The Lost Art of Second Chances (17 page)

“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 . . .”

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. S
hould 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. But, 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.”

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.

“Nonna Belladonna? How did you get here?” She struggled to rise from her perch on the sofa and he dashed to help. She took his arm, smiling up at him, her espresso eyes alight with mischief.

“I took a bus. If I could get away from Mussolini and his friends and cross an ocean, getting here was no trouble. Show me your office.”

“Nonna, I have a client,” Jack protested.

“I’ll take care of it, Jackson,” his father said from behind him. “Belladonna.” He nodded at Nonna and she nodded back, a tight jerk of her head. Nonna never liked his father and never troubled herself to conceal it.

Jack led her down the hall to his office, helping her to lower into his visitor chair. Her bright eyes darted around the office, evaluating the bland furnishings and the view of the brick building next door. “I do not see much of you in here, Jackson. Where are your boats? Your love of history?”

“I didn’t decorate it, Nonna. We hired someone to do that.” Jack shrugged. The decor in his office was all federal style, in blues and creams and burgundy, law-related knickknacks and gewgaws scattered about on the gleaming cherry furniture. A small silver frame sat on his desk with a recent photo of his boys in it. Other than that, nothing personal.

“Someone who did not know you. It shows.” She shook her head, pursing her lips as though she fought not to say more.

“Surely you didn’t come all the way across town to discuss my decorating choices.” Jack smiled. “What can I do for you, Nonna?”

“I’ve come to write a will. And ask something of you.”

When she first explained her madcap plan, he sat at his desk and shook his head. “Nonna, you should write it all out for her. Just tell her your story, your secret, whatever it is.”

“How did you know I have a secret?”

“I work at the retirement homes sometimes. Everyone there has many secrets. Also, people who have nothing to hide don’t develop insane quests.”

“Not insane. I love Lucia, but she is hard-headed. Stubborn as her grandfather.”

“I don’t remember Nonno Tony as being stubborn. You were the stubborn one.”

“Yes, perhaps she gets this from both of us. An Italian curse. No matter. She still needs to experience it. If I just write this down, it’s a story she read—like a novel or a movie, yes? Lucia, she must experience it. I would feel better if you would go as her escort.”

“You want me to take a vacation to Italy with your granddaughter?”

“Yes, exactly.” She smiled at him, like a proud teacher with a favorite pupil.

“To help find someone and bring something to them? But you’re not going to tell me who or what?” She nodded, pulling a lumpy padded manila envelope from her bag and handing it to him. “Give her this.”

Jack sighed. “Okay, Nonna. I’ll deliver this to her—when the time comes, which I hope won’t be for many years yet.”

Even as he said it, Jack knew his wish would not come true. Nonna looked frail, the grooves on her face much deeper than they’d been when he was a boy. He swallowed hard and fought not to let the tears prickling at the back of his eyes show. He cleared his throat. “I will write your will as you requested.”

“
Grazie, caro
. You are a good boy, a dutiful son, though your father does not deserve as much. Just remember you have much to learn too, yes?”

“Yes, Nonna,” Jack answered dutifully. She patted him on the cheek, her hands soft and smelling of roses. She pressed the small box of cookies into his hands, and left. He hadn’t seen her again, allowing his secretary to make sure the papers were signed and notarized. Yet another regret.

A few moments after Nonna left, his father appeared at the door, two steaming cups of coffee in hand. “Did Belladonna bring any of those lemon cookies?”

Jack smiled at his eagerness and how much he reminded him of his sons. He waved his hand at the unopened cookie box on the edge of his desk. “Help yourself.”

His father placed the two cups of coffee on Jack’s desk, carefully avoiding the legal tomes and briefs strewn there and settled his comfortable girth into the chair Nonna had vacated. Jack raised his eyebrows. “A coffee klatch?”

“What did Belladonna want?” Jack fiddled with his pen and shrugged. His father’s eyes narrowed and his mouth pressed into a thin line before selecting a cookie. “I see. A will.”

“Why does she dislike you so much?” Jack asked. His father swallowed the cookie, pursing his lips. He made a show of selecting another from the box and shrugged. “I suppose you’re old enough to know. She never approved of me and Susan.”

“Lucy’s mom?” Jack’s jaw dropped. “What about you and Susan?”

“We had an affair,” his father replied, stating this bombshell fact as calmly and coolly as he would remark on the weather. Jack sat dumbfounded as questions bubbled through his mind.

“Did Mom know?”

“I expect she did. We agreed on an open marriage for your sake. Back then, Hamiltons didn’t get divorced.”

Jack sighed. His father would never get over he and Jenny splitting up.

“Susan—she’s quite a woman. But Belladonna didn’t approve. After your mom died, I thought Susan would like to make it official. Got down on one knee to ask her and everything. But she up and moved to Florida on me. She could never be tied down, Susan.”

Applebury, Massachusetts
Present Day

After he came home from Italy, Jack threw himself into his miserable work, refusing to speak to his father about his trip. Calling on the dogged determination that got him through law school and then his practice, he went to New Hampshire and researched Don’s farm. He found it, about a half an hour from the state line, where the urban sprawl from Boston gave way to bucolic splendor. The crisp fall day, with a sky of perfect sharp blue dotted with fluffy cotton clouds, looked as though nature had been Photoshopped. He passed stands bursting with fall produce, rust colored apples, deep-orange pumpkins. Here and there, a few trees already changed into their autumn party dress but most of the trees still wore green tipped with gold. Resolutely, he pushed thoughts of his time in Tuscany away, his time with Lucy, over far too soon.