The Lost Art of Second Chances (4 page)

Lucy glanced up at Jack, who held the envelope addressed to her. Slowly, he extended his hand, holding the envelope out. Lucy swallowed hard but, deciding to face whatever her grandmother did head on, snatched the thick envelope out of his hand.

She ripped it open, and unfolded the letter. She smiled at the embossed gold owl at the top, remembering a nine year old Juliet carefully choosing the Crane stationery set as a birthday gift for Nonna. She scanned the letter, recognizing the bold handwriting, scrawled across the page in thick black ink, and with a twinge of grief, realized she wouldn’t be seeing her grandmother’s handwriting anymore.

My bellissima Lucia,

Do not mourn for me, my love. I had a wonderful life. I knew I was leaving you, my darling, as my time drew to a close. I still had so much left to tell you and so much still to say. I planned to tell you my story many times but I always lost my courage.

I made so many excuses not to tell you. You were too young; then a busy young wife and mother and then Andrew died, so suddenly. He was a good, kind man, like my Tony, stalwart and strong, faithful to a marriage forged in necessity. I am sorry he’s gone far too soon.

But you are not gone, bellissima.

Life has much more to offer you.

I was going to tell you first about my childhood in the hills of Toscana. I could run on for many pages about my homeland. But I don’t think telling you will fix what is broken inside you. I think you must go there for that. You must experience the Italian sun on your skin, the scent of the vineyards, and the taste of the feasts.

I must ask you for a very great favor. And I hope, in fulfilling my request, you will find your own fate, your destiny, and your dreams.

You are the one I must leave this task to. My own child is not one for dreams, fate, and destiny. I always loved Susan. Always. But we were not alike. Susan arrived soon after I came to this country. She is so American. A modern child. I am an old soul. As are you.

The task I must ask of you is both very simple and very challenging. I want you to go to Tuscany, find a man named Paolo LaRosa, and give him the enclosed letter. I bequeath him my painting of the Madonna and you must deliver it. He will tell you why.

And he’ll be able to tell you the rest of the story too.

I hope you’ll understand. Do not fret. I will send you all the help you need.

And forgive me.

Ti amo, mia nipote bellissima.

Nonna

Without a word, she handed Jack the letter and waited while he read it. He read it twice and lifted his gaze to her. “So, your grandmother left you a quest.”

“She must have gone crazy at the end.”

“She was crazy her whole life, I think. Dad always said so.”

Lucy chuckled. She’d forgotten how Jack’s dad and Nonna never got along. “She always marched to the beat of her own drummer, that’s for sure.”

“When she came to see me, she’d obviously put a lot of thought and planning into this. She said that you’d deferred your dreams, just like her. She couldn’t make it right for herself, but she thought she could do it for you. Do you know what she meant?”

“She said something similar on my wedding day. Mom fastened my veil. Nonna stepped up and put her hand on my stomach. We hadn’t told her I was pregnant. And she said I would have a beautiful girl and then she said, ‘what of your dreams,
bellissima
?’”

“So, she was upset you were pregnant?”

“No, not precisely. At the time, I thought, ‘What dreams?’ I was never like you guys with your carefully laid plans for the future. Not me—I never knew what I wanted to do.”

“I never got to choose what I wanted to do. All Hamiltons are lawyers.” Jack shrugged. “Maybe she meant you needed more time to figure it out. When are you going to leave?”

“I can’t possibly go to Italy.”

“Why not?” Jack demanded.

“I mean, maybe next year, when things are more settled.”

“Settled how? You’ve sold the house, moved in here, and Juliet’s off at college. What better time?”

“I can’t afford to go to Italy. I have a job. I have a life here. How am I supposed to find some guy named Paolo and give him this worthless old painting?” Lucy shoved the painting aside, her head beginning to throb. She rested her elbows on the table, dropping her throbbing head to her hands.

“I think you owe it to Nonna to try.”

“I loved Nonna but she wasn’t the most pragmatic woman in the world.” Lucy said, rubbing her temples. “No one would do this.”

“Nonna thought you would. I’ll go with you, if you want me to.”

Lucy looked into his face, his brilliant green eyes locked on hers. Once, a long time ago, Lucy hoped for more with Jack but . . . now? Now, the ghost of her husband lay between them, along with the heavy burden of Lucy’s guilt. The weight of their shared history would sink any relationship. There would be no second chances for Lucy and Jack.

“Haven’t you always wanted to go to Italy?” Jack cajoled. “She asked me to go with you, to escort you, she said. I will, if you want.”

Lucy imagined going to Italy, Jack at her side. Seeing the marvelous sites of Florence, strolling hand in hand, stealing kisses at the . . . Her shoulders stiffened as she remembered Andrew offering her a second honeymoon to Italy. She shouldn’t be thinking of Jack going in Andrew’s place. She shook her head.

“Did you help her plan this?”

“Nonna came to me with this all intact. I had no part in helping her develop this idea,” Jack sighed. “But, I do agree with her.”

“Agree with her?” Lucy snapped, crossing her arms over her chest and glaring at him. “Agree I should go to Italy?”

“Agree you should live your life. You didn’t die with Andrew,” Jack said, in a calm, measured tone that was far worse than shouting. He stood, pulling his jacket off the chair and tossing it over his arm before he grabbed his briefcase. “You claim you want a lover. Maybe you’ll find one there.”

Lucy flushed at the reminder of her earlier outburst. “I’m not going to Italy, Jack.”

“Suit yourself, Lucy. You always do.” He left and she sat, fuming, thinking of nasty rejoinders to hurl at him rather than facing the enormity of the task her grandmother set before her. When the setting sun hit her eyes, she realized she’d been sitting at the table all afternoon, no closer to a decision.

Should she go to Italy? Find this Paolo person?

And what secrets awaited her there if she did?

Ali d’Angelo, Italy
May 1940

“Why are you so happy,
mia bellisima
?” Babbo asked her as Bella tried on different smiles in the reflection of the teaspoon. Perhaps her new hairstyle was too heavy for her face? She pasted on a demure smile.
Insipid.
She frowned at her reflection before poking at her hair. The heavy dark mass never held curls and hung, heavy on her shoulders.

“The Innocentis come back from their trip today.” Ava sighed, with all the put-upon irritation of a new teenager. “She’s primping.”

“Your time will come, little bird,” her father said, before exchanging a small smile with her mother and ducking behind his morning newspaper. Bella ignored them. Her parents would be delighted if she and Tommaso became engaged. So far, she’d told them truthfully he hadn’t asked.

But ask he would, eventually. A man like Tommaso valued tradition and respectability and would view their marriage as a way to secure his place in tiny Ali d’Angelo society.

Bella liked Tommaso. Handsome, sweet and kind, he could be clever and funny when he wished. She’d be a lucky girl to marry him. Wasn’t
Mamma
always saying so? His family, especially his sweet sister, Maria, would be good and kind to her as well. She could do worse than Tommaso Innocenti, as her father often pointed out.

Nearly a year prior, Tommaso finally acted on the spark that lit between them on that long ago May Day. They’d begun a quiet, steady courtship, enjoying visits to the cinema, long walks, and occasional drives together. Tommaso was good company, respectful and kind.

Bella’s family owned the oldest and most prosperous vineyard in Ali d’Angelo. Tommaso’ father ran the most prosperous store in town. The strategically brilliant marriage of the eldest Innocenti boy to the eldest Rossi girl would unite major commerce of their village for another generation. Their children would inherit their prosperity. The Innocentis and the Rossis ruled the village of Ali d’Angelo for centuries and, with her and Tommaso united in marriage, she brought the vineyard and he the store. Together, they would rule over the glory days again. A time of peace and prosperity. It only made sense.

Bella wasn’t sure she wanted her marriage to make sense.

She considered Marianne in her beloved
Sense and Sensibility
. Though Bella herself identified much more with the sensible, stalwart Eleanor, Marianne’s definition of love—
love is to burn, to be on fire
—resonated with Bella too. If only she could feel like that about Tommaso, instead of waiting around for her own Willoughby. Though, that hadn’t ended so well for Marianne, had it? Bella kept trying to convince herself Tommaso was her own Colonel Brandon or Edward Dashwood.

Bella liked Tommaso, possibly even loved him, but she definitely didn’t burn for him. There was no fire, no spark, and no passion. Bella didn’t consider herself a romantic but she should feel more than this insipid liking for her future husband, shouldn’t she? She glanced at her reflection in the teaspoon again and hastily unwrinkled her face, relieved to see the lines that never disappeared on her mother’s tired face vanish from hers.

“What time does Tommaso arrive back?” Her mother asked and Bella shrugged. “I’m sure he’ll come to see you.”

“What is
Il Duce
doing now, Babbo?” Bella said, cleverly distracting both her parents into another endless discussion of some international conference.
Who cared about such things? How could it affect them?
She paid little attention to her father and mother’s low urgent conversation. They feared another war, like the one that separated Babbo and Mama when they were young.

“I saw you kissing Tommaso last time you walked out together, under the cherry trees,” Ava hissed. “I should tell Babbo where you’re going.”

“Only if you want me to tell Babbo about your skipping out the back door of the school house last Wednesday,” Bella answered, and her sister subsided into silence.

Later, within an hour of the afternoon train whistle sounding, dark-haired Tommaso arrived at their garden gate, his hair still damp enough to show comb tracks and wearing his best suit. Bella’s stomach clenched. He’d definitely propose today then. He carried a small nosegay of pale pink blossoms and small souvenirs for each of them, full of tales of his Easter pilgrimage to Rome.

“How thoughtful!” exclaimed
Mamma
with a significant eye at Bella as she exclaimed over a scarf. Desperate to delay the question for which she didn’t have an answer, Bella fussed over arranging the roses and opened the small packet of postcards he brought her.

“It’s famous artworks, just as you like.” Bella flipped through them. Tommaso brought her cards of the impressionists, all pale and pastel.
His sister chose these
. The perfectly lovely and bland Maria picked the demure watercolors. Bella preferred vibrant art, with bright, fanciful colors such as the Renaissance masters with their jewel tones. Bella flashed to the rich oil paintings in the tiny village church. Even now, centuries after they’d been painted, the colors were still vibrant, life-like, alive. She sighed and pasted on a smile. Tommaso meant well and he tried but, like the impressionists, he only saw the blurred outline of her, instead of the essence.

After a few moments of polite and dull chitchat with her parents and a few kind words to a still-petulant and surly Ava, Tommaso extended a hand to her and said, “Bella, would you care for a walk on this lovely day?”

Mamma
ushered them to the door, eagerly nudging a reluctant Bella outside. They walked together, wending their way among the familiar vineyards; their vines still winter brown, not yet coated with the leafy promise of spring or heavy with the grapes to be harvested in the fall.

Tommaso chatted amiably about the sights of Rome. Though Bella wanted to hear about the artwork he’d seen, Tommaso cooed over the lingering meals he’d enjoyed. Tommaso loved to eat. As a young man, still active and hearty, he hadn’t paid the price for his indulgences yet. Bella didn’t doubt that in twenty years, Tommaso would be as round as his father.

The bright sunlight danced over the early spring landscape, dazzling them. Bumblebees and birds flittered from blossom to blossom, drunk on the heady nectar of such immense possibility as the world in springtime. A light breeze flirted with Bella’s skirt, forcing her to hold it down with her free hand. Her other hand rested on the crook of Tommaso’ elbow, feeling his strong muscles move under the tweedy fabric. The breeze carried the scent of freshness, the earth renewing itself after a long winter. Light green new leaves fuzzed the trees, cradling still furled buds, on the verge of blooming. Tommaso led her to a blossoming cherry tree, its boughs dancing in the spring breeze. He pressed her back against it, crowding her against the tree trunk. She looked up at his handsome face, silhouetted against the cerulean spring sky, as cherry blossoms cascaded down to cover them like floral confetti.

He bent his head and brushed his warm lips over hers. Bella shut her eyes and clutched at his strong shoulders, sliding her fingers up to twine in the silky softness of his dark hair. Gently, he pulled her closer but not too close. Tommaso insisted they both remain chaste for their wedding night, in accordance with the dictates of the church. After a few short moments, Tommaso broke the kiss, stepping back. Bella licked at her lower lip, tasting the cinnamon gum he habitually chewed.

“Bella, I missed you terribly,
amore mia
.”

When he said it, Bella realized she hadn’t missed him. Not at all. She ducked her head, so he wouldn’t see the panic churning through her reflected in her eyes. She shifted over to sit on a nearby boulder, a prime spot for overlooking the village.