The Lost Art of Second Chances

by Courtney Hunt

  Bella didn’t possess such lofty goals for herself. She’d take just being queen for a day.

  For all her thirteen years, other village girls donned May crowns of woven roses and jasmine, carrying a matching miniature version on a silk pillow. Her day would come.

  And this was it—finally her year, her turn to be Queen of the May.

  Such an honor would mean she’d get a new dress. Bella knew just the one she wanted, in apple-green, trimmed with white lace, displayed in the window of the Innocentis shop in the village square. Her parents would close up the vineyard for the day and come to stand with the other town elite, mamma’s golden curls covered with her black lace mantilla, watching the children process. Bella imagined her proud parents, her perpetually exasperated mother gifting her with a rare smile, her stoic father wiping tears of pride from his eyes, her sister turning the color of her new dress with envy. She would school her features into a placid expression as she took the tiny woven crown from her handmaiden and gently place it on the Madonna’s head. She’d carefully place her hawthorn bouquet in front of the ancient painting, her head piously bowed, before leading her fellow students to the pews, songs of praise swelling around them.

  “What has you in such a happy, dreamy mood this morning, mia bellissima?” Her father asked as he came in from his morning walk among the vines. Bella’s family owned the oldest of the local vineyards, the Bacio Belladonna. Bella herself was the vineyard’s seventh namesake.

  “She thinks she’ll be Queen of the May this year,” Ava, her nosy little sister, answered for her. Bella glared at her before remembering the May Queen needed to be placid and ladylike. She smoothed out her features and bestowed her best smile on her Babbo. He grinned back, softening the lines on his tired face. Her mother handed him his strong morning coffee and he sank gratefully down into the chair beside her.

  “I hope the sisters pick you, mia bellissima, for your sake.”

  “Pick her? She argues with the sisters far too much,” Ava scoffed. When Babbo turned to speak to her mother, Bella twisted the skin on Ava’s forearm in a vicious pinch. Her answering howl drew the attention of both parents and Bella scurried out of the house to school.

  At school, Bella waited all day for the announcement. After all, this was her last chance. She’d move on to secondary school next year, a shadowy holding ground between primary school and adulthood, where they didn’t crown May Queens. Bella sat next to her friend, Mary Teresa, and considered how to best appear surprised when her name was called.

  “Who do you suppose it’ll be?” Teresa asked.

  “Sister Gianna says it will be the most worthy girl in school so . . .” Bella shrugged, not wanting to appear too certain of her victory.

  “Won’t be me, then,” Teresa laughed. “Did you do the reading . . .”

  When the old Mother Superior made her slow, creaky way to the stage, Bella smoothed her hair with her hand and shushed her friend, cutting their homework discussion short. After several Hail Marys, the elderly nun smiled at the girls and said, “You must be anxious to hear who your May Queen will be. The sisters and I struggled with our decision, as we do every year. The girl chosen must be an example of a true Catholic woman, a model for the others to fashion themselves upon. This year, we’ve chosen . . .”

  Bella uncrossed her legs to stand. She twined her shaking fingers in her uniform skirt and half rose out of her chair when the name the Mother Superior said registered.

  “Maria Innocenti?” She gasped, dropping back into her seat with a bounce. “Did she say . . .?”

  “Figures.” Teresa nodded sagely. “The Innocenti’s store is doing well since they started selling that chestnut spread. They made a big donation to the school, my mom said.”

  “But Maria?” Bella said. There was nothing wrong with Maria Innocenti, a little round dumpling of a girl, her uniform always perfectly straight, never a hair out of place. Though she wasn’t at the top of the class, she did her schoolwork and spoke respectfully to the sisters. Dutiful and sweet. Everything that Bella—independent, headstrong, intelligent—was not.

  * * *

  Toscana bloomed in every direction. The day of the May Festival dawned bright and clear, with just a few puffy clouds for contrast in the perfect blue sky. Trees limbs waved in the spring breeze, delighted with their new jade colored coat of leaves. The fields faded from the intense emerald of early spring into the washed out chartreuse of summer. Bright red poppies dotted the fields like angel’s blood. Yellow wildflowers filled the valley below, interspersed here and there with purple sage blooms. Olive groves and vineyards tumbled down the side of the mountain like Lady Bountiful’s skirts.

  And, at the moment, Bella loathed every single bit of it.

  For today, Maria Innocenti would steal her rightful place as Queen of the May. Bella glared out her window at the perfect spring day. With a deep sigh, she turned away from the repulsive view of the verdant valley and struggled into her old pink dress. She detested pink. Over repeated washings, the vibrant salmon color dulled to a color paler than cherry blossoms.

  Her mother, working by candlelight over the last several nights, let out the bust and down the hem so Bella could squeeze herself into it today. The hated dress flattened her generous bust and she couldn’t lift her arms above her shoulders. Bella spent the morning with her arms crossed over her flattened chest, glowering at everyone. Maria Innocenti wore a perfect white eyelet dress, her glossy hair in ringlets over her shoulders. Looks like a snowball. Mother Superior caught sight of one of her sharper glares and with a sweet smile, roped Bella into holding the pillow containing the tiny floral crown. Though Bella knew the Mother Superior’s intentions were kind, Bella now had to walk next to Maria, in her new spotless white dress, with her flawless hair. To add insult to injury, now she had to play handmaiden to the dumpling.

  The seven-year-olds, dressed in their First Communion finery, led the procession on a circular route through the town, past all the shops, the tiny homes at the edge of the village, before winding their way around the outer perimeter. The children picked their way along the mountain path, their voices raised in praise. Bella kept her mouth tightly screwed shut. She didn’t feel much like singing.

  Florence was a dark gray smudge on the horizon. Babbo told her it was only about thirty miles but, to Bella, it might as well be on the moon. She wished herself there. Anywhere other than here, next to the usurper who even sang perfectly too. The silk pillow made Bella’s hands sweat, the cloying scent of roses and jasmine coating her throat and choking her.

  After what seemed an interminable parade, the procession entered the tiny village church. The sunlight streaming through the stained glass windows turned Maria’s dress into a brilliant jewel colored patchwork. Inside the medieval church, thick stone walls cooled the interior, even in the worst of summer’s heat. Intercessor candles, lit for someone’s special intention, flickered under the statues and artwork of various saints lining the walls. Candles, cloaked with red globes, burned perpetually next to the tabernacle and on the altar. The heavy scent of the incense clogged the air. A sense of timelessness and eternity pervaded the tiny chapel. They could have been medieval shepherdesses singing songs of praise to the Mother of God or worshippers in some distant, unimaginable future.

  After the townsfolk filed in, the priest sprinkled them with holy water, spattering the front of Bella’s hated pink dress and her cheeks with the cool droplets. The altar boys carried the statue of Mary into the Ladies Chapel, off to the left of the main altar. First, the May Queen would place her bouquet of roses in front of the pride of Ali d’Angelo—a painting of the coronation of Mary as the Queen of Heaven done by some Renaissance master nobody’d ever heard of. Her conscripted handmaiden handed off the small wreath of flowers from the pillow. The May Queen would secure the tiny circlet of flowers—always pink rosebuds twined with white jasmine— on the statue’s head before the young men of the village, dressed in their altar boy outfits, would hoist th
e statue up into the niche carved for her. They’d file into their pews, still singing, waiting for Mass to begin.

  Bella extended the pillow toward Maria, who grasped the crown of tiny flowers, her hands shaking. She stepped forward to place the crown on the lowered statue’s head but her heel caught in the little dip in the rug marking the entrance to the underground crypt below. Every child in Ali d’Angelo knew to avoid the divot, just as they knew the stories of the wicked things living below. Maria stumbled and the miniature crown slipped from her fingers, toppling toward the sacristy floor. Maria froze with horror. Without thinking, Bella darted forward and snatched the blessed crown in mid-air, before it could hit the unblessed floor. The overstrained seams under her arms give way when she moved. She handed the crown back to Maria who gave her a shaky smile before turning away to place the diadem on the statue’s head.

  Bella rolled her eyes. The altar boy stared at her, his chocolate brown eyes dancing with mischievous glee. Maria’s brother, Tommaso. Nearly 15 now. When had he gotten so handsome? His dark hair flopped over his forehead in a wavy fringe. He grinned at her and then, as Bella watched him, flushing with a heat she did not yet understand, he winked.

  He actually winked.

  Bella smiled. Suddenly the day didn’t seem so awful after all.

  Lucy

  Applebury, Massachusetts

  Present Day

  When Lucy spotted the shiny black loafers, she stepped backwards, banging her hip on the stove controls. She clutched the dirty wooden spoon to her chest, spattering her tattered T-shirt with red sauce. Jack Hamilton stood in the doorway, holding a small moving box, his battered black leather briefcase resting on top of it. He grinned at her, amusement lighting his green eyes, boyish and carefree, more like the Jack she remembered than the careworn adult from Nonna’s funeral. As heat crept up her cheeks, she smiled back automatically, hoping he hadn’t heard her ridiculous wish.

  “I knocked. It was open.” He pressed his lips together as though trying not to laugh. He didn’t meet her eyes. She wasn’t sure if it was due to amusement or embarrassment—probably a little of both. Her cheeks grew warmer. “I brought those estate papers for you. The bequest I mentioned when I saw you the other day.”

  “Oh, yes, I thought you were coming on Tuesday,” Lucy gasped, her heart still thumping hard in her chest. Did he hear her pronouncement? If he did, would he say anything? His blank expression showed no sign, his “lawyer face” sliding over his amusement like armor.

  “It is Tuesday,” Jack answered, biting his lower lip, worry lines creasing his forehead.

  “Oh well.” Lucy glanced at the cat calendar hanging on the refrigerator. It still showed last month. Whoops. Lucy gave the sauce a final stir, more to have something to do than anything else.

  Don’t overstir, bellissima. You’ll agitate the vegetables and they will fight in your tummy, yes?

  She turned from the stove and wiped her hands on her makeshift dishtowel apron. “Have a seat, Jack. I made summer sauce. Have some lunch with me.”

  “I couldn’t impose,” Jack began.

  “Don’t be silly! You’re too skinny now without Jenny to cook for you.” Jack hadn’t weathered the divorce well. His well-cut blue pinstripe suit hung off his broad shoulders. His cheekbones were sharp slopes in his too thin face and the bones of his collarbone pushed against his blue dress shirt.

  With a shrug, he nodded and walked to the scrubbed pine table, laying the box on the end of the table and moving his briefcase into the chair next to him. He slung his suit jacket over the chair back and began rolling up his blue sleeves as he sat, before wrestling his red tie loose in one smooth motion.

  With little forethought, the same way she would have cared for Andrew or for Juliet, she poured Jack a glass of milk and ladled up a bowl of hot pasta and sauce. She set it in front of Jack with a napkin and utensils before turning to serve herself. She sat across from him, their knees bumping beneath the tiny kitchenette table crammed into the minuscule eating nook. Though her apartment always seemed tiny after her suburban McMansion, the kitchen seemed even smaller now with Jack in it. Lucy shook her head. Perhaps she just wasn’t used to visitors.

  Jack sampled the sauce and smiled. “Just like Nonna Belladonna always made.”

  “I’ve been cooking a lot lately. I’d gotten out of the habit of cooking from scratch. Relying on convenience foods is more like assembling meals.”

  “It’s wonderful,” he assured her, taking another bite before asking, “How do you like living here?”

  “Oh, well, it’s okay. Convenient to the shops and all that.” Lucy shrugged, glancing around at the tiny, depressing apartment. Twenty paces across and less than that wide. All in boring beige. “I don’t fit in here though. I don’t belong with the swinging singles and the newlyweds.”

  “After Jenny and I split, I moved into Cider Hill View apartments—though there aren’t any views at all. But it’s the same. Apartment living doesn’t suit me either but it’s close for the kids. And it’s better than living with dad. Bad enough to work with him,” Jack said, spooning up more sauce. “How’s your job at the craft store?”

  “It’s not enough to support me for the rest of my life but it’s fun for now. I like being creative.” She slid back in the chair and stood to serve Jack seconds. “We moved so much while Andrew served in the military I never seemed to be able to establish anything. When we came back here, I figured I’d wait until Juliet was out of high school before settling on a career. I guess I just sort of drifted. I can’t figure out what I was supposed to do with the rest of my life.”

  “When we were kids, you were the bossiest of the bunch. I’m sure there is little you can’t do,” Jack smiled.

  “The only thing I ever loved was cooking. That frustrated my mom so much. She wanted me to go into business or accounting and all I wanted to do was make summer sauce.” Lucy smiled and waved at the dishes.

  “It was wonderful, Lucy. As always.” Jack spooned up the last of his second bowl of sauce and waved Lucy off when she reached for his bowl to ladle up thirds. “What about a restaurant?”

  “Nonna would have loved that.” She didn’t feel any desire to own her own restaurant. “Lot of work though. More business than cooking for the joy of it. How about you, Jack? How are you doing?”

  “I’m good,” Jack answered automatically, and then continued as if by rote. “I’m happy for Jenny about the engagement.”

  “Me too,” Lucy said, when Jack fell silent.

  “The boys love Barb. She’s great, who wouldn’t love Barb?” Jack said. Lucy admired how he kept the bitterness in his voice to a minimum.

  “Yes, but how are you?” Lucy asked again, gently this time.

  “Same old. Working for the old man, who’s never going to die. Teaching business law classes to bored undergrads at the community college.” Jack cleared his throat and tapped his long, slim fingers on the table. Lucy waited, knowing Jack’s tell for changing the subject. “I brought you something else.”

  “Is it strawberry cannoli from Mike’s Pastry?” Lucy grinned. Jack’s main office sat in the heart of the city, within walking distance of the newly revitalized North End. In college at Boston University, they’d all gone on many a late night study run for the delicious, gooey pastries. Lucy still adored the sweet treats.

  “Not today, I’m afraid. I appeared in court in Newburyport this morning.” Jack shrugged and Lucy waved it away.

  “Well, whatever it is, it looks serious. Let me make coffee.” Jack slid back on the chair in seeming relief at the small reprieve as Lucy stood to brew the coffee.

  “Did you know I was Nonna’s lawyer?” Jack asked as she set out mugs of strong coffee and a small plate of iced lemon cookies.

  “Not until you mentioned it the other day.”

  “Yes, she came to see me in the city—”

  “Nonna came to see you in the city?” Lucy couldn’t keep the note of incredulity out of her voice. “By hersel
f? How did she get into the city?”

  “Yes, about six weeks ago. I don’t know how she got there. She brought me lemon cookies and asked me to be the executor of her estate.” Lucy blinked at him, too stunned to form words at the thought of her ninety year old grandmother getting into the city without anyone else’s knowledge or assistance.

  “Her will is simple. Everything to your mom except a few small bequests.”

  “I’d assumed as much. She owned no significant assets, just a few personal things. We knew that when she moved into Sunset Manor.”

  “I do pro bono work there from time to time. When I was there yesterday, Jolene gave me this box of her personal effects to pass on to you.” Jack patted the box next to him.

  Lucy bit her lip, dreading opening that box, all that was left of her vibrant grandmother. With shaking fingers, Lucy pulled the box toward her and removed the lid. Inside, she found a half-full package of Luden’s cherry cough drops—Nonna’s favorite—and a nubby oatmeal cardigan with oversized brown carved-wood buttons. Lucy snatched the sweater up and, pressing it to her face, inhaled the scents of Nonna—talcum powder, lavender, and rosemary. Tears pooled in her eyes and she blinked hard before setting the sweater aside. Beneath that, she discovered worn baby-blue bedroom slippers, a gift from Juliet two or three Christmases ago, half-empty packets of Kleenex, and a tangled set of pink rosary beads. A small binder, covered in a bold paisley pattern of turquoise, fuchsia, and chartreuse, sat to one side. Lucy pulled it out, the fabric silky beneath her hand.