going to do it? Is this your Roman Holiday moment?”

“Florence Holiday,” Claire corrected me. She opened the door and stepped inside.

The salon had only two chairs. One was unoccupied. The available stylist greeted us in Italian. Claire stepped closer, saying that we knew Amelia and then held up her phone so the woman could see Amelia’s picture.

“Sì, sì, Amelia.” More words followed, but we didn’t have the translator on our phones ready to give us insights.

“I’d like to get a spuntatina like Amelia’s.” Claire indicated with her fingers just below her ears. “Short,” she said.

The stylist looked her over and said, “Color? More blond?”

Claire nodded.

I took a seat on the narrow bench by the window, sat back, and decided to enjoy every moment of Claire’s hair transformation. The stylist chatted with the other stylist and customer in Italian, and I had a pretty good idea they were talking about us.

Claire kept her eyes shut the whole time. As I saw her hair fall to the floor, I thought of the long blond hair that was wrapped around Venus in the Botticelli painting. I wondered what Claire was thinking right now.

I pulled out my journal from my shoulder bag so I could write about our recent escapades. Every now and then I looked up and watched the snipping, the color being applied with a paintbrush, and squares of foil being folded over where the highlights or lowlights were being added.

I finished my journal entry, sent a long message to Nathan and Emma, and checked my email while Claire’s hair was being rinsed.

She kept her eyes closed during the blow-dry.

She continued to keep them closed as the stylist rubbed hair product in her palms and used her adept fingers to gently tug and tuck Claire’s short hair until it was just right.

Then the stylist turned the chair around to me so I could see the full view from the front.

Claire looked at me with raised eyebrows. “Well?”

I wanted her to see what I saw. “Turn around,” I said. “Look in the mirror.”

The stylist turned the chair.

Claire stared, expressionless, for a moment. Then she cried.

The stylist seemed alarmed at Claire’s tears. She looked to me for interpretation.

I was sure that Claire was crying happy tears, but to verify, I let my honest opinion pour out. “You look adorable! I love it. Don’t you? The color is so pretty, and the cut is a great style for you. Claire, look at your eyes!”

She didn’t look like the same Claire who had peered at me for years from behind her long bangs.

The pixie style put all the emphasis on her clear blue eyes that were now out in the open for the world to see.

The lighter blond color was a good choice because it complemented her natural skin tone.

The product the stylist used had given her hair a sheen and a smoothness, which was something Claire had often sought with her longer, dandelion hair but had difficulty achieving.

“Please tell me you love it as much as I do,” I said.

Claire nodded while dabbing away her tears and clearing her throat. “Bella,” she said to the concerned stylist. “Grazie.”

The stylist placed her hand on her chest, relieved to hear Claire’s verdict.

“You did a beautiful job,” I said.

The stylist seemed to understand and nodded.

“This is her,” she said. She continued in Italian, so I turned on my translation app and nodded as I played the English back for Claire and me.

The stylist said it was known that Michelangelo saw figures in slabs of marble, and he said all he had to do was chisel away the pieces that didn’t belong.

He allowed the statue to be released from the rock.

Pointing at Claire, the stylist repeated, “This is her.”

“You are a master artist,” I said and played it back in Italian for her.

Before we left the salon, Claire paid for her lovely makeover, purchased two bottles of the product the stylist used, and returned the kiss on both cheeks that the stylist gave her.

We stepped out into the street, and I felt like I was on an adventure with a different woman.

Claire rolled back her shoulders, lifted her chin, and put on her sunglasses as if she was avoiding the paparazzi. I loved the confidence she exuded.

I thought about how I had worn my hair the same way for years and, for a moment, wondered if I should consider going back inside and having my own Florence Holiday moment.

The inkling passed as quickly as it came.

I already felt that I knew who I was. A new haircut wouldn’t change that.

For Claire, it seemed to be an essential part of the transformation she had been alluding to since we arrived.

Trying her hand at sketching, seeing new things, tasting new foods, and now making a major change to her appearance seemed to be all part of what she needed on a hunt to find her identity.

I hoped she would realize that her true identity came from the Lord and nothing else.

Claire’s faithful map app led us to the old bridge we had seen from the window of the Uffizi Gallery.

I paused at the wide stone railing along the entrance to Ponte Vecchio and looked out at the Arno River.

The pale green water looked calm. Alongside the river on both sides were uniform, boxy buildings with lots of windows looking out on the river.

They looked modern to me. Some of them were seven stories high, and many were painted with the warm yellow shade typically associated with Tuscany.

“Tell me everything you know about this bridge,” I said to Claire as she took pictures. “I remember reading that the first one washed away in a flood, and this one is something like seven hundred years old.”

“I know a covered passageway exists at the top that was built so the wealthy rulers of Florence wouldn’t have to traipse across the bridge with the commoners.

Originally, the shops were run by merchants who sold leather goods.

Messy, but not as stomach turning as the butchers who replaced the tanners and polluted the river with their stinky cow guts. ”

“No wonder the royalty didn’t want to walk across the bridge with everyone else.”

“Exactly. The butchers were kicked out by the Medici rulers, and goldsmiths were brought in to set up shop. All the shops are still only jewelers, and they’ve occupied this space for about five hundred years.”