Sheila Connolly - Reunion with Death Read Online Free PDF Page B

we reached the head of the line and could pour ourselves coffee. It seemed only polite to move out of the way, since the line was still long behind us. We climbed the stairs. “You want to sit over there?” I nodded toward one of the smaller tables.
    “Sure. You hold the table and I’ll get us some of those yummy croissants.”
    “Deal.” We set our cups down, and then I plunked myself in a chair from which I could watch other people coming in. The cold clear light of morning was not too unkind: most people looked reasonably alert and fit. No makeup among them (myself included), but I wouldn’t swear that all the hair colors were entirely natural—but then, neither was mine. Clothing ran to fleece for those who had brought any, or sweaters and/or windbreakers. Sensible shoes all around, if sensible meant high-end running shoes.
    Xianling returned with a full plate and two more people. “You know Valerie and Patricia, don’t you?”
    “Val,” “Pat,” they said quickly.
    I made another quick scan of name tags. “Sure—weren’t you in Art 100?”
    The other women sat. “Not until sophomore year,” Val said, “but I took some other art courses later.”
    “What was your major?”
    “Biology, but not premed.”
    I laughed. “That was a real distinction back in the day. I started out in biology but jumped ship to art history pretty quickly. Those premed majors scared me, they were so intense.”
    “They had to be since med schools were taking so few women. Things sure have changed, haven’t they?”
    We all prattled on as the room filled and the noise level rose. In addition to the marvelous croissants, there were healthy offerings like fruit and granola, which I ignored. If I have a vice, it’s an addiction to carbohydrates, especially first thing in the morning. We all refilled our coffee cups at least once. I noticed Cynthia come in—she waggled her fingers at me, then went to join a group at another table.
    “What is it we’re doing today?” one of my tablemates asked.
    “A Medici monastery and many Medici manors,” I said, admiring my own alliterative phrase.
    “Wasn’t everything Medici back in the day?” Pat said wryly. “Seems like they owned most of Italy, one way or another. I wish I’d paid more attention to Italian history, but I never thought I’d need it, and then of course I didn’t have time to bone up before this trip.”
    “Where does the monastery fit?” I asked.
    “Wait!” Val said. “I brought the cheat sheet.” She fished something out of her roomy bag.
    “Just the high points, please,” Pat said.
    “Okay, okay.” Val scanned the sheet quickly. “Hmm … was once a convent, renovated by Michelozzo for the Medicis—that would be Cosimo’s dad, Giovanni. They slapped their coat of arms all over the place. Wooden crucifix that may or may not have been made by Donatello. Fancy altarpiece by Fra Angelico that got moved to Florence, so we’ll see that tomorrow. And there’s still a small group of monks in residence there.”
    I didn’t volunteer any information and let the names wash over me. Once I had been on close terms with the greats—Donatello, Fra Angelico, Giotto, Cimabue—but that was long ago, and I had to admit I hadn’t given them much thought in years. Save for those few lucky ones among us who had managed to snag jobs teaching art history or working in museums, life had carried us away from art and music and the world of ideas for the most part. I tried to remember the last time I’d crossed the threshold of a museum—and failed. Years, anyway. But if the ambitious schedule we’d been given was to be believed, we’d be making up for lost time tomorrow in Florence, with at least three museum stops planned and a couple of optional ones. Was there such a thing as an art overdose?
    Again there came the rapping of a knife on a glass, and we looked up to see Jean and Jane standing at the end of the room. “The vans will be leaving from the top of