The Lost Art of Second Chances (12 page)

For all that long, hot day, with the brutal Toscana summer sun beating down, the entire town waited poised on the knife edge of disaster, as Bella stayed hidden, huddled atop the overlook. Just after twilight painted the sky indigo, as the moon rose and the stars twinkled on in the velvet sky, the Germans herded the men and young boys into the small church, ignoring the women and the youngest children.

At the door of the sacristy, Father Torricelli, the moonlight turning his snow-white hair blue, resisted their captors, putting forth an argument Bella couldn’t hear. He’d married her parents, baptized both Bella and her sister, and distributed sweets at every Christmas Mass to the children. As Bella peeked over the large rock she’d sat on when Tommaso proposed, fear tasting like acid in her mouth, two soldiers knocked the kindly priest to the ground. They beat him with the butts of their rifles, until wine dark blood poured from his temple and his twitching body stilled.

The German soldiers grabbed their rifles and entered the church. Shots echoed through the night.
Babbo. Matteo. Paolo
. Bella bit her lip, tasting blood, to keep from crying out. Laughing, the soldiers strode back out and, after splashing gasoline on the church, set fire to the village, before driving away.

In shock, Bella watched as the fire devoured the village, painting the sky with scarlet and orange ribbons and thick smoke. Flames rose into the sky, painting the quiet Tuscan night like a scene from hell as fire leapt from roof to roof. Ashes floated into the sky only to drift back down like angel wings. When the fire lapped at the dry grass near the hill, Bella grabbed her bag and fled.

Tuscany, Italy
Present Day

“This has to be it,” Lucy said with far more confidence than she felt. They’d been searching for three days. It was Thursday afternoon and Jack left on Sunday night. Then Lucy would be on her own.

“Don’t get your hopes up. If this isn’t it, we’ll hire a PI.”

“I can’t let you do that for me.”

“Don’t take this the wrong way but it’s not for you. I’d do it for Nonna,” Jack said and squeezed her hand. “I feel like we owe it to her to keep trying.”

“Okay, but this has to be it,” Lucy said with forced cheer. Jack laughed as he steered their tiny rental car along the rutted road to a village not far from Florence, in the opposite direction from Ali d’Angelo. They bumped their way along the roads, stopping only twice to ask for directions and found themselves in a good sized town, full of shoppers bustling about and crimson and white pennants flapping under a perfect blue sky. They walked around the village square for a few moments until they came upon a small cafe.

“Shall we try here?” Jack gestured to it.

“
Caffe Amore Eterno
,” Lucy read. “Does that mean—?”

“I think it’s loosely translated to Forever Love Cafe.” Jack answered, his brow furrowing.

“Is that like the Last Chance Saloon?” Lucy laughed as they walked in.

An Italian man a few years younger than them—about thirty-five—glanced up from behind the bar. Jenny and Barb encouraged her to indulge in a wild, hot fling when she was in Italy, this was the type of man they’d meant. He had skin the color of cafe au lait and hair the color of finest chocolate, messily arranged in what was no doubt meant to look easy but actually took time. With his slanted bedroom eyes and pouty mouth, sex appeal poured off him in waves—if she could bottle it, she’d make a fortune.

But, she felt not the slightest hint of attraction. Nothing. Jack took her hand and goosebumps trailed up her arm. She wanted Jack. She just needed to come all the way here to see it.

And she would have to give him up when she returned.

“Did you get separated from your tour group?” The man asked, in a heavy accent. “With the chestnut festival, there are many groups. They usually meet in the square.”

“No, we’re not with a group,” Jack said before ordering two cappuccinos.

“We’re looking for someone,” Lucy said, sensing something significant was about to happen. She could almost feel Nonna in the room with them.

The man behind the bar inclined his head, his eyes watchful and wary. “Who are you seeking?”

“Paolo LaRosa.”

“I am Mario LaRosa.” Jack and Lucy beamed at each other, relief and excitement pouring through them. “Who are you?”

“My name is Lucy Parker and this is Jack Hamilton. My grandmother knew Paolo from Ali d’Angelo.” The second she said it, she knew she’d made a grave mistake.

“My grandfather does not speak of Ali d’Angelo.” Mario turned away from them to busy himself with the cups behind the bar. He brought two cups of cappuccinos to them, the foam gray in the afternoon light.

“Mario, please, my Nonna asked me to bring a message from her to Paolo.”

“
No
. My Nonno is old. I cannot upset him. He is family,” Mario said, his lips pressing into a firm line.

“Mr. LaRosa, it’s obvious Paolo is known in this town. I’m sure we could ask around and find him easily. Perhaps it would be easier if you introduced us to him. Less of a shock,” Jack said, steel underlying the affability in his voice. That tone of voice probably got him whatever he wanted in a courtroom and made him a good lawyer. “We’ve been searching for him all week.”

Mario’s eyes darkened. Lucy, struck with a sudden inspiration, removed the angel locket from around her neck and placed it in Mario’s palm.

“Could you take this to him? We’ll wait here. If he wants to see us, we will meet with him here. If he doesn’t, we’ll go away quietly.”

Up to you, Nonna. Help us out here.

Mario gazed at the locket in his hand for a long time before opening the clasp. When he saw the miniature inside, he gasped and glanced back up at Lucy’s face. So she’d been right. It was Paolo, not Tony, as she’d always assumed. He nodded once and called for another worker. He spoke to him in rapid Italian and left out the back door.

“Let’s order, shall we? It could be a bit,” Jack suggested. They’d gotten used to the Italian’s more leisurely way of approaching life this week, something Lucy hoped she could remember when she went home to Boston. Lucy had just bitten into her
panini Caprese
when the back door of the restaurant opened again. At first, due to the bright, streaming sunlight, she couldn’t see the figure silhouetted in the door.

Mario took a few steps in, followed by a stooped, shuffling man. Mario gestured to them and the older man walked to their small table and lowered himself gingerly to a chair. One side of his face had the taut, shiny look of old burns and ropy scars snaked down under his collar. Under his full head of shockingly white hair, his eyes were sharp with intelligence. He glanced first at Jack and then to Lucy. His gray-blue eyes filled with tears.

“Belladonna sent you,” the man said, in heavily accented English. “You look just like her.”

“Yes, she sent us,” Lucy nodded. “I’m Lucy. Belladonna Rossi Castillo was my grandmother.”

Lucy reached into her bag, handing Paolo the flat parcel she’d carried from Boston. He tore open the brown paper and the bubble wrap beneath to reveal the Madonna of the Orange Blossoms painting. He blinked at it, his eyes filling with tears.

“The diNovo. The missing painting! I wondered if Belladonna might have it.” Paolo swallowed. “I am overjoyed to have such a treasure returned to us. This painting hung in the Ladies’ Chapel in the church of Ali d’Angelo, painted by one of the masters of the Renaissance. You will have never heard of him as he died far too young.” Paolo paused and then grinned, his gray eyes still watery. “Forgive me, you did not travel all this way for an art lesson . . . such a treasure returned to us, at last. I just hoped my treasure would return with it. So, you are Belladonna’s granddaughter, the daughter of her only child?”

“I’m Susan’s daughter,” Lucy nodded.

Paolo took her hand. “Then you are my granddaughter too.”

Mario started behind the old man at his pronouncement, his jaw falling open. Lucy nodded, feeling the truth in his statement, though it was the first time she’d heard it aloud. Mario spoke in rapid Italian, a stream of words. Paolo put up his free hand and answered Mario in Italian.

“He wants to know where Belladonna is,” Mario said. “What I want to know is, who the hell is Belladonna?”

His grandfather turned to him, wiping his streaming eyes on a poppy embroidered napkin. “Belladonna was my first love.”

Mario sank into a chair nearby, raking his hands through his hair. Lucy felt a strange kinship with him. She knew firsthand how startling it was when your established grandparent morphed into a person with passions and a love story from before you were born. To discover such hidden depths was disorienting and she felt for Mario.
Her cousin.

As an only child without a father, she’d often wished for a magical family to arrive—to claim her, make her part of the large, extended families she saw around her. Now, that these familial vistas opened up around her, it was bewildering, strange, and a bit terrifying. She didn’t know what to do or say. Jack stepped in for her.

“Belladonna asked us to bring this letter to you.” Jack handed the cream envelope to Paolo who peered at it for a long moment before reaching to run a finger over his name.

“Belladonna is not coming,” Paolo said and his shoulders sagged. Lucy squeezed his hand as Jack broke the news.

“She passed away about a month ago. I am so sorry.”

Paolo nodded and continued to stare at the tiled tabletop’s pattern of bright sunflowers. He tapped the envelope on the table, his lips pressed into a tight line, and sighed again. He gestured to his grandson to pull up a chair and Mario joined them, the foursome crowded around the tiny table.

“I suspect she told you her side of things, yes?”

“No, not really. A bit . . . I think I’ve figured most of it out,” Lucy said.

Paolo smiled. “Then now it is my turn.”

Tuscany, Italy
Present Day

After Mario settled them all with fresh coffee and pastries to fortify themselves for the story ahead, Paolo cleared his throat and began. He spoke in a rush, stopping only when he was unsure of a word in English, as though he’d waited for years to tell the story. Now that the dam shattered, the story flowed out like water.

When I turned sixteen, my parents sent me to family in New York City. My older brother died in the war and I think my parents thought sending me away would keep me safe, make me forget about the glories of war. At the time, I did not understand their reluctance to lose another son in the grinding, crushing war machine. I wanted to go and fight, to chase victory, sure of the glamor of war. Now, that I am a parent, a grandparent, even a great-grandparent, I know what it is to want to protect your child. Instead of fighting, I went to Yale and studied art, always a fascination to me. I wanted to be a painter but . . . God did not give me enough talent so I studied instead.

My professor joined the military and became part of the allies’ effort to preserve the world’s art treasures from the destruction of war. When my country fell, in 1943, I joined them, to help, as a translator. My country became a war zone, centuries of art at risk. The monastery at Monte Cassino fell . . . so much art destroyed. So, we did what we could to protect the remaining treasures. My work involved taking the art out of the cities to hide it in the countryside, in little nooks and crannies, tiny towns in the foothills, places where the enemy would not think to look or to bomb.

So, one day, we came to Ali d’Angelo. They sat on the top of a hill, filled with a warren of deep caves, where they’d aged their wine for centuries, as well as a stone church with a thick basement. We brought truck after truck up to stash our treasures away, like squirrels before the winter. And there I met Belladonna. She worked in the church, typing correspondence for the priest, who helped us. So, we would drive up under cover of evening and leave out at dawn. After our cargo was unloaded, we would sit in the caves and talk.

Belladonna was the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen, before or since. She also loved art, which made her even more beautiful in my eyes. We loved to chat during the long nights of waiting, after the art was secured.

One night, she showed me the treasure of Ali d’Angelo, the tiny painting of the Coronation of the Virgin surrounded by orange blossoms by diNovi. You will not have heard of him. His works would have rivaled Michelangelo had he lived. Instead, he died after the love of his life married someone else. All we have left are the paintings of the Virgin—based on his own lost love—surrounded by flowers and trees. Ali d’Angelo possessed the
Orange Blossoms
. It hung in pride of place in their ladies chapel for many centuries, though by the time I arrived in Ali d’Angelo, they’d hidden it neatly away in the vineyard caves. Belladonna shared this treasure with me and my great passion for art. We would admire the artwork together and talk of our favorite books.

She’d been engaged to the most handsome boy in the village but he’d gone off to war and not come back. I loved to talk to her—she was so quick-witted and smart. I remember the moment I realized I was already in love with her. We argued about
Pride and Prejudice
.

“She married him for Pemberley alone.” She teased me and laughed when she saw my expression. I was lost—that rich, throaty laugh did it. Looking back, I think it was that moment when I forever lost my heart.

One day, I finally worked up the courage to kiss her. By then, she’d confided to me she had not been in love with her fiancée—she’d only agreed to marry him out of duty and expectation. His family—the Innocentis—owned the store in Ali d’Angelo and she knew joining their families made sense. But, even though she had not loved him, she still mourned him.

Finally, when we had stored all we could in the caves, I needed to move on to Roma. I promised I would return. I wanted to marry her. I was gone for many months, only able to write occasionally. That’s when I sent her this photo, hoping she would not forget me. One day, in late summer 1944, I managed to come back here. I was on my way to a mission near Venice but I stopped in Ali d’Angelo—just for one day, just to get a glimpse of my beloved Belladonna.