The Lost Art of Second Chances

by Courtney Hunt

  “That’s true. But it will never be the same,” Lucy answered and again wondered if she was talking about Paolo and Tony or her and Jack.

  Jack stood. His gray Boston University T-shirt molded to his chest as he stretched and yawned. She couldn’t help comparing Jack’s lanky grace with Andrew’s bear like build. Andrew was built like a football player, all muscle. Jack was graceful and lanky like a dancer. He pulled her up by her hand and said, “I’m sleepy. Let’s head for bed, okay?”

  Lucy glanced up at the sky, at the thousands of sparkling stars and the heavy harvest moon, before following Jack to bed though it was a long time before sleep claimed her that night.

  Belladonna

  At sea

  November 1944

  Bella huddled against the railing, on the prow of the ship carrying her to America, staring at the gray line blooming over the horizon, splintering the night between sky and sea. The tang of the sea breeze kissed her face, the misty salt spray soothing her constant seasickness, always worst when she first awoke amid the gentle swells of the sea. The giant ocean liner, packed with injured American soldiers and refugees like her, barely rocked in the waves but Bella and her sensitive stomach felt each swell. She focused resolutely on the horizon, swallowing hard against the queasiness crawling up the back of her throat and pushing thoughts of the past away, as dawn painted the endless expanse of gray sky.

  They are gone, Bella. Babbo, Matteo, Paolo . . . Three months dead.

  Her hands tightened on the rail, her knuckles turning white. She was the only one left of her family. Alone and frightened. She’d made her way to Florence and, pressed into service, cared for the injured until she got the opportunity to sail to America. She had no idea what she’d do once she got there, with no family to take her in.

  “Donna? I brought you some toast.”

  Tony Castillo, her one and only friend on board, stood behind her, a small pile of unbuttered toast, wrapped in a napkin, cradled in his large hands. In a battle near Rome, he’d injured his shoulder badly enough to get out of the war. A second generation Boston Italian, he loved nothing more to tell stories and make her laugh. She enjoyed listening to his broad, flat accent and practicing her English skills with him. Though he wasn’t handsome, with big ears and an unfortunate nose, his brown eyes were kind. He went out of his way to take care of her, always kind and solicitous. She knew he wanted more than friendship from her. She also knew she might have to accept more, if what she was beginning to suspect was true. She pressed a hand to her lower belly and pasted on a smile as she turned.

  “Thank you, Tony. You’re too kind.”

  He smiled at her and shifted to her side at the rail, handing her two pieces of underdone, dry toast. She bit into the dry bread, chewing it carefully and sucking air through her nostrils. She focused on the horizon, the future, and shoved away thoughts of all she’d lost. He chattered to her of the upcoming American feast of Thanksgiving and hoped they’d dock in Boston in time for it. Bella enjoyed his tales of his home, which sounded as exotic to her as the moon. “You should come home with me, Donna. Pop closes the store, my mom makes an enormous turkey, and my Nonna makes every delicious Italian dish you can think of.”

  She dipped her chin down, much as she’d used to do with Tommaso, though the flirtation felt even more false and strange and unfamiliar than the language and smiled. “I’ll think about it, Tony.”

  She nibbled her toast but gagged on the dry crumbs. Her stomach roiled and rebelled at even that small bite. She swallowed hard, tears welling up in her eyes, as she tossed the bread into the sea.

  Tony patted her arm, his big hand warm against her chilled skin. “Your nausea is getting worse, isn’t it?”

  She nodded, swiping at her eyes. He presented her with a handkerchief and she wiped her face, grateful the murky light of dawn didn’t illuminate her tears. She drew in a deep breath, facing back toward the bracing sea air. The water—gray now in the early morning light—undulated in all direction, all there was to see for miles. Tony pointed toward the horizon as a dolphin, joyful and proud, flipped into the sunshine.

  “Did your Mamma ever tell you the fairy stories of the mermaids beneath the sea?”

  Bella smiled and shrugged. Her mother had not been the fanciful sort but her Babbo told them wild tales of sea monsters and dragons. “Sometimes . . .”

  He chattered on about the fairytales while she struggled to remember the last time she’d had her monthly. Definitely not since Ali d’Angelo burned . . . She pressed her palm to her bellybutton and closed her eyes as she remembered the passion she shared with Paolo in the caves. Three months gone . . .

  “I always felt extra guilty eating our fried fish on Fridays . . .”

  Bella gagged at the mention of the fried fish and clapped a hand over her mouth. She shut her eyes and concentrated on swallowing the saliva that pooled in her mouth, taking deep breaths through her nose to banish her queasiness.

  Tony trailed off and said, finally, “Donna . . . are you . . . do you need . . . help?”

  “I think I’m past help. But thank you.”

  “It isn’t seasickness, is it?” The kindness and the concern in his chocolate eyes undid her defenses and slowly she shook her head.

  “I’m three months gone, I think,” she whispered. He glanced at the horizon, worrying his lip, while she focused on settling her stomach. What was she going to do in a strange country, with no family, no friends, she didn’t speak the language very well . . .?

  “My girl, Sarah, she got tired of waiting for me to come home from the front. She sent me a Dear John letter last month.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “Did your guy . . . die in the war?”

  Bella thought of Tommaso who just never came home. Of her father, her cousin, her friends and village gone. Paolo. She closed her eyes and saw once again the burning church in Ali d’Angelo. Finally, slowly, she nodded.

  “I see.” Tony stared at the horizon into the bright sun. “Looks like we’re both unlucky in love. If you need help, will you let me know?”

  Two weeks later, after she’d explained her situation to Tony just hours before they docked in Boston Harbor, Bella repeated the marriage vows the ship’s captain said over them and became Tony’s wife. It was like no wedding she’d ever imagined for herself. She’d always thought she’d marry in the church at Ali d’Angelo, her vows said by the priest that baptized her. She shut her eyes and commanded herself not to think of the kindly priest lying so still on the ground, blood the color of their best wine pouring from his head to drench the cobblestones. Don’t think of the inferno that claimed Paolo and Babbo and little Matteo. Tony smiled at her and pressed a brief kiss to her mouth.

  And just like that Belladonna Rossi, the Queen of Ali d’Angelo, became Donna Castillo, wife to a grocer-to-be in Boston’s North End.

  Lucy

  Tuscany, Italy

  Present Day

  “Jack, come with us to gather the wood. I will stay and visit with my nipote.” After welcoming Jack and Lucy to his home the next day, Paolo resumed his seat in front of his low-slung red-tiled roof villa and waved Jack off. Jack shrugged at Lucy and headed away with the men.

  “Tomorrow is the actual feast, food and dancing. Today we prepare. But first, I want to hear all about you. Tell me of Belladonna. Tell me of yourself. Tell me everything,” Paolo invited.

  She visited with him for several hours, showing him photos of Nonna, Susan, and Juliet on her smartphone. Toward the late afternoon, Paolo’s boundless energy seemed to be flagging so she joined his wife, Maria, in the kitchen. About a dozen women helped in the kitchen, overseen by the pint-sized, snowy haired Maria, seated at a place of honor at the scrubbed kitchen table.

  Lucy lingered in the doorway at first, uncertain of her reception. After all, she was the descendent of Paolo’s first love, perhaps his wife would not be as warmly welcoming as Paolo. But instead Maria beamed at her, waving her to a seat at the table. “Come
in, Lucia.”

  “Can you ask her if she’s okay with me being here? Being Belladonna’s granddaughter?” Lucy asked one of the younger women to translate, producing a rapid-fire exchange in Italian.

  “She says she remembers your grandmother. Belladonna was the most beautiful girl in the village. Maria was friends with Ava—Belladonna’s sister. She is delighted to see you.” Lucy smiled at her in relief and Maria reached over to squeeze her hand. “She says to sit with her and relax. You are a guest.”

  “I love to cook. I would like to help,” Lucy offered. Maria beamed at this offer and produced another staccato burst of Italian.

  “She says she will teach you to make fresh pasta and asks if Belladonna ever showed you how to make it.”

  “No, never.” Lucy shook her head, praying Nonna would forgive her the fib.

  Maria took a handful of flour from a tin on the table, mounded it, and then pressed an indentation into the center. She pinched a bit of salt from a salt bowl and then cracked an egg into the center of the mound of flour. With her soft hands, she worked the ingredients into a sticky dough within moments. Then she placed a mound of flour in front of Lucy and waved her hand at her. She reached behind her to retrieve another egg. Lucy began working the dough as Maria began to form her dough into orecchiette shapes.

  “Little ears.” Lucy smiled, indicating the dough. Maria smiled back and covered her hands with her own, helping her to knead the dough into the consistency needed for pasta. The warm dough, the comforting scent of it, and the chattering of women’s voices all around loosened the tension in Lucy that she hadn’t known she was holding until it relaxed.

  As an only child, she spent her whole life longing for a family like this—a big sprawling mess of cousins and sisters and in-laws. Instead, it had just been her, until Jack’s family moved to her street. Retirees with grown children filled their old, established neighborhood. As her mother hadn’t married her father, she moved back in with her parents. Susan was the youngest adult on the street by over thirty years and Lucy the only child. Then Jack arrived—skinny, scrawny Jack.

  On they day the Hamiltons arrived, she’d ridden her purple bike with the white daisies all over it down the street, to the big house on the corner, stopping to watch the movers work. She played with the pink streamers coming off the handles, braiding them and curling them around her fingers.

  “Hey,” she heard a voice say. A scrawny boy with black hair that flung out in all directions stood next to her bike.

  “Hey,” she answered. “I’m Lucia Castillo.”

  “I’m Jackson Hamilton, III. You may call me Jack.”

  “Everyone calls me Lucy.”

  “I like to read.” Jack gestured at a book under his arm.

  She peered at the cover. “I like that one.”

  “You’ve read it?” Jack’s eyes widened, astonishment clear in his voice.

  “Yes. I’m reading the sequel now.” Lucy shrugged. From that moment on, they were best friends. Somehow, she never thought of Jack as a boy. He was just Jack. They swapped books, argued over the best, and laid under the oak trees in her backyard, reading. And she supposed it would have gone on like that for years, had the Parkers not arrived. Thinking of it now, she was struck by the similarity to Belladonna and Paolo’s bonding over books and art.

  “Where did you go, bellissima?” One of the women asked. Lucy looked up into kind brown eyes and realized this girl was much closer to Juliet’s age than her own. “Were you thinking of your man?”

  “No,” Lucy lied. “I’m sorry that I forgot your name.”

  “Donatella,” the girl supplied with an easy smile.

  “Can you tell me about the Festival of the Chestnuts, Donatella?” Lucy said with a bright smile.

  “When you were driving here, did you hear a sound like hail hitting the roof of the car?” Lucy nodded and Donatella continued. “Those are the chestnuts falling to ground. Did you see little puff balls on the ground, with stickers all around? Those are the chestnuts. This town is known for its chestnuts. If there’s a way to cook them, we’ve found it.”

  “The only way I know of is to roast them. Like chestnuts roasting over an open fire?”

  Donatella knitted her thick black eyebrows together and smiled. “Yes, like that old song. But we do more than roast them. Ava is making a risotto with chestnuts and mushrooms and sausage. She’s been stirring for an hour. Elisa is making chestnut soup and Rosamaria is famous for her chestnut jam. There are cakes, pies—we grind them up, chop them, serve them whole.”

  “Is it in the breads there?” Lucy nodded to where Maria kneaded dough in a brilliant yellow mixing bowl.

  “Nonna is making focaccia bread. She’ll sprinkle wild grapes, rosemary, and sea salt on it before baking it. Just watch. I’ll get to seed the grapes.” Donatella smiled wryly as a stern older woman plunked a red ceramic bowl filled with grapes down in front of her. Was she Elisa or Rosamaria? Lucy wasn’t sure. “Si, mamma.”

  “I can help,” Lucy offered.

  “I won’t say no. I hate doing it. But I love the bread, you know?”

  Lucy laughed and they worked in companionable silence for a while, wrestling with the tiny, slippery seeds. Donatella was right—it wasn’t hard work—just messy. Another woman pulled a round copper-baking pan out of the oven and tipped its contents onto a cooling rack. The cake inside looked like brownies but an ornamental pattern of pine nuts and rosemary studded the top. Even from across the kitchen, the enticing scent made her mouth water.

  “What is that?” Lucy pointed.

  “Ah, that is the centerpiece of the feast. It’s castagnaccio. It’s a cake made with—what else?—chestnut flour. The recipe’s been in nonna’s family for generations,” Donatella explained. At this, Maria burst forth a torrent of words in Italian and Donatella began translating.

  “She wants me to tell you of the traditions surrounding the castagnaccio. She says that a piece of her castagnaccio that made Paolo fall in love with her. That year, 1949, her mother let her make the castagnaccio for the family. She saw Paolo in the village, as he was recovering from his war injuries, but he did not seem interested in her. She’d planted some special pots of rosemary plants for herself that year and tended them all the growing season. When she made the castagnaccio, she sprinkled that rosemary over it. At the end of the feast, she offered Paolo a piece. From that moment on, he was in love with her.” Donatella rolled her eyes but made sure her grandmother could not see.

  Lucy smiled at her. The memory made Maria radiant with pride as though the love she felt for Paolo lit her from within.

  “That is a beautiful story. Thank her for telling me,” Lucy said and Donatella complied. Maria smiled at her and patted Lucy’s hand with her soft, flour covered one. Her brow furrowed before she let loose another torrent of words that Donatella again translated.

  “She says this is what went wrong with her first love who died in the war. Before he left, she helped her mother make the castagnaccio but the rosemary died that year and they had none for the cake. She should have known that love was doomed.”

  “I’m sorry,” Lucy said. Maria smiled at her, shrugged, and shuffled away to check the progress of various dishes.

  * * *

  Later that night, at the hotel, Lucy and Jack lay next to each other again, both still stuffed from the pre-feast dinner they’d enjoyed at the LaRosas.

  “It seems such a shame they didn’t get to live out their lives together,” Jack observed.

  “I think I finally know what Nonna meant about my dreams. When you’re young, you’re so unformed. You have no idea what life will throw at you. I think she was sad I wouldn’t have time to figure it out, marrying Andrew with a baby on the way.”

  “And have you figured it out?” Jack asked as he lazily stroked her back.

  Lucy shrugged. “Have you?”

  “Being Jackson Hamilton III, I always knew I wouldn’t be able to pick for myself,” Jack said, his voice tinged
with bitterness. “I was destined to work at Hamilton & Hamilton before I was even born.”

  “But, if you could?” Lucy pressed.

  Jack stayed silent for a moment and then said, “I think I would have made a good teacher.”

  “But, I thought you were teaching at the community college.”

  “Yes, but that’s teaching the law. I meant teaching history,” Jack said. “I’ve always been surrounded by the law.”

  “Don’t you like being a lawyer?”

  “Parts of it. It’s not wholly awful. But, it’s not what I wanted to do.”

  “You’d be good at it. Your knowledge of World War II helped us out a lot here.”

  “Miss Lucy, I’m blushing,” Jack teased. “Now it’s your turn.”

  If he could confide his secret dream to her, she could share hers with him. She squeezed her eyes shut and summoned her courage. “I’ve always been good at cooking.”

  “Yes, indeed. That feast today was something,” Jack said. “Go on.”

  “I think . . . I think I’d like to start a cooking blog. And maybe, someday, write a cookbook,” Lucy blurted out before she could stop herself. She clapped a hand over her mouth and waited for him to start laughing.

  “That’s a terrific idea!”

  “But I don’t know the first thing about blogging . . .”

  “If you can write an email, you can blog. Do you want me to help you set it up?” He sat up in the narrow, wrought-iron bed and pulled his leather backpack off the floor. He slid his sleek computer out—she could tell it was an Apple from the insignia on the case but not much beyond that. He flipped it open and tapped a bit on the keys.

  “Okay, first thing, what would you like to call your blog? Like a title?”

  “Cooking with Nonna,” Lucy blurted out. She hadn’t known it consciously until that moment but she instinctively knew it was perfect for the blog. Jack nodded and tapped some more.

  “Here you go. I chose the basic blogging platform and one of the automatically generated backgrounds and all. You can customize all that later.” He spent about twenty minutes teaching her how to blog and promised to show her how to upload photos.