“Nonno Paolo, I am so sorry,” Lucy said as she sat down across from him, taking his hand. “What happened?”
“She died in her sleep. The doctor says it was her heart. It just stopped.” Paolo put his head in his hand and wept.
* * *
Lucy changed her ticket to attend Maria’s funeral, but she chose to depart the day after Maria was laid to rest. Time to go home and face the rest of her life. She missed Applebury. After the service and trek to the small cemetery, Lucy sat with Donatella in the kitchen, sipping coffee, half listening to the girl blather on about boys and school. Her chatter comforted Lucy and reminded her of Juliet. Paolo came in to the kitchen and said something to Donatella in Italian and the girl gave her a brief smile and left.
“My great-granddaughter is at the age when she’s like a bird—always sure everyone wants to hear her song.”
“Juliet, my daughter, is like that.” Lucy smiled and then blinked when she realized Juliet was also Paolo’s great-granddaughter. Maybe next year she’d bring Juliet back to see her ancestral home.
“I am glad you are here, Lucia. I thank you for bringing me news of Belladonna.” Paolo smiled. “Her letter to me meant a great deal to an old man. And to have the missing diNovo restored to us. Our magnificent treasure returned. What a gift this has been. Now, where is your young Jack?”
“He had to leave. Business,” Lucy lied.
“I see. A lovers’ quarrel then,” Paolo said, reminding her of Belladonna.
“He asked me to marry him,” Lucy confessed.
“This is wonderful news!”
“I said no.”
“No?” Paolo stared at her, his gray eyes wide. “You do not love your Jack?”
“I was married. My husband, Andrew, died.”
“You are afraid of this happening again? Like a curse?”
“No, not precisely. My marriage, it was stale. Dying. I think I wasn’t very good at being married.”
“But that was marriage to your Andrew. Marriage to Jack might be different. Did you know Belladonna thought so?”
“Thought what?” Lucy asked, confused.
“In the letter she wrote me. She apologized for never having the courage to return to me even though she loved me her whole life. She also asked me to give you a message, when the time is right. I think that time is now. Belladonna said you should have the courage to follow your heart, to live again, and to love Jack.”
“She said Jack?” At Paolo’s nod, she continued, “But things are so complicated.”
“Life is messy. It is never easy. Don’t miss out just because things are complicated.”
“Nonno, I think . . . I think I messed it up.”
“That boy loves you like I loved Belladonna. I shared a life with Maria. She was a good woman and a good wife. I think this is how it was for your Andrew, yes? You loved him but it was nothing compared to the bonfire of the love you feel for Jack, yes? That type of love you only get once. You should not risk it, my nipote. Jack will forgive whatever it is you fear.”
Belladonna
Applebury, Massachusetts
Summer 1963
“When she goes off to college, I won’t miss hearing those Beach Guys every hour of the day,” Tony grumbled good naturedly as he changed for bed, tossing his black socks toward the hamper and missing as he did every damn night. The strains of Surfin’ USA poured from Susan’s room, loud even through the closed door.
“Beach Boys,” Bella corrected. “I like them. They’re peppy. She’s going to wear out that record though.”
“I can only hope.”
Already dressed for bed, Bella sat at her dressing table, absently rubbing lavender scented cream into her hands. She’d struggled to act normally all day, to act as though the kindly postal carrier had not delivered an emotional bombshell today. She stared at the letter on the table, though she’d already memorized it. Vittorio had returned to Italy to visit his family only to discover that his brother-in-law was a fellow survivor of Ali d’Angelo.
Incredibly, his brother-in-law was Paolo LaRosa. Paolo married the dumpling, Maria Innocenti. They had six children. Paolo. Maria. Six children. Her heart hammered and tripped in her chest and her hands shook as she reached to open it, to read again the stunning news. Maybe she could make herself believe it. Her Paolo. Married to the dumpling, Maria. How? She tried to focus on the happy news. Somehow, by some miracle, Paolo survived the massacre and the burning church. Bella closed her eyes against the memories of a blazing Ali d’Angelo.
“You okay? Got a headache?” Tony asked as he slid beneath the sheets.
“I’m fine.” She smiled at him and picked up her hairbrush. “Be over in a minute.”
Always exhausted from running the store, Tony’s snores soon drowned the peppy music. She glanced up at the Madonna of the Orange Blossoms painting on her wall and begged for divine guidance. She picked up her pressed rose rosary, a Mother’s Day gift from Susan, and fingered the beads as she stared at the painting, willing herself to be as serene as the Virgin Mother.
In the past eighteen years, she’d become an American matron and raised a wholly modern American daughter. She spoke English instead of the lyrical Italian of her youth. When she’d been desperate and alone, she married a stranger to secure her future. Mother Mary must have been watching out for her that day because Tony proved to be a kind man, a good provider, a devoted father. Bella would even go so far as to say she loved him . . .
But Paolo. Her Paolo, alive and well and . . .
What had she shared with Paolo other than a few nights of passion in a world tortured by war? And an enthusiasm for art? And a daughter?
Susan started college in a few short weeks. Paolo knew nothing of his eldest child. Honoring Tony’s sole request, she’d never told Susan the truth of her parentage. Tony was a wonderful father, though they’d never been blessed with more children. There’d been a time, over ten years ago now, that Bella thought she might finally give Tony another child. But, God had not seen fit to bless them further. Even though Tony was not Susan’s biological father, she was much like him. Sometimes Bella saw Paolo peeking through, in her smile or her eyes or the tilt of her head and the shape of her mouth. But, mostly, she was Tony’s daughter. Always Tony’s girl.
Bella wanted nothing more than to drive to Logan and buy a ticket home to reunite with her long-lost love. But, Paolo had a family. His youngest child was not yet three. How could he run away with her? The streetlamp highlighted the silver strands in Tony’s hair as he slept. How could she leave him now? After the life they’d built and the daughter they’d raised together.
Now, at just over forty, Bella needed to put away the foolish dreams of her youth. True love does not, in fact, conquer all and there are circumstances that couldn’t be overcome. Sometimes honor was more important than love.
A car backfired outside and Tony sat up in bed, startled. Even now, all these many years after the war, loud noises still troubled him. She climbed into the bed next to him and he snuggled her close, pressing a kiss to her temple. Bella stretched, luxuriating in his warmth against her chilled body.
“I was thinking today. We never did get to go on that honeymoon.”
“We’ve been talking about for years.” Bella smiled at him.
“Now that Susie-cakes is going off to college, how about we go to Italy? You can teach me all about art.”
Italy. The temptation nearly undid her. If she went to Italy . . . what? What would happen? Nothing but a middle aged woman chasing her lost love. Bella shook her head. “Let’s go to Alaska instead.”
“But you’ve never wanted to go to Alaska.”
“But you have.” She clasped hands with him and guided his strong hand to her breast. She settled it on there, over her nightgown, distracting him. And if she spent the next few moments imagining Paolo, well, Tony would never be the wiser. He might even be grateful.
Lucy
Applebury, Massachusetts
Pr
esent Day
“What the hell happened over there? Jack’s acting like a bear with a sore tooth . . .” Jenny greeted her at Logan as Lucy struggled into her tiny car with her luggage.
“Thanks for picking me up.” Lucy hugged her, securing her sunglasses over her face. “All set for your big day?”
“Don’t try to distract me.” Jenny must have seen something in her expression, in the set of her mouth, and she relented. “Can you believe it’s this weekend?”
She flung the Mini Cooper into traffic, and Lucy struggled to adjust to the noisy bustle of modern life as Jenny chattered about the wedding all the way home. In just over an hour, they made it back to her apartment, Lucy managing the luggage while Jenny hauled Frankie’s cat carrier upstairs. They clomped up the steps. Inside, the apartment smelled musty and unused, the same canned tuna beige as before, depressing in the dim light. Though the apartment had provided a safe place to land when she’d tumbled out of her safe, staid life in suburbia, Lucy knew it no longer fit her now. Inside the door, Jenny knelt and let Frankie out of the carrier but only managed to get a quick pat in before he dashed for the safety of his favorite under the bed hiding spot. Jenny helped her pull the luggage inside and dropped it in the tiny foyer.
“I have souvenirs for everyone but no idea where I packed what.”
Jenny waved that away and commented, “Barb and I stocked some bread and milk for you.”
“You are such wonderful friends.” Lucy walked into the tiny galley kitchen, with its pristine white counters and cabinets. She patted the cellophane covered sandwich loaf with its garish primary color logo. Her eyes filled as she remembered tearing rustic bread with Maria for panzanella.
“Luce, what is it?”
“I was thinking of Maria.”
“Your grandfather’s wife?”
“Everything over there is just . . . authentic. In a way that things can’t be here. It’s simpler. I ate some of the most incredible food of my life there. I made panzanella with Maria. It’s just day old bread, tomatoes, basil, some olive oil. Simple, rustic. But still transcendent.”
“Jack mentioned you wanted to start a cooking blog.”
“I don’t want to talk about Jack.”
“Jack didn’t want to talk about you either. I think I can guess.” Jenny slid into one of the counter barstools and tapped her keys on the counter. “I always suspected Jack had a thing for you. It was the way he looked at you sometimes, when he thought no one was watching.”
“That’s silly.”
“You have a thing for him too, then?”
“No,” Lucy answered a bit too quickly.
“So, you going to tell me what happened in Italy or are you enjoying this fun game of twenty questions?”
“Let me open a bottle of red and tell you all.” The two friends curled up on her deep sofa. Lucy thought of their many sleepovers together as kids, staying up talking to the wee hours. With a deep breath, she began the story of her travels. After an hour of talking, Lucy said “So, Paolo feels I should go for it. Even though things are tangled up like a ball of yarn.”
“You’ll forgive me if I’m being obtuse but I don’t see the tangle?”
“You are my best friend. And his ex-wife. I was married to your dead brother.”
“Okay, you may have forgotten this, what with the stress of all the plane travel and finding your grandfather and then his wife dropping dead, but I am getting married in three days. To a woman! I am really fine with Jack seeing anyone he wishes! As you also point out, Andrew is gone. So, again, not seeing the issue.”
“Our children are cousins.”
“Well, that saves the whole I-hate-my-stepparent thing.”
“Stepparent! Who said anything about marriage?”
“You and Jack are the marrying kind.”
“I don’t ever want to be married again,” Lucy said, so vehemently that Jenny blinked.
“But you and Andrew were so happy together . . .”
“Do you know where I was when your brother dropped dead?” She said it fiercely, ferociously, like this secret was a dragon waiting to be freed, its hot breath destroying all in its path.
“Ohmygod, were you in bed with Jack?”
“I was at a divorce attorney’s office in Boston.” When Jenny gaped at her, Lucy dropped her forehead to her palms, squeezing her eyes shut against the tears prickling along the backs of her eyes. “I couldn’t take the boring sameness anymore. I came out of the office, feeling free, light as a bird, with a plan to leave him, how we’d divide our financial assets. And I got your voice mail. By the time I got to the hospital, I didn’t need a divorce attorney any longer.”
“Wow . . . Luce, I don’t know what to say. I thought . . .”
“You thought we were happy. We weren’t miserable. He wasn’t beating me or cheating on me or anything like that. It was flat and boring,” Lucy struggled to explain. “And now, even though our marriage was all but over, there’s a little secret of widowhood no one ever tells you. The minute he died, he became Saint Bloody Andrew—and I could never say a word against him again. How I hated the fact he chewed too loudly and talked too much about his job and all that.”
“And now, with Jack?” Jenny patted her forearm.
“Paolo and Belladonna, they had that kind of love—all consuming, passionate, total match, perfect fit for each other love. Andrew and I didn’t have it. I hope you have it with Barb. And . . .” here Lucy sucked in a deep breath. “I think—no I know—I have it with Jack. That’s why Nonna sent me on this crazy quest. So I’d finally see it.”
When Lucy fell silent, Jenny asked. “And did you?”
“Yes, when it smacked me in the face. And what did I do? I rejected it! Jack asked me to marry him and . . .” Lucy ignored Jenny’s shocked gasp to continue, “I didn’t want it to turn out like Andrew. I wasn’t smart enough to see what Nonna was telling me. Jack left and Maria died so I couldn’t go after him and now I’ve lost my second chance!”
“I’m pretty sure you didn’t lose your chance. You might have to grovel a bit. But I think I have an idea . . .”
Belladonna
Applebury, Massachusetts
1988
One crisp October evening, as fall edged toward winter, Bella sat on the front porch of the home she shared with Susan and Lucia, watching the stars wink on as the shadows chased themselves across the garden. She snuggled down into her favorite nubby oatmeal-colored cardigan, a gift from Susan and Lucia last Christmas, and tucked her chilled hands in her pockets. Tomorrow marked the two month anniversary of Tony’s death. He’d fallen among his tomato plants, at the edge of harvest, gone before he hit the ground, leaving her a widow. Tonight, her thoughts, as they so often did now, turned to Italy, to home, to Paolo. Should she go back?
And what would she do there? Just walk back into Paolo’s life as a ghost? An echo across time? Perhaps Paolo would not welcome a blast from his past. He built his life, just as she built hers, on the ashes of what remained. Cursed with bad time, out of sync with the clock, never free to be together, instead they spent their lives apart, longing for what could never be.
Often she wondered if clever Paolo found happiness with insipid Maria. Perhaps she was a good and kind wife to Paolo, as Tony was a good husband to her. Still, as content as Bella was, with her American life and beautiful daughter and granddaughter, she never stopped wishing that fortuna would have smiled on her and Paolo differently. That fate might have allowed them to walk the same path together.
Her practical American daughter showed no interest in her Italian heritage. When Bella mentioned taking Lucia on a sixteenth birthday trip, Susan rolled her eyes and asked, in her pragmatic way, who would pay for it? She’d still never told Susan the truth about her parentage. Now that Tony lay cold in his grave, nothing but her own cowardice kept her from blurting the truth and divulging her long held secret. As Susan grew up and bore a daughter of her own, Bella believed the right time would present itself. B
ut, it never had. The words never quite managed to come. She wondered if they ever would. She wondered if Susan would even care.
Her thoughts strayed to her painting, hanging now above her bookcase, her rose-scented rosary beads dangling from the frame. A priceless artifact, here in the new world. She needed to return it but it had been with her so long, a talisman of hope, love, and home. She didn’t want to give it up.
Bella indulged in her porch time, overlooking the autumnal garden, until long past moonrise. Stiff, she uncurled her legs to rise before she spotted Jackson loping down the street, hands stuffed in his pockets, shoulders hunched. The streetlights gleamed in his black hair and highlighted the white boutonniere Lucia chose for him for this odd American homecoming tradition.
“Jackson,” Bella called. “Where is Lucia?”
He stopped in front of the gate, shrugged with his hands still in his pockets, and said, “She’s . . . uh . . . still dancing.”
Though Bella wouldn’t find out the details until later, she made an educated guess that the evening hadn’t gone as Jackson hoped. She’d known for a while Jackson loved her granddaughter, but wasn’t sure her granddaughter recognized it yet. Jackson was now learning, in his turn, the same bitter lesson she’d once faced. True love does not, in fact, conquer all.
“Come and sit with me a while,” Jackson sighed, opened the gate, and shuffled up the walk. He plopped into the chair next to her. Together, they rocked in the porch swing, both lost in thoughts of their ill-fated loves.
“Drew Parker asked her to dance,” Jackson blurted. “And then . . . um . . . he said he’d see her home and . . .”
“There nothing left at the dance for you,” Bella filled in. “Jackson, we are both unlucky in love and cursed by the clock. Come in, and have some lemon cookies.”
Jack
Boston, Massachusetts
Three months ago
“Jackson, caro, I have come to see you.” In early June, Nonna Belladonna appeared at his downtown office—without an appointment, but that was Nonna for you. She carried a batch of his favorite lemon cookies in a disposable plastic container with cheerful snowman printed around the outside. She’d worn a simple black dress, not as tight as a sheath—Jenny would know the style name—with an oatmeal colored cardigan over it. Her long hair, now sugar-white instead of the lustrous blue-black he recalled from his youth and that she’d bequeathed to her granddaughter, still wavy and loose.
The Lost Art of Second Chances Page 13
