Sheila Connolly - Reunion with Death Read online

  Beyond the Page Books

  are published by

  Beyond the Page Publishing

  www.beyondthepagepub.com

  Copyright © 2013 by Sheila Connolly

  Material excerpted from Golden Malicious and Relatively Dead copyright © 2013 by Sheila Connolly

  Cover design and illustration by Dar Albert, Wicked Smart Designs

  ISBN: 978-1-937349-95-0

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this book. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented without the express written permission of both the copyright holder and the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Acknowledgments

  Excerpt from Golden Malicious

  Excerpt from Relatively Dead

  Books by Sheila Connolly

  About the Author

  To the Fabulous Forty,

  and particularly Sally and Sandy,

  who made this book possible

  Chapter 1

  In 1968 Judy Collins sang, “Who knows where the time goes?”

  When we were freshmen, you couldn’t walk down a hallway in any dorm on the Wellesley College campus without hearing it coming from stereos in every other room. The title didn’t mean a lot to us then, because at eighteen we had all the time in the world; the whole future lay before us, with all its possibilities. Now we have more to look back on than to look forward to—but Judy is still singing.

  I had forgotten what a pain in the butt long overseas flights were. It had been a lot of years since I’d flown to Europe, although back in college and right after, I’d thought it would be a regular thing. Once, in another lifetime, I was an art historian, specializing in medieval churches, but I’d found out pretty fast that there were no jobs available for people who liked to study really old buildings, certainly not in the foreseeable future. I’d said a regretful good-bye to my dreams of regular excursions to Aquitaine and Lincolnshire, and come up with another plan for my life. Not for the last time.

  Plan Number Two had included marriage and a child. Or maybe children, plural, were in the first draft, but by the time our one and only had turned two, it was pretty clear that the marriage wasn’t going to survive, and I didn’t think adding another child would make things any better. We’d stuck together for another decade, citing the hackneyed reason “for the sake of the child,” but in the end we’d decided we were doing her more harm than good and parted ways. By the time Lisa was in high school, Hugh was history and I’d become the main breadwinner, since his checks were somewhat unreliable. I’d never replaced him.

  Lisa had survived the whole thing without years of therapy, had attended a good college, graduated with honors, and was now off in Chicago and not too close to Mom, doing something even she couldn’t quite define. But she seemed happy when we talked on the phone, and that was all I was worried about. I’d long since decided that career planning was overrated, and changing economic and social circumstances had only reinforced that viewpoint. We’d weathered the lean years, although I couldn’t say I exactly had a retirement account. But then, I didn’t plan to retire until I dropped in front of my computer keyboard.

  But here I was, bound for Italy on the cheapest red-eye flight I could find. Made possible by a small bequest from my late mother, who attached only one condition: do something fun for yourself.

  I’d had to think long and hard about what I considered “fun” these days, and how to please me and only me. Then at a college reunion a year ago—one of those landmark ones with a zero on the end—two classmates, Jean Rider and Jane Lombardi, stood up and announced that they were planning a ten-day event in the north of Italy for the following year. No spouses, no kids—just classmates, people we’d known to greater or lesser degrees four decades earlier and in some cases hadn’t seen since. They proposed a flat fee, and all we had to do was get ourselves to Italy and all would be taken care of—transport, food, museum tickets, and best yet, planning. I had known both of them slightly and had no idea what kind of organizers they had turned out to be, but the idea sounded like heaven, and my hand was in the air before I could even think—or say thank you, Mom, for allowing me even to consider going.

  A year had seemed like a very long time back then. Plenty of time to change my mind, and in fact a number of people had dropped out, citing other obligations or plans or simply cold feet. But there had been a waiting list of people eager to join the group, and the number had held steady at forty. Forty people celebrating the last forty years, after spending four years together in another century, another millennium.

  Lisa had all but cheered when I told her. “Live a little, Ma,” she said. “Show ’em you aren’t dead yet.” I didn’t know how to take that. I didn’t feel old, and I hoped I didn’t act old. I took care of myself, ate right (mostly), exercised (sometimes), didn’t smoke at all and didn’t drink too much (very often), and kept my brain agile by using it as much as I could. Surely I could handle ten days with an interesting group of people and hold my own.

  But this was reality, spending six hours wedged in a seat with about two inches’ clearance in any direction, breathing recycled air and picking at plastic food. I’d bought plenty to read, but I’d also brought along the record book from our long-ago freshman year. Back then there had been no Internet, no electronic communication, so we’d sent in print snapshots of ourselves—most often those dreadful high school graduation photos—and a short text. Somebody had put them together into a small booklet and sent them to us before we arrived on campus so we could get to know our classmates—the people we would spend the next four years with. I know I was terrified at the time, but I hadn’t admitted it, nor had anyone else.

  I leafed through the skinny booklet. So many people I’d known well—or thought I had—who had dropped off my radar altogether. So many others I didn’t recognize at all—and a scattering of some who had become household names in the forty years since graduation. I paused at my own picture, my hair in a tidy flip, with a headband holding it in place. My sweet, naive little text, which I didn’t even remember wr
iting. Had I really thought I would be a biologist?

  I had a list of the people who would be on this Italian excursion. No, excursion wasn’t quite the right word, but I wasn’t sure what was. Trip was too mundane; junket sounded too political. It was a coming together of people from all over the country, to spend ten days together to … what? Take stock? Revisit our youth? Indulge in one last blowout before we were too creaky to climb stairs or carry a suitcase? I wasn’t sure what the mission was, but I knew I wanted to be there. That kind of spontaneity was very unlike me: I was usually the planner, the organizer, the one who worked out all the details. This time I was going to try to let go and let somebody else worry about all that stuff.

  At the end of the flight I emerged from the plane feeling rumpled and sticky and sluggish, in a place where people were speaking something that was definitely not English. I didn’t speak Italian, although I had mastered enough other languages to cobble together a few basic phrases, mostly things like “Where is the church?” and “How much?” In my current state I wasn’t sure I could string together a sentence in English, much less Italian, so it really didn’t matter. I collected my too-heavy bag (I had trouble deciding what to bring, so I sort of brought everything), tucked my shirt into my jeans, and headed through customs. I hoped that the proper documents and a polite smile would see me through. I couldn’t possibly look like a terrorist, could I? But what did a terrorist look like these days? If I were planning an attack, wouldn’t I want to look entirely forgettable and harmless—just like me?

  I had to rein in my befuddled imagination when I reached the head of the line. There, documents were stamped, smiles were exchanged, and I was on the ground in Italy somewhere outside of Florence, free and clear. As airports went, this one was tiny, which was probably a plus at the moment. Now to find the promised ride—because if the driver and a few straggling classmates arriving this afternoon weren’t there, I had no Plan B.

  With a surge of relief I found the welcoming committee was waiting outside of customs, looking uniformly perky—I figured they must have arrived the day before and slept ever since, because I couldn’t imagine being perky at the moment. They waved and smiled and cheered. “You’re the last one!” said somebody who looked remarkably like a pruney version of a woman who’d sat next to me in French classes for two years. What was her name … Christine? Even with the list and the booklet in hand, I hadn’t been able to put a face to all the names. “Time to head out!” she announced. “We’ll be there in time for cocktails!”

  Donna, that was it. She had always been relentlessly cheerful, although her accent had been atrocious, even after two years of classes. Some things just didn’t change, apparently. Which made me wonder, had I changed? How much? Would anyone recognize me now?

  Our little covey of classmates trailed out of the terminal building, hauling suitcases on wheels. Mine was the heaviest; as I’d feared, I had overpacked. Like the terminal, the parking lot was surprisingly small, and the van we appeared to be aiming for stood out like a great gray box. I realized that I hadn’t given much thought to the logistics of transporting forty people at the same time. If I did the math (slowly, thanks to jet lag) that meant four vans, if everybody got cozy. A caravan of four vans was going to stand out wherever we went—an invading army of middle-aged women.

  “I’m the driver,” another woman said loudly, over the sounds of planes and traffic. Her I recognized: Brenda something-or-other. We’d lived in the same dorm for a year, and she looked remarkably unchanged. “I only got here yesterday, so this may be an adventure. But we have a GPS that speaks English! Get your bags stowed in the back so we can head out.”

  We shoved suitcases, backpacks, and totes into the rear of the van, then sorted ourselves out among the three rows of seats. Apparently Brenda already had assigned someone to the shotgun position, to read maps and road signs—I thought her name was Denise, but it was hard to tell from the rear. It would all get sorted out later, I hoped.

  Brenda managed to find her electronic card, money, and the correct exit, and after a few loops through the parking lot we were on the road for … someplace I hadn’t been able to find on a map. There were a lot of places on our detailed itinerary I’d never heard of. As an art historian, I had once known enough to identify the major cities, and maybe a few of the regions, but the little towns? Not a chance, not unless there was some major monument or work of art there—those places I could name, even if I’d never been there. In any case, I hadn’t volunteered to do any of the driving on this trip: I would be hopelessly lost in minutes. Under the best of circumstances I was directionally challenged. The problem had gotten worse in the last few years, and nowadays I really had to stop and think about which way I was going, on foot or in a car. I kept telling myself I was saving room in my brain for really important things, and I could always ask my cell phone or a GPS for directions. That worked—most of the time.

  But now I was among friends, or at least women who shared many of the insidious changes that came with age. From a quick scan of the small group so far, no one appeared particularly decrepit, and everyone exuded enthusiasm. But it was early days yet. How would we all feel in ten days?

  Damn it, Laura! I reprimanded myself. You sound like an old biddy, always expecting the worst. Stress and lack of sleep had brought out all my negative traits; at this moment I was sure I was less intelligent, less interesting, and less successful than anyone else on this trip. Everybody else seemed to know each other, chatting happily away, while I had barely kept in touch with a couple of my college roommates, and with only one exception they hadn’t even bothered to come on this trip. Why had I? Was I trying to prove something? To myself? To my daughter?

  Stop it. I was here to enjoy myself, in a beautiful country, in the company of interesting, intelligent women with whom I shared a history. All I had to do was relax and go with the flow. I could do that. I turned to my neighbor, whose name I thought—hoped—was Sharon, and asked the logical question: “So, what have you been doing the past forty years?” And talk flowed easily after that.

  According to our itinerary, we were staying at a place called Capitignano, and the nearest town was called Borgo San Lorenzo. My maps failed to show either, and when I’d searched online, I couldn’t seem to find a map that would show both tiny towns and where they were within the country at the same time. In effect, I had no idea where we were, beyond Italy, somewhere near Florence, maybe to the north. I had to keep reminding myself that it was not my problem. Presumably the driver knew where she was going, and I was just along for the ride, so I settled back and admired the scenery. From the airport we took a couple of Autostrada—highways I could recognize anywhere, and I enjoyed mentally sounding out the names on the signs. As we drew farther away from the airport, the roads became progressively smaller, and the surrounding hills (or would they be called mountains here?) both nearer and higher, the buildings, mostly stucco or stone, spaced more widely. We went around more than one rotary or roundabout or whatever the heck they were called in Italy, sometimes more than once—there were stacks of signs at each exit from the rotary, and there really wasn’t time to read them all until you were already past them. Driver Brenda took it all in stride, even though she admitted she’d been driving the van only since the day before and was still learning the ropes. No one seemed worried. I certainly wasn’t; I had handed off responsibility once I reached the airport. Maybe my new mantra was NMP, for Not My Problem.

  More small roads, more turns. Olive groves, vineyards, fields and verges strewn with red poppies. We passed a couple of towns that looked surprisingly modern, and I had to laugh at myself: had I really thought that everything outside the cities would be quaint and historic? This was, after all, a functioning country (well, except for the government, anyway) and life had moved on since the time of the Romans and the Renaissance, even though there were plenty of remnants of earlier eras almost everywhere you looked. We were in rural territory now. There were lots of buildings bu
ilt of terra-cotta-colored stucco, with tiled roofs that often sprouted tufts of grass. The buildings seemed to have grown organically, with additions slapped on as needed until the building sprawled over several levels. Every time I turned my head there was another photo opportunity, although I wasn’t much of a photographer and all I had was a point-and-shoot camera and my cell phone. I restrained myself and just looked. I didn’t want to see Italy through a camera lens; I wanted to see it.

  Up in the front Brenda was recounting some story about driving directions. “When I first heard the directions, I was told that I was supposed to turn right across from the big tree. Then the tree fell down in a storm a couple of weeks ago—see? There is it—so now it’s turn right across from the dead tree lying on the ground. Who knows how long that will last?” She laughed as she made the right turn onto a road twisting its way upward. It was barely wide enough for two vehicles, much less a car and a monster van, and I shuddered to think what would happen if we met someone coming down. Apparently Brenda shared that fear, because she sounded the horn vigorously at each turn, and there were a lot of turns.

  The road climbed steadily, passing a few houses on the lower part of the hill, fewer and fewer as we went higher. Finally we came to a left-hand turn, marked by a single sign nailed to a post: Capitignano. “This is it, folks,” Brenda said cheerfully. “Check out the top of the hill.” She slowed to allow us to admire the view, and it was definitely worth admiring.

  Beyond the ranks of grapevines and the rows of olive trees, the drive—now definitely one-lane—flanked by tall cypresses led to a cluster of stucco buildings seated regally at the top of the rise. The van’s engine labored to make the grade, but we finally pulled in at a level graveled area in front of one building, where two other matching vans were already parked. It took a few moments for everyone to clamber out of the vehicle, and then we all stood around, looking, I thought, a bit dazed. Brenda herded us into the building.