The Body in the Piazza Read Online Free

equivalent.”
    â€œThat would not be difficult, as I have not yet had time to read any of it, but surely I will need it to know what things are,” Faith said, feeling as if she had stepped into a Forster or James novel and only just preventing herself from adding, “kind sir,” to her remark. For that she would have needed a hat herself, or parasol. His British accent, more reminiscent of Sir Alec Guinness than Sir Mick, intensified the notion.
    â€œYou already have everything you need in order to ascertain the true nature of things.” Her new friend, for she instantly hoped he would become one, pointed to his eyes, ears, mouth, and head.
    â€œMay I?” He indicated the empty seat across from her.
    â€œPlease,” she said, wishing she had more than a bottle of water. The scene called for vino and small plates of antipasti. As he sat down, she asked, “Is a map permitted?”
    He raised his hands in mock horror. “Worse than a guidebook! The point of travel is to get lost. But perhaps you are one of those travelers who needs to be able to tell one’s friends that one ‘did’ the Borghese, the Sistine Chapel, and so on.”
    â€œNo, we’re not like that. We do have a bit of a plan—a friend gave a suggestion. We call it the Caravaggio, Bernini, Borromini Trail. We thought we’d wander from one artist to the other.”
    â€œI thought you seemed like a sensible woman. I can always tell. A focal point is different from a checklist, as you surely know.”
    He leaned back in the chair and stretched his long legs out. He was wearing light tan trousers and a well-pressed white linen shirt. His feet, however, were incongruously clad in dusty brown suede desert boots.
    He followed her glance. “I walk a great deal—and it’s also an affectation. Like the hat. My name, by the way, is Frederick Ives and I am called ‘Freddy.’ I also have a ridiculous middle name, which I will reveal upon closer acquaintance, one I am positive will ensue. Now tell me who you are, literally. Not simply your name—a good place to start—but tell me all. You said ‘we,’ so you are not a solo traveler and I am quite, quite sure you are not with some sort of ghastly American tour group. Since you are wearing a wedding band I assume a husband is somewhere about, more’s the pity. Although you could be a divorcée wearing a ring to stave off unwanted attention, inevitable with such beautiful eyes, or sadly a widow, but I don’t often have that kind of luck.”
    In Rome for only a few hours and here she was, already dallying in a pleasant, harmless flirtation! Faith had pictured exchanging a meaningful glance with one or more handsome signors, but with native speakers the kind of wordplay she was engaged in at the moment would have been far beyond her linguistic skills. To have such luck a few hours off the plane! And Frederick—“Freddy”—Ives was not unattractive. Not at all. An older man. She guessed he was in his late forties. She studied him more carefully.
    Freddy’s hat was covering his hair and what she could see was fair, hard to determine whether any of the threads were silver, or missing. His initial, courtly gesture had not provided more than a second’s glance at what lay beneath. His boots had obviously taken him into sunny climes, as his face and arms were deeply tanned, making his blue eyes quite startling. Why was it that some men grew even more attractive with age, while women were fighting a good fight, eventually surrendering to the inevitable—comfortable shoes and Not Your Daughter’s Jeans?
    Faith took a breath and fervently wished she could change the water into wine to suit the mood, but that was not her department. How to tell all? Where to start? She followed his suggestion. “My name is Faith Fairchild—”
    â€œI’m so glad,” he interrupted.