Page 36 of Gelato at the Villa (Suitcase Sisters #2)

Chi non beve/mangia in compagnia o è un ladro o è una spia.

He who does not drink/eat in company is either a thief or a spy.

Italian saying

Claire looked surprised that I wanted to return to Florence. “What else do you want to see? We experienced a lot today.”

“We did. But I know there’s more. I’m intrigued by the smaller churches we walked past. And it would be fun to browse a few of the shops we saw.”

Claire didn’t look convinced that a few churches and shops called for another day of sightseeing. “You know, we will have more shops and churches to visit when we get to Bellagio. I don’t know if you heard Amelia say she’s making tortelloni tomorrow morning. It’s a larger version of tortellini.”

“Is she offering another class?”

“No, but she said we could join her. I told her about the cookies from Burano, and she mentioned she has a recipe for them. We could make them tomorrow if we wanted. It’s up to you. I can flex.”

I didn’t want Claire to have to flex on the cooking part of our trip.

That was her passion. Maybe Rosie or Gio would have a reason to come back to Florence, and I could catch a ride with them to do a bit more exploring.

Or maybe Nathan and I needed to return here and stay for a long visit in one of the cute little B and Bs I had seen.

“Let’s stay at the villa tomorrow,” I said decisively. “I have a feeling my supply of Burano cookies will disappear as soon as I get home, so I should learn how to make them.”

Claire smiled. “Thank you. I feel like I’ll never have another chance to spend time with someone like Amelia. I’m so excited to cook with her again.”

I knew that staying at the villa tomorrow was the best choice. I also knew that I wouldn’t mind spending more time in the garden and by the pool.

The next taxi pulled up in front of us. This time I was the one with the address for our destination. When I showed it to the driver, he did the same thing the taxi driver had done the day before. He turned and looked us over.

I tried Claire’s line and said, “We’re meeting someone there.”

He mumbled and drove to our appointed dinner locale.

Claire leaned over to look at my phone’s screen. “Grace, that’s the same address. That’s where we met Gio yesterday.”

“Are you sure?”

She showed me the note on her phone. “Why would they send us there twice? Do you think he’s making deliveries again? Of what? Produce?”

“Maybe his mechanic is in that area,” I suggested.

“Maybe. But I don’t understand why Amelia didn’t give you the address to where the dinner is being held.” Claire leaned back, resigned. Once again, she looked like a different person with her new short hair.

I put my phone in my lap and looked out the window. “At least it doesn’t feel terrifying like it did yesterday. It just seems odd.”

This time when the taxi stopped, I paid for our fare and opened the car door without timidity. More scruffy-looking people were hanging out in front of the building. I folded my arm across my travel bag, not caring that I obviously was trying to protect my belongings.

“What time is it?” Claire whispered. “I don’t want to pull out my phone here.”

“It has to be almost six. Amelia didn’t give any specifics on where to meet them.”

“Let’s look around the corner,” Claire suggested. “Gio parked along the side yesterday. Maybe he’s there now.”

We stayed shoulder to shoulder as we walked away from the front of the building and went around the corner to the narrow alley. Gio’s quirky delivery truck was there, parked where it had been yesterday. With a breath of relief, we approached, peering into the cab.

Gio wasn’t there.

“Should we get in and wait for him?” I asked.

“I guess so. Is it unlocked?”

I tried the handle and the door opened. The truck was so old and battered, it probably didn’t have a working lock.

Claire climbed in first and I followed. At least this time we had more room since there wasn’t a driver.

We closed the door and waited. A few men walked by and glanced at us in the truck. None of them were Gio.

“I’m going to text Amelia.” As Claire reached for her phone, I heard someone laughing. It sounded familiar. I looked behind us, in front of us. The laughter was growing louder.

I jumped when I turned and saw Rosie standing next to the passenger side, leaning close to the window and holding a large bouquet of flowers.

“Whatever are the two of you doing?” she called through the rolled-up window. Her exuberant hair was bubbled on top of her head and seemed to be as jovial as Rosie.

I opened the door. “We weren’t sure where we were supposed to go, but we recognized the truck.”

“This way.” She laughed again. “I suppose I had the same reaction when we arrived an hour ago. And your hair is brilliant, Claire. It suits you perfectly. Well done. I am definitely going to get myself to Sophia’s one of these days.”

She opened a side door to the run-down building, and we followed her inside.

In front of us was a large, open area that reminded me of the fellowship hall at the church I’d grown up in.

Fifteen rectangular tables filled the space.

An older woman in an apron was covering the tables with the linen tablecloths I had seen Rosie carry into the kitchen that morning.

“Wait...” Claire looked around. “The dinner is here?”

“Every Friday night. Amelia’s been doing this for years. Feeding the least of these. This is where she met Gio.”

Rosie walked toward the opening that led into a kitchen. I reached for her arm, trying to make sense of what she had just said. “She met Gio here? They met working together at a soup kitchen?”

With a tilt of her head, Rosie’s hair bubble shifted. She smiled softly. “You haven’t heard their whole story, have you? Amelia was serving dinner. Gio was here to eat.”

Claire and I glanced at each other, dumbfounded.

Rosie lowered her chin and her voice. “The short of it is, Gio had a successful business with a partner who tricked him. Terrible betrayal. The crook took the money and the business. Gio’s first wife ended up taking everything else.

It’s hard to imagine, I know, but for over a year, Gio was homeless.

On the streets. He came in here one Friday night.

He saw Amelia, she saw him. That was it. ”

I realized my mouth was open in stunned silence.

Claire leaned closer to Rosie. “Is that true?”

“Every word.”

“So, what happened? Did Gio hire a lawyer?” Claire’s face turned red over the injustice of Gio’s situation. “Did he sue the guy who betrayed him?”

“No. You heard them last night. They are into ‘love your neighbor’ and ‘come to the table.’ Gio didn’t sue anybody.” Rosie adjusted her armful of flowers and moved toward the kitchen.

“What did he do about it?” Claire asked.

“He forgave them.”

I couldn’t move. My focus rested on the woman preparing the tables. As she lifted the tablecloth and gave it a gentle flap, the linen fabric unfurled and floated above the table like a dove spreading its wings.

“I think I might cry,” I said softly before turning to look at Claire.

She stood as still as one of the marble statues we had seen in the museum that morning.

“Grace? Claire?” Amelia called from the kitchen.

We regained our composure and moved to the makeshift kitchen area, where I helped Rosie trim the flowers and put them in glass jars with some water.

I placed two bouquets and then set ten places at each table, filling the glasses with water from a beautiful ceramic pitcher that was decorated in the distinctive blue and yellow design of Amelia’s dishes at the villa.

Claire put on an apron and went to work next to Amelia. The fragrances that filled the transformed space became as memory evoking as incense at any altar.

At exactly seven o’clock, Gio opened the doors and warmly, cheerfully welcomed each guest who entered as if they were old friends he held dear.

I stood back and watched as a stream of young and old entered and took a place at the tables prepared for them.

The ones who seemed to be new were instructed by the others to sit and wait.

A few took on the mannerisms of docile children by smoothing down their matted hair or folding their hands and looking down.

Nearly every place was taken when Gio walked into the center of the room and spoke to the hushed guests. Raising both arms, he prayed, or perhaps he was pronouncing a blessing on them and on the meal.

As he had done at our table the night before, Gio concluded by singing a doxology.

Half the room joined him and sang along.

I had to retreat to the kitchen to find something to wipe away my tears.

This was a manner of beauty I had never seen before.

Not in my childhood with chef-prepared dinners served on china in my parents’ formal dining room.

Not during my marriage, where many meals were eaten on the go or in front of the TV.

This was a dinner of passion, intended for communion.

“Here you go.” Rosie handed me two plates heaped with steaming pasta covered with Bolognese sauce. I could see bits of carrots that had come from Amelia’s garden. “Can you carry a third?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Never worked as a waitress, then?” Rosie asked. “No matter. Start at the last table by the door. Last shall be first and all that.”

My heart pounded as I walked up to the two disheveled women at the last table.

They watched my every move. The closer I got, the more I could smell the stench of the street on the guests in the room.

I held my breath and placed the gift in front of the women.

Amelia was right behind me, balancing four plates with ease.

Rosie came along behind her, showing us up by carrying five full plates.

We repeated the trips back and forth to the kitchen, where Claire and Gio were dishing up the plates as quickly as we managed to deliver them.

Nearly one hundred and fifty dinners were served, and still food was left over in the large serving trays and pots in the kitchen.

Amelia handed me an empty plate and indicated that it was my turn to take what I wanted for dinner.

Claire followed me and was more generous with her helping than I felt I should be, even though there was plenty.

I looked around for chairs or stools we could pull up to the center counter in the kitchen. There were none.

“This way,” Amelia said. Our seats were at the tables, with the guests. Two open seats here, one open place there.

To be honest, this was the most difficult part of the evening for me. I didn’t mind being a server. I liked feeling as if I was doing something to help. But I never expected to be treated as an equal of the people in that room. To sit with them and dine with them.

Bits from old Sunday school lessons flitted through my thoughts in fragments.

If you do this to the least of them , you’re doing it for Me.

Humble yourself in the sight of the Lord.

In Christ , you are all children of God through faith.

There is neither slave nor free ; we are all one in Christ.

I pulled out a chair beside a young woman with large brown eyes. She stared at me and then spoke in Italian.

“Sorry. I only speak English.” I didn’t have my phone with me to turn on the translator. We had put our purses into one of the empty ice chests in the kitchen that had a lock on it.

“Grazie,” the woman said, pointing to her empty plate.

“I didn’t have anything to do with the food,” I said. “I just helped set the table.”

She motioned for me to eat while she kept talking. I think she was telling me how good it was. She was right. The sauce was amazing.

Amelia had taken a seat on the other side of the table, a few places down from where I sat. She picked up on what I had said to the woman and told me, “Grace, you did help with the food. Remember the pasta we made yesterday? We didn’t eat it all last night. Some of it went into tonight’s dinner.”

She then repeated in Italian what she had said to me, and soon she was the interpreter for the table.

One man wanted to know where I lived. When I said California, he said he had a brother who had moved to Texas.

Another man wanted to know if I had seen the Galleria dell’Accademia because that was where his brother had worked before he passed away.

A woman at the end of the table asked how many children I had.

I told her, and she said she had two sons who had died, and she had a daughter but didn’t know where she was.

What wrecked me was seeing the beauty and the chaos side by side.

The beauty in the tablecloths, flowers, gourmet food, and the exquisiteness of the eternal souls hidden inside all of us.

The chaos of the many broken lives and painful losses.

The interaction was as normal as the dinner conversation under the wisteria and also around the table with Paulina and her other guests our last night in Venice.

I finished my food and leaned back, suddenly immersed in the realization that we were all pilgrims. I saw it now, around this table.

All of us were on a journey. Every single life was of immeasurable value.

Every soul was loved and sought after by our heavenly Father.

Paulina’s chef in Burano. Gio and Amelia.

The underestimated homeless man who had disarmed the Nazi charges set to blow up Ponte Vecchio.

The woman sitting across from me who didn’t know where her daughter was. Claire. Rosie. Me.

Even me.

No, the bride was not beautiful. Not yet. But she would be on her day. And today was not her day.

But today felt more like her day than any other day of my life.