The Lost Art of Second Chances (18 page)

After about an hour of searching, he came upon the farm, shielded by overgrown hedges like the castle in a fairytale. Though long abandoned and neglected, the old white farmhouse had been built to last and appeared still structurally sound. The white paint, faded to gray, flaked in all directions and the porch sagged off the front. But the stone foundation seemed sound.

The farmhouse made him think of Lucy, with a painful twist near his heart. They shared a strong friendship, a foundation built to last. Could it withstand the recent tempest of their attempt at romance, the way this old house stood the test of time? He strode through the orchard, the unharvested fruit rotting in the trees and on the ground. He considered Nonna Belladonna, Paolo, and Maria. They’d weathered the storms of history and still managed to produce lovely fruit. He marveled at their respective abilities to find so much joy in life around them, after such bitter harvests.

Jack struggled to adjust to the bitter knowledge that he would never build a life with the woman he’d loved since he was a child. He felt hollow and empty as a jack-o-lantern, his essence scooped out of him and tossed aside. As he wandered through the orchard, he drew a deep shuddering breath, the crisp fall air scorching his lungs. Finally, he sat beneath an ancient, gnarled cherry tree and considered how to fix his wreck of a life.

After several more days of research, he went to the nursing home in search of Don. He found Owen, seated alone by the window, staring at the grounds. Here, an hour south of the farm, the fall colors were far more exuberant than they’d been on the drive. Jack paused for a moment beside the chair, staring out at the scene and admiring how the sun flirted with the clouds, making the shadows dance over the landscape. Another legacy of his time in Italy-he savored the small things more now.

“Where’s your partner in crime, Owen?” Jack said, laying a hand on Owen’s shoulder. The old man didn’t respond for several moments and then heaved a deep sigh.

“Don’s . . . he’s not good, Jackson,” Owen croaked out. Jack dropped into the chair next to him, his breath leaving in a whoosh. He waited, having long learned the virtue of silence when waiting for confidences. “He’s in the hospital. ICU. But . . .” Here, Owen shook his head, like a horse chasing away bothersome flies, and blinked rapidly. “It doesn’t look good, Jack.”

“His heart?” Jack managed.

“No, they think a stroke, last I heard. The nurses here are kind and cheerful enough but they dodge any personal or patient revelations. That hippo law.”

“HIPAA,” Jack corrected absently. “Owen, would you like to go see him?”

After another long moment of contemplation, when the clouds shaded more and more of the landscape, Owen nodded. “Let me see if I can get you sprung from here.”

It proved surprisingly easy for Jack to sign Owen out and he wondered if Nonna Belladonna made her escape a similar way. She’d certainly been wily enough to manage it. Resolutely, he pushed thoughts of Nonna—and painful memories of Lucy—away. He got Owen secured in the car and headed for the hospital. Owen remained silent for most of the ride. He’d always been much more reserved than Don.

“Never got a chance to ask you. How was your trip?” Owen broke the silence.

“Fine,” Jack answered, pretending to concentrate on the traffic.

“So things didn’t work out with your lady friend?”

“They did and they didn’t, Owen. I asked her to marry me and she declined.”

“My Nancy turned me down three times before I finally got her to agree to marry me,” Owen chuckled, “Takes time and patience.”

“You kept asking, even after she turned you down?” Jack asked, as he turned the car into the hospital parking lot.

“Sure I did! I wanted to marry her, didn’t I?”

Jack parked at the hospital and they made it to the ICU, Jack automatically slowing his steps to accommodate Owen’s gait. After a quick conference with the head nurse, they were allowed to visit. Jack may, or may not, have indicated Owen was Don’s brother and implied he was Owen’s son during the conversation. Somehow, he thought the legal gods would forgive him.

Jack always thought of ICUs as a hushed place and certainly it was free from any human conversation. However, the machines whirred and beeped, carrying on their own metallic conversations amongst themselves. Jack and Owen entered Don’s room to find him laying still and quiet on the bed, machines hooked up in all directions. He looked downright tiny, smaller even than Jack’s youngest son. Here, under the harsh lights of the ICU, Don’s skin reminded Jack of an uncracked eggshell. Don’s spirit or essence or soul had already departed. Owen stood by the bed, gripping the handrails so the liver spots stood out against his pale skin. He said nothing for a long time and bowed his head. He crossed himself and stepped away from the bed.

“That’s not Don. It’s just a husk.” Jack started at the brusque pronouncement and glanced at Owen’s face, noting the thin tightness of his lips. “No sense being a ninny about it, Jackson. Don’s gone, no matter what these machines say. Best to face it. Happens the same for all of us in the end and I’m a fair sight closer to it than you are. Take me home.”

“Okay, Owen. May I have a minute?” Owen patted his shoulder and shuffled into the hall.

Jack stared at the not quite Don in the bed, sucked in a deep breath and said. “I found your farm, Don. Did some research. The woman you sold it to—Lois—died back in ‘98. She didn’t have any survivors. It’s fallen into disrepair and is now owned by the state. It’s run down now but it’s got a great foundation, something to build upon.”

“I went halfway around the world to convince the girl next door to fall in love with me. Even though she says she didn’t, I’m pretty sure she did. At any rate, I’m not going to let her go without a fight, just like you told me about your wife, and Owen’s Nancy. She’d love that farm, so here’s what I’m going to do.” Jack outlined his plan and paused for a moment. “Is that alright with you?”

Until his own dying day, Jack would swear on a stack of Bibles, Don smiled around the tubes. That blessing was good enough for him. Don died near midnight that night. When Jack came by a few days later to see if Owen wanted to accompany him to the wake or the funeral, Owen steadfastly refused. The nurses at the nursing home puzzled over it, and fretted Owen wasn’t going to say goodbye to his only friend, but Jack understood. Owen coped with enough death in the war not to have much patience for the ceremonies around it, the trying to pretty-up the unpalatable truth. He’d said his goodbyes to Don at the hospital, and now had nothing left to say.

A week after his return from Italy, at sunset, Jack strode into his father’s office and handed him a single sheet of paper. He sat in this father’s visitor’s chair and waited for him to read it. His father leaned back with a deep sigh and rubbed at his eyes. “Jackson, you cannot quit the firm.”

“I am quitting, Dad. I’m forming the Ali d’Angelo Society. It’s an oral history project to capture the stories of World War II from the remaining survivors, before it’s too late.”

“What will you do for money, son?”

“I’ll teach. Write books, which is what you should do.” At his father’s glare, Jack stood and opened the file cabinet, pulling out legal pads full of his father’s handwriting. “Weren’t these always your dream? Grandpa’s gone, Dad. Why don’t we lay his ghost to rest and get on with our lives?”

“Are you sure this is what you want, Jackson?” Jack strode over and poured them both two fingers of whiskey into cut-crystal tumblers. He returned to the desk and toasted his father.

“I’m sure.” He headed for the door but turned back in the doorway. “And Dad? I have it on good authority Susan is coming to the wedding.”

Applebury, Massachusetts
Present Day

The first time Lucy saw Jack after returning home from Italy, she was walking down the aisle in front of Jenny. He met her eyes and looked quickly behind her to see his ex-wife making her entrance, flanked by their two sons. The second time she saw him, he whisked the boys away so the bridesmaids could take a formal portrait together. By the time she had a chance to search for him again, the reception was in full swing. Before she could find him, the DJ pressed a microphone into her hand.

“Time for your toast.”

Lucy drew a deep breath and made her way to the dais at the front of the tent. She raised her glass of champagne. “Hello, everyone. I’m Lucy Parker. Jenny and I have been best friends since high school. Today, I’d like to thank Jenny and Barb for showing us all what love really looks like.”

Lucy paused to let the crowd applaud, noting with surprise her mother and Jack’s father holding hands and staring into each other’s eyes at a table across the room. “My grandmother emigrated from Italy after the war. I used to beg her to take me back to see her homeland but our timing never worked out. Recently, I traveled to Italy with my oldest friend. “

She paused again, glancing at her beautiful daughter, sitting next to her cousins. “While I was in Italy, I got to meet my grandmother’s first love, who also turns out to be my grandfather. He and my grandmother lost their chance at their forever love and endured living their lives apart. When I was in Italy, I also connected with
my
first love and we explored the road not taken together. And it was glorious, and magical, and messy and all the things love is supposed to be.”

Lucy swallowed hard, trying not to search for Jack in the crowd. She hoped he was here to hear this and that he’d listen to her message. “But, I failed my Nonna by not having the courage to accept that love, of being too afraid to live my dreams. Because of my hesitation, my doubt, my fear, I lost my love again. I’m hoping that eventually, I’ll be able to win him back.

“We’re here today because of Jenny and Barb’s joy and courage in choosing to be together and to celebrate their dream coming true. I’m proud of them and wish them every happiness. And for the rest of us, I wish for the courage to live our dreams.”

Lucy stepped down from the stage, the lights still stinging her eyes. She moved into the shadows, blinking several times to clear her vision, as Barb’s best friend stepped up to the mike for her toast. Lucy glanced around the tent, lit by glittering fairy lights, for Jack—but she couldn’t find him. She sighed. She didn’t think her speech would make up for running from him in Italy, but she hoped he might at least talk to her. She swiped at her eyes and tried to focus on the next toast, smiling and clapping for the cameras. All too quickly, Jenny and Barb twirled around the floor, enjoying their first dance. Though tears flowed freely down her face, Lucy clapped along with the rest, forcing a smile for her friends.

“May I have this dance?” a deep voice behind her said and Lucy whirled around. Jack stood there, his hair rumpled and adorable, a wide smile on his handsome face. She sucked in a deep breath and nodded, putting her hand into his. He pulled her to him and kissed her deeply, his palm warm on her back. She wound her arms around his neck and kissed him back, feeling like she was coming home.

“Hey Juliet, your mom is kissing my dad!” she heard one of Jack’s boys shout as they broke apart and pressed their foreheads together.

Juliet’s amused voice answered, “I can see that.”

Lucy turned in Jack’s strong arms to see Juliet and the boys’ faces. “Are you guys okay with this?”

“I assume that speech was about him?” Juliet inclined her head at Jack and Lucy nodded, feeling her smile stretch across her face as Jack’s father and her mother strolled over, still holding hands.

“Having my uncle for my stepdad won’t be at all weird for me. We can just call me Hamlet!” Juliet laughed and hugged her. The commotion drew Jenny and Barb, who walked over, hand in hand.

“Everyone turn this way please,” the photographer’s bossy voice called. “I need a family portrait.”

As the late autumn breeze shook the leaves from the trees, sending gold and russet and crimson leaves skittering through the tent, like a kiss from beyond the grave, Lucy swore she could hear Nonna Belladonna’s cackling, delighted to finally have her family all together.

Apple Hill Farm, New Hampshire
Present Day

One
Year Later

Lucy waddled out on the Feast of St. Michael the Archangel to harvest the last of the eggplant on the farm she and Jack now owned. The late September sky was a perfect blue bowl above, without a single fluffy cloud to mar the warm golden sunshine. Applebury enjoyed one of its last Indian summer days before the crisp autumn settled in and she meant to enjoy it. Her time in Italy gave her an appreciation for the little things in life that made life worth living. She mentally composed a new blog post for her wildly successful cooking blog about enjoying the seasons as they came. Or would it be better for the cookbook she was contracted to write,
Cooking with Nonna
? Well, she’d write it, and decide later.

She’d gotten this love of gardening from both her grandfathers. She meandered along the rows, snapping away a tomato or a late pepper here and there. The familiar, sharp spicy scent of the tomato plants brought back a visceral memory of the man she knew as her grandfather, Tony. She remembered being a young toddler, playing among the tomato plants at their house. He stood at the end of the row—fussing over his runner beans— in plaid shorts and a white t-shirt, waving to her. “Hi Lucia! Our
bellissima
!” he said and smiled at her grandmother. Tears pricked at her eyes as she thought of the man who’d adored her and who always smelled of peppermint sweets.

She thought, as she often did, of her grandfather by blood, Paolo. Her hand caressed the rounded swell of her belly. He was excited to meet the babe she carried, as well as the rest of the family, when he arrived next month. When she’d called with her news, he’d shouted in to the phone, “I will be there. I will come to America for the christening of the
bella bambina
!”

“We don’t know if it’s a boy or a girl yet.” Lucy laughed into the phone, holding Jack’s hand and smiling into his sparkling green eyes.
How could one life hold so much joy?