The sides of the fresco were devoted to the Tuscan hills that surrounded the villa. And in these, too, Jenny recognized friends: a shepherd, who looked very much like Livio; a robust elderly woman, the image of Ermelina, carrying a flat woven tray filled with fish; a man who looked like a younger Alfredo, trying to charm a well-dressed young lady with Marieangela’s smile and coral necklace.
Jenny stood stunned, half understanding and yet unable to grasp the whole. “Th-The house, upstairs,” she finally stammered. “Did it once look like this villa?”
“It was the villa,” Pappa Gatto replied. “All you see in the fresco was. And is, more or less. San Martino was here then and is here now and shall remain for years to come.”
“And who is she?”
“The Lady? She’s had many names, but here she is most often called the Madonna. She, too, has been watching out for you. It is no accident that the fantasma could not touch you.”
The black and white lashed his tail impatiently. “We brought you here to give you a token of our appreciation. There are two caskets on the table before you. You must choose now which you will take.”
Jenny had been so fascinated by the fresco that she’d barely noticed the green marble table in the center of the room.
“Open them and look inside,” Pappa Gatto said.
Lifting the wooden lid of the first, Jenny nearly had to shield her eyes from its glittering contents. The casket was filled with jewels. Ruby necklaces, bracelets of beaten gold, heavy sapphire rings, a white-gold tiara set with pale blue topaz, a bracelet made of emerald-cut diamonds that even in the lamplight threw rainbows against the walls.
“They’re all real,” Cipriana assured her.
The jewels should have thrilled her. They were beautiful, extraordinary, clearly worth a fortune. But they made her uneasy; they reminded her of Sasha.
“Look in the other casket!” Domenica said eagerly. “That’s my favorite!”
“Domenica, hush!” Pappa Gatto growled.
Jenny opened the second casket, wondering what could possibly compete with the contents of the first. Inside she found a small, rectangular book bound in ink-stained brown leather, its binding roughly stitched by hand. It was a sketch book, Jenny realized, one that could have belonged to the artist who’d painted the fresco. The line and style were the same, and so were the subjects. There were rough charcoal sketches of the gardens and the loggia. Ink details of the columns. Delicate watercolors of Marieangela and Ermelina. And exquisite detailed miniatures in tempera and gold leaf of the Lady and each of the cats.
“This is what I want,” Jenny said. “I couldn’t figure out how I was actually going to leave you, but if I could take this with me—”
“You have made your choice,” said Pappa Gatto. “Come, we will see you out of San Martino.”
The village was curiously empty when she left. Only the cats saw her off, trailing her across the fields, through the center of the town, over the bridge, past the cemetery and the grapevines and the field where Livio grazed his sheep.
“Firenze is in that direction,” Pappa Gatto said, gesturing uphill toward a black strip of asphalt. “Walk that way and you will surely find it. And one last thing, Jenny.”
“What?” Jenny was doing her best not to cry, but she couldn’t stop looking at the black and white cat, couldn’t help but realize how from that first night, he’d been looking out for her, how they all had.
“If you hear the cock crow, turn toward it; if on the contrary, the ass brays, you must look the other way,” Pappa Gatto instructed.
“I’ll remember,” Jenny promised.
She knelt and Domenica, Nicola, and the kittens all raced into her arms for a final hug. Olivero actually climbed onto her shoulder, purring, while Ruffino, Nocciuloa, Sandro, and Aggripina rubbed against her. Finally, she held out one hand to the black and white, wondering if he’d finally let her pet him. He walked toward her, as imperious as ever, and then to her everlasting astonishment, he licked her hand with a rough pink tongue. “Go with the gods, Jenny Myford,” he said.
Jenny busied her mind with practicalities as she started along the road: How far was Firenze? Had she already missed her flight? How would she buy food if she couldn’t find an open bank and cash her travelers’ checks? And if, by some miracle, she actually made the flight, would Carl be on it? Carl. No matter what, her thoughts inevitably circled back to Carl. She pictured the two of them as they’d left Boston earlier that summer, how excited they’d been at the airport, how she’d slept in his arms on the plane, how she’d never imagined that she’d return home without him. A donkey brayed loudly behind her, cutting through her thoughts. Deliberately, Jenny kept her eyes on the road ahead, not looking back.
She hadn’t gone much farther when a cock’s crow split the morning air. Jenny glanced toward the sound, hoping to see a farm or a house. Instead she saw a bright, red leather drawstring pouch on the side of the road. She opened it, knowing it was a gift from the cats, and took out thirty thousand lire, traveling money to get her to Florence.
There was something else in the pouch, a small round hand mirror, its silver surface edged with golden rays. Jenny peered into the miniature sun. She had the same frizzy brown hair she’d always had. Her face was still too full, her mouth too small, nose too large. She’d never come close to Sasha’s fine-boned perfection. And yet she’d changed. She could actually see the qualities the cats had ascribed to her: humor, resilience, honesty, kindness. There was even something in the set of her mouth that hinted at her penchant for order. Jenny stared at her reflection, amazed. For the first time, she actually liked what she saw. No, it went deeper than that. She found herself beautiful.
She slipped the mirror beneath the lire and closed the pouch as she heard the sound of footsteps. There was someone ahead on the road, beyond the next curve. She hurried forward, rounded the bend, then came to a sudden halt, paralyzed. Carl was walking toward her. Jenny’s stomach churned. She felt as sick as she had the night she’d left him.
Carl glanced up and went white with shock. “Jen?” He looked awful. He was unshaven, his hair greasy, and his face haggard. But he smiled when he saw her. “Jenny! Thank God! Are you all right?”
“Fine,” she said, barely able to get out the one syllable. Seeing Carl hurt more than she’d have guessed. Some insanely dumb part of her still wanted to run into his arms. And the rest of her ached because she couldn’t.
He gestured behind him. “The battery just died,” he said sheepishly. “The VW’s about a mile back there. I’ve been looking for a phone.” He walked toward her, smiling, and Jenny found herself backing up. “Don’t,” she said. “Don’t come any closer.”
He stopped, his eyes searching hers in confusion. “Where’ve you been? I’ve been driving every damn road in Tuscany searching for you.”
“You have?”
“Yes. I have.”
“Why?”
“Maybe because I’ve been worried sick about you,” he replied. It didn’t change anything, but she believed him. “I never should have let you go that night. I should have gone after you the second you got out of the van. I’m sorry, Jen. Really sorry. About everything …”
Jenny had to ask, “How’s Sasha?”
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “Sasha split our first morning in Florence. Told me she’d heard from a modeling friend in Tuscany who was sick. Said she was going to go stay with her for a couple of days to help her out.”
Jenny found the idea of Sasha playing nurse even weirder than the idea that she was once a nun. “And you actually bought that?”