When I began writing The Sign of the Weeping Virgin, the first book in my Guid’Antonio Vespucci historical mystery series set in Renaissance Florence, Italy, the book had no title and no weeping virgin. All I knew was I wanted a miracle for my real life fifteenth-century Florentine lawyer to investigate in spring 1480. But what kind of miracle? An unexplained fireball in the night sky over town?

What happened next made me believe not only in serendipity but also in its fiesty sister, magic.

Looking through Luca Landucci’s Florentine Diary I found this entry: “March 1480: Peace was proclaimed, and the image of Our Lady of Santa Maria Impruneta was brought to Florence for the fête.” Brought to the fête? Why? Delving deeper, I learned that fifteenth-century Renaissance Florentines associated the painting of the Virgin Mary of S. M. Impruneta with miracles: a good crop, an illness cured, a war ended. Something in me stirred: happening upon this entry seemed fortuitous. But had finding the Landucci quote only been good luck?

Curious, I researched the word “Impruneta,” and discovered it is a small town just south of Florence. The Church of S. M. Impruneta was still there. Also, miraculously—after almost six centuries—so was the painting Luca Landucci mentioned in his diary in 1480! I felt a thrill, excited because I had already planned a writing/research trip to Florence. Could I find the little town and the Church of S. M.  Impruneta while there? I felt a hand on my back, pushing me gently forward.

And so at noon on a sunny Sunday in October I slipped into the Church of S. M. Impruneta . . . only to see people leaving. Mass had ended. There was no sign of the painting. Almost faint with disappointment, I found the parish priest, who—between my poor attempts to speak Italian and his struggle with English—explained the painting was available for viewing only on very special occasions.

Not today.

My heart sagged.

Dismayed, I thanked him and started toward the church door, whereupon he ran after me, smiling, and made me understand the following Wednesday was a special occasion, indeed: this was a Jubilee Year. During Mass the Virgin Mary of S. M. Impruneta would be displayed to the public.

This was unbelievable.

I almost wept with joy.

On Wednesday I returned to behold the painting of Mary that slowly rose from the floor behind protective glass on the altar’s right side. She and the Christ Child wore gilt halos. And her eyes stared straight into me. I saw her and she saw me, and that is how a centuries-old painting became the heartbeat of my story and even gave The Sign of the Weeping Virgin its name.

Chance? Coincidence? Earlier, I used the word “magic.” This is what I believe: magic—serendipity—happens when we have done the work, are present to the moment, and are willing to let magic take us by the hand and guide us where we need to be. There is also God’s gentle push against our backs, if only we pay heed.

Next week, I am returning to Florence, this time during the Halloween season, when people costumed as mischievous devils and playful angels cavort in the streets. This, followed by celebrations of All Saints Day, La Festa di Ognissanti, and All Souls’ Day—or the Day of the Dead, on November 1 and 2, respectively. The first is to remember all saints and martyrs during Christian history, the second honors deceased relatives and ancestors and is marked by visits to churches and cemeteries to pay respects.

This year, on Saturday, November 2, I’ll definitely visit Guid’Antonio’s family chapel in Ognissanti (All Saints) Church and pay my respects, not only to him, but to his nephew and secretary, Amerigo Vespucci, who in the books is Guid’Antonio’s right-hand man, and their friend and neighbor, Sandro Botticelli, who also is buried in Ognissanti.

Let’s see what miracles, magic, and mischief happen next.

I’ll report back here.

Meanwhile, if you love Italy and you love reading and haven’t read The Sign of the Weeping Virgin and The Hearts of All on Fire, click the link to purchase a copy!

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