Page 6 of Gelato at the Villa (Suitcase Sisters #2)

In front of us, to the side of the altar, stood a robed priest with his head bowed.

I knew little about the traditions of a church like this.

The church our family had been part of all my life was a traditional Protestant denomination.

Our church building had been constructed in the 1950s and shared no resemblance to the space we had entered.

Paulina led us to the second row, halfway in.

I had a feeling she’d sat in this exact spot on this well-worn wooden bench for decades.

She was at home here in her family church, and once again, she was welcoming us into her world, her routine.

That thought warmed me. This, too, was her world and there was a place for us here.

The three of us sat close, absorbed in the defining calm and stillness that encircled us.

I bowed my head and prayed silent words of gratitude for everything about the trip so far.

I heard faint shuffling and peeked to see that Paulina was standing.

We stood with her. The officiant, who was now positioned in front of the altar, read in Italian from a worn book.

Even though we couldn’t understand the words, I felt in rhythm with the reverence and solemnity of the service.

When the small congregation responded at certain places in the reading, I felt something well established inside me joining silently.

I wanted to glance over at Claire and see how she was feeling about all this.

Instead, my gaze fixed on the alcove behind the priest and the tall, narrow windows that stretched up to the domed ceiling.

The altar reminded me of a long table because it was covered with an intricately designed lace cloth.

Behind the altar was a breathtaking altarpiece in ornately designed gold.

In the center was a painting that had unusual depth and vivid colors.

The subject of the grand work was a Madonna in a long blue covering holding a rather pale baby Jesus with two cherubs on each side.

The size of the altarpiece amazed me. The humans in the painting were life-size.

On either side of them were four more figures of men.

Disciples, I assumed. The detail and the depth of the work were mesmerizing and seemed as if they were in 3D.

I knew it had to be old. I wanted to pull out my phone and search for details about the artist and when it was painted.

I knew we were going to see a lot of incredibly old art while we were in Italy, but this was our first glimpse, and the details captivated me.

When the reading ended, Paulina lowered herself to the kneeling bench with agility. I followed her lead, thinking about how many women over how many centuries had knelt in this same spot and offered up a prayer. The thought thrilled me.

Claire chose to sit on the pew and lean back against the narrow piece of rigid wood.

The space around us fell into a hush as silent prayers were offered.

For the first time in weeks, I felt a sense of peace.

I was so glad we’d come to the Frari. My jet-lagged body and still-on-high-alert mind needed this saturating calm to cover me the way it did.

A moment later, Paulina rose, and I did the same. The priest was gone. The others had shuffled out. Claire looked at me with wide eyes as if asking what we were going to do next.

I had no idea. But the truth was, I wasn’t eager to leave. I loved this. All of it. I knew Claire wouldn’t mind being here if she understood how much it meant to me.

Paulina gave a reverent nod to the altarpiece I had been studying during the reading.

With the authority of a tour guide mixed with low-voiced reverence, she said, “The Pesaro Triptych is my favorite of all of Giovanni Bellini’s works.

He finished it a few years before Columbus sailed across the Atlantic. ”

“That was painted in the 1400s?” Claire asked. Her awe was evident.

Paulina nodded.

“Do you know who the men on the sides of the painting represent?” I whispered.

“Yes. You’ve probably heard of them. They have rich life stories,” Paulina said with the hint of reverence lingering in her voice. “On the left is St. Nicholas of Bari. Behind him is St. Peter.”

“St. Nicholas?” Claire asked. “As in jolly ole St. Nick?”

Paulina nodded. “I don’t know about the ‘jolly’ part.

The stories of his generosity and giving in secret are well known.

But the accounts of how he was persecuted and imprisoned for his faith in the third century are not often told.

Some of his bones are enshrined here in Venice. At the San Nicolò al Lido.”

I tried to grasp her casual mention of bones from the third century.

“On the right,” Paulina said softly, “is St. Benedict in the front, and behind him is St. Mark, the patron saint of Venice.”

“I read that Mark’s bones are buried here too,” Claire whispered. “Is that true?”

“Yes. At the Basilica di San Marco.”

“We plan to go there this afternoon. It’s on our list. We bought tickets ahead of time so we wouldn’t have to wait in line.”

Claire’s comment somehow shifted me out of the mindset that I was a worshiper in this solemn space.

True, I was a visiting worshiper, but one who had been welcomed in and was caught up in the swirling mystery of past and present, eternal and temporal.

Admitting that we had paid for tickets to look inside a church sent me back to feeling like an outsider peering in. An observer. A tourist.

Paulina paused for a moment. I wondered if she was trying to gauge our true interest in seeing and hearing the details she was sharing with us.

I hoped Claire would be okay with seeing a few more pieces in this enormous, ancient church.

The space was filled to overflowing with art and sculptures.

Curiously, this church wasn’t one of the ones I’d researched.

“What are your other favorites?” I asked Paulina.

She led us to an intricate altarpiece covered with gold.

The precious metal caught the faint light, giving the extraordinary piece an ethereal glow.

In the center was a life-size statue of a man draped in a tattered robe with a dark gold shawl over his shoulders.

He was holding what looked like an unfurled scroll.

“This is Donatello’s statue of John the Baptist,” Paulina said.

“He carved it in wood and then painted it. I’ve always been moved by John’s woeful expression.

Byzantine art did not capture this level of realism.

You’ll see the difference when you go to the San Marco Basilica.

This style of humanity as it appears in nature is one of the hallmarks of St. Francis’s influence and why some say he created a bridge into the Italian Renaissance. ”

I wished I knew more about the differences between the medieval, Byzantine, and Renaissance periods of history. We were going to be surrounded by variations of art created during all those eras. I hoped I would learn more along the way.

“When was this church built?” Claire asked. “In the 1400s?”

“No. It was built by followers of St. Francis of Assisi not long after he died in the early 1200s. The art is inspired by his approach to telling the stories of the gospel artistically and using the language of the common people. The church in his time used only Latin. He taught in Italian because how could people know the Word of God if it wasn’t in a language they understood? ”

“I can relate,” Claire said.

We turned to look at her.

“Like the service this morning,” Claire said. “It was all in Italian. I didn’t understand a word of it.”

“True,” Paulina said. “You can see the value St. Francis brought to the church when he ushered in a more naturalistic style and an accessible way of telling God’s stories.”

“Kind of like using a cucumber and a tomato,” Claire said more to herself than us.

“Pardon me?” Paulina asked.

“Oh. I was just remembering my childhood.”

“Your childhood?”

“I was raised by singing vegetables.”

Paulina didn’t catch the reference, but I did.

As we continued on, I felt like a little girl misbehaving in church when I leaned closer to Claire and whispered, “Tomatoes are actually a fruit, you know. Not a vegetable.”

Without turning to look at me she whispered back, “And guess what? Cucumbers can’t sing.”