Second Chance At Two Love Lane

by Kieran Kramer

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  PROLOGUE

  “So what did you think?” Papa Mancini asked his oldest daughter, Ella.

  They were on her first-ever trip to a Sunday matinee at a Broadway theater, which Papa decided he would give her as a present every year around her birthday. Ella was five, and after the show he took her to the most marvelous place in the world, a restaurant called Serendipity 3. It was pink and white, with fancy light fixtures and beautiful tables. It was on East 60th Street, between Second and Third Avenues in New York City, and seemed a world away from their home in the Bronx. They sat on the second floor.

  Ella dipped her spoon into her frozen hot chocolate, Serendipity 3’s specialty. “It’s good,” she said.

  “I mean the show,” Papa said. And smiled.

  She loved his smile.

  “I liked it,” she said, and dug out a cherry from the whipped cream on top of her sweet concoction. “Especially Simba.”

  She roared.

  “I hope you always roar, mio dolce figlia,” Papa said softly as he wiped some whipped cream off her chin with a napkin.

  Papa loved all his daughters. Each one was special. Ella, he saw, had a spark in her eye that turned to a blaze when she and her sisters performed little plays and songs for their parents and relatives. The way she flounced across their homemade stage and sang songs so earnestly in her little girl’s vibrato reminded him of his grandmother, who used to be a well-known actor in Sicily.

  Papa didn’t want Ella’s creative flame to be quenched. Ever.

  The server came by. “This little girl is so sweet, her dessert is free.”

  “Free?” Ella’s eyes widened.

  Papa chuckled. “See? Everyone knows you’re special.”

  * * *

  “So what did you think?” Papa asked Ella, whose feet now touched the ground at Serendipity 3.

  She dipped her spoon into her frozen hot chocolate. “I want to be Mary Poppins,” she said. “I want that big purse she carried, with the magic measuring tape. I know what it would say if I measured you, Papa.”

  “What?”

  “The best papa in the world. Times a hundred million.” A hundred million was a big number.

  He grinned. “You know what it would say if I measured you?”

  “No. What?” She couldn’t wait to find out.

  He leaned forward and whispered, “This little lady is one of the great treasures of her papa’s heart.”

  She was treasure? In his heart? Like gold? And diamonds? She would be a ruby, she decided. A red ruby that gleamed always with love for her father.

  Once again, a server came by and said, “No charge for this table.”

  Papa leaned back. “Why not?”

  The server indicated Ella. “She’s too cute. The frozen hot chocolate is on us.”

  Ella’s mouth fell open. Serendipity 3 was a magical place.

  * * *

  “What do you think, my princess? How did you like the show?” asked Papa at Serendipity 3.

  At age twelve, Ella decided no more frozen hot chocolate for her. She was going to have something called a Forbidden Broadway sundae. “I loved it,” she said, and dug into a chunk of chocolate cake with hot fudge sauce.

  “Why?” Papa was always persistent.

  Sometimes Ella didn’t feel like talking to him as much, and that worried her. He was her favorite man. She never wanted to hurt him. “Well,” she said, thinking, and then knew what she was going to say. “I want to be an actor.”

  “You do?” Papa’s eyebrows flew up.

  Ella nodded. “Today Belle looked out into the audience, and I got goose bumps. She was looking right at me. It was like she was telling me, ‘you could be me.’”

  She had little tears in her eyes, which brought tears to his.

  “Is that what you want, Ella?”

  “More than anything,” she said. “In fact”—she put down her spoon—“I’m trying out for another play at school. Do you think I’m too young to be serious about acting?”

  “Absolutely not,” said Papa.

  She grinned at him. “I love you, Papa.”

  A handsome teenage boy carrying a bus pan filled with dirty ice cream glasses and plates walked by the table, and she blushed.

  “Just don’t let anyone stand in the way of your dreams.” Papa winked at her and grinned.

  “Papa!” she said back, embarrassed. She wished he wouldn’t say such silly things!

  She hoped that boy hadn’t heard.

  Later their server came by with the bill. When Papa looked at it, it said, No charge.

  “They really like us here,” Ella whispered to her father.

  “It’s because of you,” he said. “You must be their favorite birthday girl.”

  * * *

  “So,” said Papa, his eyes tired, a little bloodshot, too, from working a late wedding party in the Mancini family restaurant the night before. “What did you think?”

  Ella had decided to get a frozen hot chocolate again, her first time in years. “I loved it so much, I won’t be able to sleep tonight.” She laughed.

  “Me too.” Papa smiled.

  “Papa,” she said, “I just want you to know something.”

  “What, mio dolce figlia?”

  Her eyes filled with tears. “I can’t believe I’m going away to college in less than a month, and I won’t be with you on my birthday.” She had to swallow hard. “I just want you to know our annual trip has been the biggest, most wonderful memory of my entire life. Thank you. I’m going to miss you.”

  “And I you,” he said, “but you’ll always be here.” He placed his hand over his heart. “Even when you are away. And someday you’ll come back with a degree in theater. And when you do, I’ll go see you star in a Broadway play.”

  Ella laughed. “I hope so.”

  “I know so,” said Papa. He laid his hand over hers. “Don’t let anyone or anything stop you from following your dreams.”

  She sighed. “Papa, no one and nothing will stop me. I promise.”

  He smiled a little sadly.

  “What?” she asked. “Don’t you believe me?”

  “Of course, I do,” he said, and laughed. “You’re just like your great-grandmother. Such sparkle and fire. Always listen to your heart. It won’t steer you wrong.”

  “I will. I promise,” Ella said, but she was still worried about that shadow that had passed over his face.

  He picked up the bill. “No charge. Again.”

  Ella grinned. “I really do think I’m their favorite birthday girl. I want to thank them before we leave. They’ve been so nice to me all these years.”

  “Good idea,” said Papa. “I’ll be right back. I’m going to buy you a Serendipity 3 mug as a souvenir.”

  “Oh, that’s so sweet of you!”

  Papa spoiled her. But Ella knew she’d drink out of that mug every day wh
en she moved to Charleston.

  He winked and left her to finish her frozen hot chocolate.

  A handsome young man about her age walked by Ella to a nearby empty table, where a waitress was filling a bowl with sugar packets. He hugged her.

  “You? You’re back?” the waitress said, grinning. “From our favorite busboy to college student. We’re so proud of you.”

  Ella couldn’t help listening in. She remembered him. From a few years ago—he was that cute busboy with the cowlick.…

  She’d seen him the next year, too, and the one after that—but not last year. Somehow the cowlick was patted down now. Totally gone.

  “Don’t get too excited,” the guy told the waitress. “I dropped out.”

  “No.”

  He nodded. “I’m going to be an actor.”

  “An actor? Not a lawyer?”

  “Sure? Why not?”

  “I don’t know.” The waitress lofted one eyebrow. “Don’t lawyers make a lot of money? And actors starve?”

  The guy caught Ella’s eye and grinned.

  She turned beet red.

  “Think I can be an actor?” he asked her, off the cuff.

  Ella smiled and nodded. She was terrible with boys. Maybe someday she’d become more sophisticated.

  He kept his eyes on her while he said to the waitress, “See? That beautiful girl thinks so.”

  “I do,” Ella piped up, and didn’t even have time to blush about the compliment he’d given her. “I’m going to be an actor myself.”

  Actor. Not actress. Ella wasn’t going to enter any profession without pushing for equal say and equal pay. Papa and Mama had both taught her to fight for what was right.

  The waitress shook her head. “Young people,” she said, and sighed.

  He kissed the older woman on the cheek and walked over to Ella’s table. “What’s your name?”

  “Ella. Ella Mancini.”

  “I’m Hank Rogers. You’ve been here before, right?”

  She was shocked he recognized her. “I come once a year with my father. Nice to meet you.”

  “You too, Ella.” He paused a beat. “Hey, will I see you around at auditions?”

  “No,” she said, her heart fluttering in her chest, “I’m going to college first. Out of state. I’m majoring in theater. No one in my family has ever gotten a college degree. I want to change that and then start my big Broadway career.”

  “Good for you,” he said. “Break a leg.”

  He was so cute! Her heart did a huge flip. “Break a leg yourself.”

  They looked at each other a beat too long.

  “We’ll meet again,” Hank said. “I can feel it.”

  Somehow, she did too. But she was afraid to agree with him out loud.

  “I’ll look for you, Ella,” he said, his hands in his pockets. “Four years from now, after you graduate. Back here in New York. This day. The day before July Fourth. Here in Serendipity 3. Mark it on your calendar, okay?”

  “It’s a date,” she said, not wanting to break eye contact.

  And that was when Papa showed up with a little shopping bag that contained her souvenir mug.

  “Goodbye, Hank,” she said to the boy over her shoulder as she wrapped her arm through Papa’s free one.

  “Good thing you’re going to South Carolina,” Papa said with a chuckle. “Hopefully, there are no boys there.”

  “Oh, Papa, I’ll be fine,” she assured him.

  At the register on the first floor, Ella thanked everyone for gifting her with a free birthday treat each year. “You’re very kind,” she said.

  They were all smiles. The manager said, “It’s our pleasure. It’s nice to see a father and daughter with a tradition.”

  At the door Ella said, “I wonder how they knew?”

  “Do we not look very much alike?” Papa asked.

  “Yes, we do,” Ella said. She had his eyes and his chin. “And they must have noticed us coming in, year after year after year.”

  “We’re hard to miss. You’re a beautiful young lady,” her father said.

  “Oh, Papa.” She squeezed his arm.

  When she walked out, Ella had no idea she and Papa would never go to Serendipity 3 together again.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Her show must go on. That was what Ella Mancini told herself when she saw the flowers in her dressing room at the historic Dock Street Theatre in Charleston, South Carolina. The vase of her favorite hothouse blooms was from her old boyfriend, Hank Rogers. The (Former) Love of Her Life is what she secretly called him.

  Ella was the star of her own life, and no ancient love affair was going to weigh her down, especially ten years after the breakup.

  It had been an especially good night, the final night of the play’s run, and an especially good audience, she thought as she inhaled the heady scent from the flowers. Maybe Hank hadn’t appreciated her as much as she’d wanted him to, but tonight’s audience certainly had.

  She opened the card that came with the delivery, her fingers trembling a little. Dear Ella, the note read. I hope you’re well! I need a huge favor. Please call me. It’s not an emergency or anything, but it would mean a lot if you could. Hank.

  He’d left a number she didn’t recognize. Of course, he’d have gotten a new one since the last time she’d seen him, when he’d been penniless and had a flip phone. Now he was a big movie star and probably had a flip phone again—this time to protect his privacy.

  Was he still single? He was in the tabloids all the time with different women, and yet he’d never been committed enough to one that rumors about an impending elopement or marriage had been passed around. Nope, every story was just about Hank loving life, a beautiful woman always on his arm, a new movie script in his back pocket.

  Ella was a muddle of emotion, as she always was at the conclusion of a play’s run and after each night’s performance. She was spent, her vocal cords exhausted. But tonight she felt removed from the whole scene in a way she never had before. She didn’t know what to think. She couldn’t latch onto a single, clear feeling.

  And it was all Hank’s fault.

  Why had he done this? Why had he contacted her?

  Ella pressed down the hurt, the confusion, the simmering anger. He didn’t deserve her attention. At all. Ever again. She refused to go back there, to the most painful—and yet the most glorious—time of her adult life.

  The door to her tiny dressing room opened.

  “You know the drill,” the props master said. “Leave everything hung up in your dressing room.”

  “No prob,” said Ella. “Are you going to come see me at Two Love Lane? There will be cookies, mint juleps, and sweet tea. Not to mention Miss Thing. She’s always a hoot.”

  Miss Thing dressed like the Queen of England and was the office manager at the matchmaking agency Ella owned with her other best friends, Macy and Greer. They’d both recently married after whirlwind courtships—Macy to native New Yorker Deacon Banks, and Greer to Englishman Ford Smith. Miss Thing, Macy, and Greer were as close to Ella as her own sisters.

  “I am,” said the props master. “I promise.” She’d broken up with her long-time boyfriend a year ago and told Ella she was thinking about becoming a client at Two Love Lane. She pulled the door almost shut, then pushed it open again. “Who are the flowers from?”

  Ella forced herself not to roll her eyes. “An old friend.”

  The props master shot her an amused look. “That’s cryptic. Is it something complicated?”

  “Not anymore.”

  They both grinned, then the props master finally shut the door behind her.

  Ella sank down on her castered vanity chair, closed her eyes, and took a breath. She pulled her cell phone out of her purse and saw that she had ten texts from ten different people, all wishing her well, including her sister Jill and Jill’s new husband Cosmo, a famous tech mogul. Miss Thing had also texted. She’d seen Ella in five performances of the play already (Greer and Macy had come three ti
mes with various friends and family), but Miss Thing hadn’t been able to come tonight because Pete, their dear friend from Roastbusters, the coffee house up the cobblestoned alley from Two Love Lane, had asked her to fill in at the shop while he was recovering from minor surgery.

  Reluctantly, Ella put Hank’s number in her phone. It was the polite thing to do. “But I won’t call him,” she said out loud to her reflection in the mirror, and entered Ancient as his first name and History as his last name into her contacts list.

  What was that like for him, being famous? Ella would never know. But she was okay with that. She had a good life, a great life.

  Inside, though, she felt a twinge. It sometimes came out in dreams about the old days in New York, when she’d been working so hard to make it as a professional actor.

  But it’s okay, she reminded herself. It really is.

  She closed her eyes and tried not to think of “Bring Him Home,” the most moving, tear-jerker of a song she knew … from Les Misérables. But it was there—in her head. Instantly, salty tears flooded her eyes, which she clamped shut to stave them off.

  Why did that song come to her now, crashing into her brain like a runaway train? Of course, it was because before he’d left, Hank would lie with her on the couch, and wrapped in each other’s arms, they would listen silently to “Bring Him Home.” Their love of music, of theater, was what had drawn them to each other in the first place. They’d been two struggling artists in awe of the beauty of songs like “Bring Him Home.” Those special moments felt more sacred to Ella than any spoken vows of love. Without a word, they’d known they were made for each other.

  After Hank left, Ella used to hope beyond hope he’d come home. To her. She’d stand in the shower in their tiny apartment, tears pouring down her cheeks, “Bring Him Home” running through her head.

  But that was ancient history.

  “Ancient history,” she stressed to her reflection. Now she put the phone down. Turned it all the way off. Really looked at herself in the vanity mirror rimmed with naked, round bulbs. Her entire body felt rigid with hurt, still. It shocked her that it did. She felt pain. And sadness.

  After all these years.