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“Certainly.”
She gave him her contact information, then zinged off a copy of the bio she kept stored in her iCloud documents file.
“We’re tentatively set for eleven twenty. Can we make that?”
He checked his watch. “Shouldn’t be a problem if we hit the road within the next half hour.”
“I need to change. Can you get my bagel to go?”
“Sure. Or...”
“What?”
“Rather than drive up and back, we could check out here and go on to Venice after our meetings. Stop over in Florence on the return leg.”
He was right. It didn’t make a lot of sense to drive a hundred kilometers north, come back, then retrace the route a few days later on the way to Venice and Aviano. Conceding defeat, Kate mentally shredded their much-amended and totally useless itinerary.
“Sounds like a plan,” she agreed.
“You go change and pack. I’ll get our breakfast to go, throw my stuff together and meet you in the lobby.”
Upstairs, she hurriedly sorted through her limited wardrobe. The slinky caramel-colored pantsuit she’d worn for dinner at the Cavalieri was her most viable option. It would do for a business meeting if she dressed it down.
The chunky wooden necklace she’d brought to wear with the cotton tanks and sweaters was a little too down, though. What she needed was a scarf, she decided. One that could perform the double duty of adding a touch of sophistication to her wardrobe and keeping her hair from whipping free of the plastic clip during the drive. Remembering the many street vendors she’d seen set up close to the hotel last evening, she shimmied out of her jeans and into the knit slacks.
Signore Gallo’s assistant called to confirm the appointment as she was pulling on a pearly tank. Flinging an emergency makeup repair kit into her purse, she hurried down to the lobby. Travis was already there, holding his leather carryall and a cardboard tray with two to-go cups and a bag she assumed contained their breakfast. He was wearing the gray suede sport coat and jeans again but had paired them with a very European-looking black crewneck.
“I need a scarf,” she told him a little breathlessly. “I’ll duck out and buy one while they’re bringing the car around.”
Most of the street vendors were still setting up, but she found one vendor who offered quite a selection of scarves. They ran the gamut from a neon yellow square imprinted with a kaleidoscope of the city’s most famous landmarks to a red banner featuring a blinged-up version of Michelangelo’s David. She was tempted, really tempted, but decided against walking into Cassa di Molino sporting a naked, sparkling David.
She settled instead for a silky oblong with an ocher-hued palace set amid a garden bursting with spring blooms and moss-covered fountains. The scarf was long enough to wrap securely around her head and neck yet still leave the ends to flutter like colorful wings when they hit the autostrada.
Kate tried to pump Travis for more information about Brian Ellis during the drive, but aside from sharing the interesting fact that the man had brought his young son to Italy, her husband seemed reticent to go into much detail about the reason for this spur-of-the-moment meeting. Shelving her curiosity, she gave herself over to the enjoyment of the sunlit morning and the rolling vista of small towns and hills covered with vineyards.
* * *
With step-by-step directions from MapQuest, Travis navigated the narrow, twisting streets of Bologna’s historic center and got them to the Cassa di Molino twenty minutes ahead of their appointment. Barely enough time, as it turned out, to find a parking place. Dodging heavy traffic and a web of one-way streets, they completely circled the block before they noticed the Riservato Mrs. Westbrook sign. It was right at the entrance to the magnificent pink-and-white marble palazzo that housed the bank.
A receptionist just inside the cavernous lobby called Signore Gallo’s assistant. He came down a few moments later and introduced himself as Maximo Salvatore. Kate tried, she really tried, not to gawk as he led them up a grand staircase graced by wrought-iron railings as beautifully crafted as the paintings and statues gracing the upper level.
Proud of both his heritage and his institution, Maximo had to show them a library with an elaborately stuccoed ceiling, several salons hung with portraits and damask tapestries, and the two antique safes that had secured the hard-earned scudi of the bank’s first depositors. He was about to usher them into the president’s suite of offices when Kate spotted a discreet sign for restrooms.
“I need to make some emergency repairs,” she told the two men. “I’ll just be a moment.”
“But of course,” Maximo said courteously. “We shall await you here.”
The ladies’ room was small but as beautifully decorated as the rest of the bank. It was also occupied by a woman with both palms planted on the marble sink. Her head was bowed, her shoulders shaking.
“Oh!” Kate started to back out. “Scusi.”
The woman whipped her head around. She was older than Kate by some years, her dark brown hair streaked with gray. Tears spilled from her red-rimmed eyes and left glistening tracks on her cheeks. Kate hesitated, caught between chagrin for invading her privacy and an instinctive urge to offer comfort.
“Can I help you?”
The older woman answered in an obviously embarrassed spate of Italian.
“I’m sorry,” Kate responded. “I don’t... Uh... Non parlo italiano.”
That produced another mortified river of words, accompanied this time by an agitated wiggle of her hands. Kate got the message and said nothing further as the woman swiped a wet paper towel across her cheeks and hurried out.
Kate used the facilities, then made the necessary repairs to her own hair and face. She debated mentioning the brief encounter to Maximo but decided against it. Women, especially those in the rarefied upper levels of international banking, had to stick together. Whatever was troubling the older woman, she obviously hadn’t wanted witnesses to her tears.
Pushing the episode to the back of her mind, Kate summoned a smile and rejoined the men. Maximo ushered her and Travis through an outer office with five gilt-edged desks, three of them empty at the moment. It also boasted an entire wall of portraits of appropriately somber bankers staring down at them from elaborately carved frames.
The inner sanctum was paneled in gleaming golden oak. Tall windows draped in rose-and-gold damask filled the office with light. The silver-haired gentleman who rounded a desk the size of a soccer field was every bit as gracious as Kate remembered from their brief meeting at the conference.
Signore Gallo welcomed her enthusiastically, professed himself delighted to meet her husband and accepted her congratulations on his new position as president of the prestigious bank with a deprecating shrug.
“An honor such as this comes if one survives long enough in this demanding and so exhausting profession, yes? As it will to you, Signora Westbrook.”
“Perhaps. If I survive long enough.”
“Of course you will. You are... How do you say it? A rising star. One had only to read your profile in Wall Street Journal to know you are on your way to the top.”
He caught the look of surprise on her husband’s face and lifted a bushy white brow. “Your wife did not tell you she was identified as one of the young superstars, someone to watch in the field of international investments? No, I can see she did not. You should be most proud of her, Major Westbrook.”
“I am. More proud than she knows.”
“Bene, bene. So. You must tell me. Are you in Italy on business or pleasure?”
Travis left it to Kate to answer. “Some of both, actually. My husband is on temporary duty at Aviano Air Base and I, er, flew over for a visit.”
She wasn’t lying. Not technically. Travis was at Aviano, and she had flown over for a visit. Just not with him.
“And you came to our beautiful city of Bologna!” Signore Gallo exclaimed in delight. “There is much to see here and much to do.”
“Unfortunately, we just have time for a short visit. We’re on our way to Modena, then Venice.”
A discreet signal from his assistant reminded the genial banker that his time, too, was limited.
Expressing profuse regrets that he had to terminate their visit, Gallo got to his feet. When Kate and Travis rose, as well, the banker took both of her hands in his.
“You must come to visit again, signora. I should very much like to discuss the recent changes to the liquidity index promulgated by the US Securities and Exchange Commission with you.”
“I’d like that, too, but...”
“Yes, yes, you are on vacation. I understand, and I don’t wish to impose on your precious time. But may I have Maximo call you in a day or two? Perhaps we can arrange something.”
Buoyed by the visit and feeling smug after Gallo’s effusive compliments, Kate exchanged air-kisses with Cassa di Molino’s president before preceding Travis and Maximo out of the sumptuous inner office.
Two steps into the outer office, her startled gaze locked with that of the well-dressed matron seated behind one of the desks. The woman gulped and telegraphed an unmistakable appeal from eyes still showing a faint trace of red.
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