V is for Valeria

3. Fernanda and the Embroidered Cloaks

My first Saint Marcus’ Day feast was exactly two days after Father disappeared. We had just moved in from England a little over a month before. Father’s company had transferred him here and my half Italian mother had agreed to the move with the pretext of wanting to reconnect with her roots. It was supposed to be a temporary situation anyway. I was merely six-years-old back then.

We had arrived to Volterra at night time. Mother had made reservations at the Hotel La Locanda for the night. The next day we were supposed to meet with the realtor to finish up with the moving arrangements. I had woken up when we landed but was exhausted by the trip. We were all tired, looking forward to a good night’s sleep after a day long of traveling.

When we arrived at the hotel, I sat on the Mezzanine lounge as Mother bossed around the doorman about our luggage. Father approached the main desk to see about checking us in, but no one seemed to be manning the desk. He rang the traditional bell once and immediately and out of nowhere, she appeared like a cool summer breeze.

A gorgeous brunette receptionist proceeded to welcome Father and process our reservations. I watched as Father was mesmerized by the woman behind the counter. Her voice was magical, like a song. I remember gawking at her flawless skin and her shiny, dark eyes. She wore bright red lipstick and bright burgundy nails. She was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen.

“How long are you planning on staying?” she asked, her voice like a lullaby.

“Just tonight,” Father answered.

“Are you traveling?” she paused, as she stole a glance at Mother and I waiting. “Family vacation?”

“No, actually.” Father, for some reason, was turning red. “We… I was transferred here from Liverpool. Tomorrow, we move into our new place.”

“Oh…” she looked up, changing her expression. “You are moving here…”

“Yes, I’m supposed to start work a week after we’ve settled down-”

“-so you must be the Breandans,” she interrupted.

Father smiled with a look of incomprehension in his face. “Excuse me, have we met?”

“Oh… no,” she backpedaled. “But, it’s a small town. I guess you could say we’ve been expecting you.” She gave him the key to our suite. Father smiled hugely.

“Welcome to Hotel La Loconda, complimentary breakfast starts at 7am.”

“Thank you very much.”

“You’re welcome. Here at Volterra, we take care of our own.”

She moved gracefully around the counter to guide us towards the elevators. Father introduced Mother and me. The lady’s name, we learned, was Fernanda Cacciatore. She waved to us, in what seemed like slow motion, as the elevator doors closed. The three of us were left entranced.

The next day, Father took a break from his pending work calls to take me out for gelato. Mother decided to stay back and deal with the realtor and the pending moving arrangements. As we walked down the streets, we marveled at the sights, the medieval alabaster sculptures embellishing the ancient buildings. We passed by the Clock Tower, the Cathedral, and stopped for gelato at a store that appeared to specialize in sweets. A child’s heaven; the store stocked up with gelato, pastries, chocolates, and candy of all shapes and sizes. It even had a counter section dedicated exclusively to lollipops in the most peculiar flavors and animal shapes.

The woman behind the counter, Elionora, sprinkled extra chocolate chips on top of my pistachio ice cream. The taste was so deliciously sweet; Father and I had a case of the giggles on our way back to the hotel. I learned that day that eating exquisite food tickles you with joy. We had to pause at a park bench midway so Father could clean up the gelato still stuck to my face.