It Happened in Tuscany

by Gail Mencini

  The first word Sophie couldn’t understand, but the cry sounded like “Hey.” The soldiers cocked their guns. “Aim.” The rifles lifted.

  “Fire.” The crack of the bullets split the air.

  Another command and they cocked their guns. Aimed. Shot.

  Three times the weapons fired. Three times seven. Twenty-one guns for a veteran of the Second World War, one of the legendary 10th Mountain soldiers who fought the Germans and the weather in the treacherous mountains of Italy.

  The commander and the uniformed, gun-bearing soldiers raised their hands with deliberation and held a salute. A beret-wearing soldier brought a silver bugle to his mouth. The mournful sound of Taps rang through the air.

  Tears gushed down Sophie’s cheeks. The tune ended, and the bagpipe resumed its piercing song.

  The soldiers slowly lowered their hands to their sides. Two of them moved to the casket and with precision and respect, folded the flag. They walked to Sophie and held it out to her.

  “Thank you.” She accepted the Stars and Stripes triangle and held the fabric to her chest. The men saluted, pivoted, and returned to their places.

  People drifted away from the gravesite.

  Sophie forced herself to stop crying because she thought it might be disrespectful to shed tears on the flag.

  One of the last riflemen approached Sophie. “Ma’am,” he said, holding out his hand. “I collected the spent shells. Would you like them?”

  “Thank you. I would.”

  Sophie stood alone by the gravesite.

  Will, I think you died content. You found Francesca and she forgave you. You got to meet your daughter and granddaughter. I truly hope the facts convinced you that you were a hero, not a coward. We honored your wish to bury you in Colorado soil, next to Marie.

  Thank you for being my friend and for allowing me to be part of this journey with you. I suspect you helped me much more than I helped you.

  Will’s attorney, a tall, thin man, walked up to Sophie. “I’ll drive you home.”

  She nodded.

  “Will instructed me to go over his will with you.”

  “Can’t this wait? He’s not in the ground yet.”

  He shook his head.

  “I don’t care about his will. He was my friend, and he’s gone.”

  “I know. I hate to do this, but Will insisted.”

  Sophie studied his face. He didn’t look heartless.

  “You can say ‘no.’ You have the right. I must attempt to carry out Will’s instructions, but this is your choice.”

  She fingered the pear-shaped sapphire that hung from her neck on a silver chain. “Will was stubborn.”

  The man smiled. “He certainly was.”

  “Did he say why we need to go over the will now?”

  “He said his will would change the course of your life.”

  86

  The attorney sat behind his desk in a burgundy, high-backed leather chair.

  Sophie sat in a tufted chair facing him. She glanced at the row of diplomas on the wall and the mahogany bookcase behind him filled with law tomes.

  Does he ever read those books, or are they for show?

  Sophie’s head hurt, and her eyes burned. A numbing fog surrounded her.

  Why did Will insist on this torture?

  The man tapped his pen against the document on his desk. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  She nodded.

  The lawyer shuffled a few papers. A close-lipped smile flickered over his face when he found the page he wanted. “Here.” He held it out toward her. “This is for you.”

  Will’s Catholic school-trained cursive ran in straight lines across the paper. It was a letter from Will to her.

  Dear Miss Sophie,

  I suspect you’re crying. You should stop that now. I’m dead and with Marie, which is how it should be.

  I found my beautiful Francesca and got to meet my daughter, Maura, and spunky grand-daughter, Luisa, because of you. No one could have given me a more remarkable gift.

  I said, stop crying.

  Sophie chuckled at this and wiped away her tears before reading further.

  You were angry, and rightfully so, when I kept secrets about Francesca from you. I hid something else from you. I couldn’t tell you before because I didn’t know if my gamble would pay off.

  I lost someone I loved, and you did, too. We were alike that way.

  The day you told me you had to put Bangor down, I talked to those folks up at CSU about him. They said an experimental treatment might help. No guarantee. They offered to apply for a grant, but funding would likely be too late, they said.

  I knew that dog was all you had. I gave CSU the money for his treatment.

  You’ll want to call them after you finish reading this. Now you understand why you needed to come to meet this “suit” immediately. You wouldn’t want to take off somewhere and leave poor Bangor to the researchers. The experiment worked, and those lab rats will give Bangor back to you if you go fetch him.

  Now you can drive with Bangor to Maine like you planned before I got in your way.

  Sophie, you gave me back my love, my Francesca. You also gave me back my honor.

  Thank you.

  Your friend,

  Will

  P.S. I’m leaving half of my estate to Francesca, Maura, and Luisa. They’re my family.

  You will receive the other half. I figure it is enough for your road trip with Bangor, a house or a condo, and a wedding if you decide to marry someone. It’ll provide you a good start in life. The rest is up to you.

  P.P.S. Have a good life. Respect love for the gift it is.

  I love you.

  Sophie wept.

  87

  She gave Will’s World War II skis to one of his “Over the Hill Gang” buddies, who accepted them with a nod and silent tears.

  Will had already given Marie’s good jewelry to Sophie. He said that he couldn’t give his American wife’s jewelry to his Italian daughter, now could he?

  Sophie hid the jewelry in her underwear drawer. No one held an interest in her thongs these days, so she figured that was a safe spot.

  A big truck from the Salvation Army would come in three days to clear out Will’s apartment. They would empty most of her apartment, too. The items Sophie wanted to keep, like her “hope chest” and extra clothes, she hired movers to put in a storage unit she rented.

  One item of Will’s, though, Sophie wanted to keep for herself. He hadn’t outright given it to her, but she chalked that up to a rare oversight on his part.

  Sophie ran her palm over the lid of the box made of aspen wood. The box was kitten-smooth from its finely sanded construction and years of Will’s hand being slowly drawn over its surface.

  The first time she saw the box, roughly the dimensions of a piece of copier paper and about five inches tall, Will’s palm drifted across the top. Once. Twice. The caressing stroke of a father on his baby’s back.

  The box itself wasn’t remarkable, the type one found in any number of mountain gift shops that feature locally made crafts. Will spent most of his years skiing and hiking the Colorado Rockies. Aspen trees dotted the slopes with their silvery trunks and autumn blaze of sun-kissed golden leaves.

  The barest whisper of a satin finish covered the box, with the typical blond aspen coloration except for one thread of a coffee-colored swirl.

  Sophie sat at Will’s round wooden table with the box before her. Bangor lay curled against her leg. His warm body comforted her in the empty apartment. She lifted the lid and removed the contents.

  Will’s honorable discharge papers from the Army, dated 1945.

  The royal blue presentation box, with the title “Bronze Star Medal,” made Sophie catch her breath. She lifted the cover. Inside, on the upper section of the gold fabric, rested a fabric ribbon bar and a lapel pin. They matched the prestigious award of merit, with a scarlet ribbon, split by a brilliant blue stripe and white edging.

  The bronze sta
r itself and its larger red ribbon pin were missing from the case. Will left the medal in Italy by Tom Hermann’s grave.

  She removed Francesca’s treasured airmail letter, faded with age. Sophie pictured Will reading the fragile document through the years.

  She recognized the last item in the box.

  It was a long, narrow “to do” list, the kind that comes as a pad of pull-off sheets. A graphic of a quizzical-looking bulldog highlighted the top of the page.

  Sophie gave this to Will with her answer about accompanying him to Italy. Will kept the paper with his most prized possessions.

  She had written one word.

  Yes.

  88

  Bangor—the one in Maine—was not what Sophie expected.

  She didn’t research it or even look at pictures of the port city on the Penobscot River before she arrived. Bangor was once the boomtown lumber capital of the world. Over-foresting, pollution of the river, and completion of the Transcontinental Railroad led to a decline in the importance of Bangor to the lumber industry.

  She and her bulldog companion visited the tourist sites. They had their photograph taken by the thirty-one-foot-tall statue of Paul Bunyan and went to sites notable because of their role in books by its famous resident, Stephen King.

  Sophie and Bangor sat beside the Thomas Hill Standpipe one afternoon. In a stroke of luck, today was one of the four days each year that the landmark opened for tours. Stephen King supposedly wrote much of the book, “It,” sitting at the water tower’s base. The only inspiration that hit Sophie was to figure out a way to carry Bangor up the stairs with her.

  The 360-degree views made her climb up the one hundred steps worthwhile. Crimson and apple reds, fire and apricot oranges, gold and butterscotch yellows, emerald and chartreuse greens, tawny brown and bronze—the waves of hardwoods in their fall colors dazzled her.

  A waitress in the diner where Sophie stopped for lunch recommended she and Bangor take a walk on the paths by the Bangor Waterfront.

  Sophie drove to the park after lunch. Food trucks and people filled the grounds. A paved trail meandered through the grassy areas. An outdoor concert pavilion anchored one end of the park and a casino loomed large at the other.

  Sophie and Bangor strolled down the walkway. Two women sped past Sophie. They wore business casual clothing and sneakers. Three whiskered men in T-shirts and jeans ambled in the direction of the casino.

  A few people lingered by the trucks to buy food for a late lunch. A mother and a baby lolled on a blanket spread across the grass.

  Loneliness bombarded Sophie. Tears wet her eyes. Her weeks with Will were only an eye blink of time. She missed him.

  Sophie turned around and led Bangor back to her car.

  One tourist destination remained on her list of places to visit. Can I handle it?

  She searched on her phone and found the address and a description. Mount Hope Cemetery, established in 1834, was the second oldest garden cemetery in the U.S. What is a garden cemetery?

  Scenes from the movie Pet Sematary, based on Stephen King’s novel by the same name, were filmed there. She had rented the movie one Halloween. That was the first—and last—horror movie she watched alone.

  The wooded, hilly acres surprised her. Ponds lay nestled between hills, and grottos peaked out from moss- and fern-covered slopes.

  Curved-top grave markers clustered in small groups across the vast sections of grass and in the shady, leaf-strewn ground under the trees. The faces of the ancient burial monuments had been worn and whitewashed by time. A few of the groupings had turned black rather than white over the ages.

  Sophie edged the car into a turnout and clipped on Bangor’s leash. Her feet carried her uphill on one of the many footpaths. A large memorial graced the crest of the hill, and beyond it sat a cannon. She read the inscription. This monument honored servicemen who died or went missing in action during the Korean War.

  Sophie and Bangor wandered farther into the sprawling park. She stopped to read the names and dates on a few of the headstones and found several that dated back to the 1800s. She traced the inscriptions with her fingers.

  She walked on footpaths through the sunny, park-like lawn and the shaded trees in their autumn splendor. Bangor strolled with her.

  She had no desire to find the locations of the scenes from King’s movie.

  Her breaths came slow and deep. A sense of peace and respectful honor for those who rested here cocooned her. Bangor looked up at her with his big, dark eyes. He felt it, too.

  Sophie didn’t know if the magic emanated from Mount Hope’s garden cemetery design or stemmed from the centuries-old markers. This burial ground did not paralyze her with the traumatic memories of burying her parents, Marie, and Will.

  Sophie and Bangor sat in her car. What now?

  89

  Sophie had pictured herself and Bangor standing by a lighthouse, peering out at the Atlantic Ocean together. She wouldn’t find that in Bangor, as it sprang up along on a river, not the ocean.

  Now, more than ever, Sophie needed to stand on the coastline and look out at the water. It was that vast body of water, and so much more, that caused the separation between her and Niccolò.

  She refused to feel sorry for herself. Will gave her everything she needed to start a new life. What happened now and in the future was hers to determine.

  Lighthouse research, Sophie decided, was in order.

  The Fort Point Lighthouse in Stockton Springs beckoned vessels in on their way to Bangor. The photos of the lighthouse, though, didn’t look like the one she had imagined before the trip.

  Sophie’s research led her to the West Quoddy Head lighthouse.

  Not only did West Quoddy Head have a cool name, but it was on the easternmost point in the U.S. and one of only two standing lighthouses with the distinctive red and white bands. It was perfect.

  Last year in Denver, without knowing its name or anything other than that it was pretty, she stuck a magazine photo of the West Quoddy Head lighthouse on her refrigerator. She had clipped off the description and only kept the photo.

  Sophie couldn’t find that picture when she packed up her apartment and sent most of her belongings to the Salvation Army. In her daze after Will’s death, she must have accidentally thrown it away.

  The sailor’s landmark was practically in Canada, a suitable place for Sophie to decide where she wanted to go next and what she would do with her life.

  The next morning, Sophie and Bangor drove to Lubec, Maine.

  Sophie loved the tour of the two-hundred-year-old lighthouse. It was a clear day at West Quoddy Head. At the top of the watchtower, she contemplated the first keepers. Only hardy souls could be stationed here and entrusted with the responsibility for unknown vessels and sailors fighting the waves.

  How frightening and lonely this post must have been. Sophie learned that about half of the time, fog draped the coastline here, making this a particularly treacherous stretch. West Quoddy Head held the distinction of being one of the first lighthouses with a fog bell.

  Each lighthouse has a unique signature of flashing lights and fog signals. This candy-cane-striped tower called out to sailors with two white flashes every fifteen seconds and, when fog draped the rough, craggy coastline, two blasts on the bell every thirty seconds.

  She was tired of hotel rooms and living out of a suitcase.

  Sophie walked to the edge of the lighthouse grounds. Bangor trudged beside her on his leash. A chilly, damp breeze rolled in off the ocean. The smell of the salty sea filled her nostrils.

  Where should she go to make a home? Will’s generous gift made anything possible.

  Bangor gave up smelling the grass. He lay content on the turf beside her. For Bangor, being with Sophie was home.

  Sophie knew where she had to go.

  She stood there, by the ocean’s edge, and spoke to the crashing waves.

  “We made it to Bangor, Will, and found my lighthouse. The ocean is beautiful and terrifying.
Those early sailors were brave, to go out to sea, never knowing if they’d return.

  “They were like you, Will. You went during wartime with your skis to the mountains of Italy. You risked everything, but you made it home.”

  Bangor stood. He woofed, low and short, at something or someone behind them. He pulled on his leash.

  “Ready to go, Bangor?” Sophie took one more glance at the ocean and turned around.

  Sophie dropped Bangor’s leash and ran. Ran into Niccolò’s arms.

  They stepped back from their lingering kiss when Bangor wedged himself between their legs and plopped down.

  Sophie stroked Niccolò’s face. Tears rolled down her cheeks. “How? How did you know where to find me?”

  He laughed. “I guess that’s one question. I have a few, too. We need to correct an oversight first.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t you think I need to meet the other man in your life?” He knelt beside Bangor. After Bangor smelled his hand, Niccolò gave the dog a thorough rubbing, including his belly and behind the ears.

  Sophie sat down next to Bangor on the grass.

  She hadn’t told Niccolò about her idea for a road trip, only that she sent Bangor to the research lab, one brief stop on the way to dog heaven.

  She pointed to the ground beside her. “OK. You can pet Bangor, but start talking. How did you find me?”

  “Will left a letter for you. He left me one, too.”

  “He did?”

  “He told me if I didn’t go to Maine to find you, I’d be a bigger fool than he had been. He even left me money to hire an investigator to find you. He also left me this.” He held out Sophie’s magazine photo of the West Quoddy Head lighthouse.

  “I hired an investigator as soon as I got Will’s letter and asked her to start looking in Bangor. Luckily, the P.I. trailed you here. I arrived in Bangor this morning. I, ah,” he grinned, “may have broken a few speed limits getting here.”

  Sophie shook her head. It was like a dream. Niccolò and Bangor here, with her, in Maine. She grabbed his arm and squeezed.