When Jack knocked on the door, just after eleven that night, Lucy opened it warily, dressed in a fluffy yellow bathrobe that made her look like a sleepy duckling, her dark hair loose around her sleep-creased face.
“Jack?
“I’m sorry to drop by so late.”
“That’s okay.” Lucy smiled, waving him inside. He stepped into her tiny living room as she turned back to him. “Is everything all right?”
“I’ll go to Italy for you.”
“For me?”
“I’ll take the painting and find Paolo for you. I didn’t realize that Nonna’s request would be so . . .”
“Insane? Crazy?”
“I was going to say difficult,” Jack chuckled. “But, you indicated the other day that you couldn’t go to Italy so I will instead. I loved Nonna too. I don’t want to let her down.”
“You could never do that, Jack.” Lucy’s espresso colored eyes locked on his face. She licked her lower lip and Jack fought the urge to pull her close and kiss her, as he should have, all those years ago at their junior year Homecoming dance. He stuck his hands in his pockets instead. “I’m leaving for Italy tomorrow morning.”
She gestured to the neatly stacked suitcases by the front door. He’d walked right past and hadn’t even notice them. “You’re going alone?”
“I’m taking a week-long tour of Tuscany, see the sights and all that. But yes, after that, I’ll be on my own to find this Paolo, whoever he is, and give him his painting back and Nonna’s letter.
Jack’s shoulders slumped. Once again, he was too late. “Oh, well, bon voyage then. Have a safe trip.”
He headed for the door when Lucy called his name. He turned back to her. She fiddled with the tie of her robe, biting her lip. “I wouldn’t mind company though. If you want to come . . .?”
He smiled at her then and she grinned back. “Let’s make a plan then.”
Belladonna
Ali d’Angelo, Italy
1944
Belladonna felt nothing but trapped, like the paintings and sculpture hidden beneath the church, wrapped up in burlap to protect her from the ravages of war. Her Mamma died during the first year of the war, a sudden, shocking death from influenza. Her final letter from Tommaso expressed his deep condolences. Then he’d vanished. Missing in Action.
She didn’t miss him, precisely. She missed her way of life before the deprivations of war, the bone-rattling echo of bombs, the constant fear and worry and anxiety. And she missed her Mamma, more than she’d expected to.
Her sister, Ava, always up for any adventure, joined the war effort to become an ambulance driver of all things. Her infrequent letters were full of dashing off to rescue bleeding, near-death men and delivering them via bumpy rides over damaged roads to make-shift field hospitals.
Bella dutifully stayed with Babbo, as he became increasingly infirm each day. She wouldn’t have minded going off to help the war effort and indulge in adventures of her own but someone needed to stay and tend to the old people. Babbo couldn’t manage on his own without Mamma. Once sharp and vital, he’d shrunken, preferring to sit among his vines and ponder the ruin of their world.
Bella struggled to run the vineyard without workers. Most of the fruit rotted on the vines as she could no longer harvest it. The bottles in their wine cellars diminished as the early years of the 1940s rolled by without a single vintage. She planted vegetable gardens and learned to cook simple, peasant fare.
Now, with the war edging ever closer to Firenze and to the north, they lived in constant danger of siege or attack. Life in Ali d’Angelo rolled past in an uneasy combination of anxiety and dull monotony. Until Father Torricelli asked her to help him on his secret project.
She no longer remembered what Tommaso looked like, now she’d met Paolo. It wasn’t just Paolo was handsome—though he was, with gray-blue eyes and chestnut hair shot through with auburn highlights in the sun. He radiated a warmth, a vitality that she missed from her endless cycle of dull days. At eighteen, Bella was old enough and honest enough to recognize her feelings as pure, unadulterated lust.
Handsome might not have been enough to interest her though, beyond a passing fancy. But not only was Paolo handsome, he didn’t mock her for wanting to study art. They spent many nights in the cellar, chatting about their mutual favorites. He and his men would arrive near dusk. Before the moonrise, they would unload whatever treasure trove of paintings, sculpture, and other art Paolo brought into the secret storage area, and, hunker down for the night to depart before daybreak. She would bring them sandwiches and wine. She and Paolo would chat all night. They never touched, never did anything more than talk, or assist each other to bundle away priceless art treasures in rough burlap and twine. Still, they’d become friends. Paolo knew her better than anyone, understood her far better than Tommaso ever had or ever could.
One gray January day, just after the New Year, though they had precious little to celebrate, she told him about the diNovo painting.
“A diNovo painting, here? Antonio diNovo?”
“The very same. After his lady love married another, he he fled Firenze and traveled amongst the little towns, painting the Madonna with his lost love’s face. Ali d’Angelo was his favorite stop. My Babbo always said the Rossi wine kept him here but . . .”
Paolo laughed, his blue eyes dancing in his handsome face. She grinned back and toasted him before sipping her own wine, a particularly good vintage from the mid-1930s. “Would you like to see it?”
“A diNovo? You bet!” Paolo scrambled to his feet. They picked their way through the jumble of treasures to the cramped exit into the catacombs of caves, stooping as they walked along, single-file.
“It’s like Aladdin’s cave in here,” Bella laughed. She laughed more with Paolo than she had in the previous three years. She stubbed her toe on a statue and Paolo took her hand to steady her. She glanced up into his face and tightened her fingers on his. They made their way through the maze of caves until they came to a large, open space, full of bundled treasures. She shifted aside the statue of the Madonna they used to crown every year, a custom abandoned with the war. She pulled out a small, burlap-wrapped canvas, less than a foot square. She struggled to unknot the ties securing the burlap. Together they pulled away the covering. His jaw dropped.
“A real diNovo. That’s amazing,” Paolo breathed, admiring the way the painter caught the orange blossoms in mid-breeze, the lovely expression on the Madonna’s face, as well as the gleeful exuberance of the Christ child.
“It’s the Coronation of the Virgin, though we always called it the Madonna of the Orange Blossoms.”
“Yes, that was quite a popular subject for the Renaissance painters. DiNovo himself supposedly painted it some fifteen times. But most were thought lost.”
“Nope, just hiding out here. You’d be surprised at the treasures hidden all over the Italian countryside.”
His eyes locked on hers and heat flashed through her.
“No, I wouldn’t,” Paolo whispered, his gaze dropped to her mouth before meeting her eyes again. He stepped closer. Even in the chill of the subterranean chamber, his body radiated warmth. When less than a foot separated them, he whispered, “Thank you for showing me the painting, Bella.”
“You’re welcome.” Bella shocked herself by reaching up to touch his soft, shiny hair. Cupping the back of Paolo’s head, she pulled him down to her, pressing their lips together briefly. She let go and stepped back.
“You call that a kiss?” Paolo laughed before winding an arm around her waist and pulling her against him. He pressed his mouth to hers, and she tasted the richness of the summer wine on his lips, smelled the heady mix of bay rum, lime and manly musk. She wrapped her arms around him and kissed him back.
Bella knew she shouldn’t. But, if she didn’t seize this moment, this opportunity, she’d never get the chance. Lying in her narrow bed at night, she went over every line of conversation in her head, imagined his smile, his touch, and anticipated seei
ng him again. She wanted Paolo, in a way she’d never even imagined with Tommaso. She needed Paolo’s lips and hands and kisses, for however long it lasted.
Before meeting Paolo, she’d believed she understood lust on an intellectual level. But experience was a whole new teacher. She hadn’t known that lust, twined with the deep friendship they’d built together over the past few months, would be so explosive.
The deprivations of war had worn on her, in ways she hadn’t fully appreciated until now. She wanted something for herself now. Standing on her tiptoes, she pressed herself against him and kissed him again.
So here, at last, was love.
Lucy
Florence, Italy
Present Day
Jack would arrive in Florence on the Feast of Saint Michael the Archangel. Lucy’s tour group arrived the day before, on a warm, early autumn day, the breeze tinted with the rich, loamy scent of the river. By then, after a week of tramping around Italy, with everyone else in the tour group paired off like they were boarding the Ark, Lucy couldn’t bear to see another church or fountain. After she saw Michelangelo’s David, she figured nothing could top that and struck out to explore the city on her own.
After an early dinner, Lucy wandered contentedly to the Fountain of Neptune, licking her raspberry gelato, studded with roasted almonds and luscious bits of berry. Stained green as Lady Liberty in New York from exposure to the elements for five and a half centuries, Neptune towered above the fountain, surrounded by playful horses and writhing sea nymphs. She smiled at a nearby group of playing schoolchildren before tossing her change from her gelato purchase into the fountain. As the coins clinked into the water, she closed her eyes and tried to think of a wish.
She could wish to find Paolo but that seemed more her grandmother’s wish than her own. She could wish to figure out what to do with the rest of her life but that seemed a big wish. Instead, Jenny’s teasing about finding a lover echoed through her head and she laughed. Yes, she’d wish for the man of her dreams.
When she opened her eyes, Lucy glanced around the square. No eligible suitor presented himself. So far, she’d failed dismally at finding an Italian lover to enjoy a madcap fling with, unless you counted falling in love with Italy itself. Old men and teenage boys filled the square—not an eligible man in sight. With a sigh, she turned to the sunset, entranced as always by the ribbons of pink tinged with gold, gilding the world around her. She looked up to see if she could find a star to wish on but they weren’t appearing yet.
After finishing her treat, she rounded the fountain as a tall man, his suit jacket thrown over his shoulder, strolled casually toward her. The light evening breeze rumpled his glossy dark hair. The setting sun obscured his features though something about his gait reminded her of Jack. When he raised his face to examine the ornately carved decor on the nearby building, she realized it was Jack.
“Jack!” Her breath whooshed out in a rush as joy filled her, bright and happy as a balloon. She ran to him. He smiled at her before she flung her arms around him. His warm, strong arms embraced her in return and she caught the scent of sandalwood and lime. Home. Happiness filled Lucy like champagne bubbles. “I’m so glad to see you. I thought you wouldn’t be here until tomorrow.”
“I caught an early flight out.”
“Eager to get started on our quest?”
“Indeed. I’ve found some leads. A few things. Old maps.” Jack smiled down at her and Lucy realized she still stood in the circle of his arms. She unwound her arms from his neck and stepped hastily back. “I’m starved. Do you know a good place for dinner?”
Lucy led him to her favorite tiny hole-in-the wall cafe, not far from her hotel. They settled at a table together and ordered antipasti and drinks. They chattered for a while, catching up on her trip and the happenings at home. The proprietor came out to greet Lucy. They chatted for a bit about the day’s special and how he prepared his mussels. She ordered for them both, pulling out her food journal to make a few notes. Lucy’s meager funds hadn’t stretched too much in the way of souvenirs but she’d found a lovely, honey-colored leather journal and treated herself to it.
“I bought this journal on the second day here. I couldn’t remember all the wonderful foods and recipes I discovered. I think my tour guide was getting annoyed with me wrecking her schedule and asking her to translate as I talked to the restaurant owners at every meal.” She flipped through her journal, showing him her notes. She couldn’t get enough of the amazing food and kept finding new and more wonderful local delicacies to try. “I can’t wait to prepare some of the dishes I’ve learned for the book club. Just the seafood alone . . .”
“Italy agrees with you, Lucy,” Jack said, smiling at her. “You have color in your face and . . . well, you look happy.”
“It’s been the trip of a lifetime, Jack.” She smoothed a hand over her flyaway curls. She’d been unable to achieve her usual blown-dry long bob and let her dark hair curl naturally. “I’ve learned so much. Tell me about your research.”
“Okay, so our first task is to find Ali d’Angelo.”
“I haven’t been able to find it on any maps. My mom said Nonna told her it was within thirty miles of Florence.” Lucy pulled out her iPad and queued up her map. Jack stopped her by putting a hand over hers. Awareness danced up her arm and zinged along her skin. What was the matter with her? This was just Jack. She learned a long time ago that he certainly wasn’t interested in her that way.
“Lucy, I can only stay for a week. I need to get back to work. Dad needs my help,” Jack said. “I took some vacation days but I can’t stay indefinitely.”
“But wouldn’t you rather spend your precious vacation time with your boys?”
“They are at the age when spending time with their dad is a penance. Besides, I’ll have them when Jenny goes off on her honeymoon.”
“Does Jenny know you’re here?”
“I think she’s relieved I’m here. She seemed to think you might need some help.”
“It’s kind of like all those adventure games we played growing up, isn’t it? Only this time, instead of pirates or Robin Hood, it’s my crazy Nonna’s game,” Lucy laughed. “I’m sorry she roped you into it.”
“Don’t be. I loved Nonna like she was my own grandmother.”
“She loved you like you were her own. She always wanted us to marry,” Lucy blurted out. Where had that come from? Was she flirting? With Jack?
“Would that have been so awful?”
Lucy didn’t answer, studiously studying the map. Lucy had enough to worry about without this attraction to Jack resurfacing. Jack was her friend—her best friend from childhood—and that was all. After drinking two cappuccinos each and sharing a plate of cookies between them, they scrutinized the map for over an hour, trying to pinpoint coordinates from Jack’s online research.
“Ali d’Angelo doesn’t appear on this map. It doesn’t appear on any of the maps I’ve found. I need older ones but they are not available online yet.”
“Maybe that’s the old name for it or something.”
“When I first read Nonna’s letter, I thought we’d just take a cab somewhere and walk around a charming medieval town.”
“Guess not.” Lucy lapsed into silence as she surveyed the map.
“It doesn’t seem she left us much to go on,” Jack said. “Do you remember any stories from when you were little?”
“I just remember her saying it was on a hill.”
“There are a few of those hereabout,” Jack said wryly. “Anything else?”
The cafe owner rubbed his drooping eyes and yawned. Lucy glanced around and realized they were the last ones in the place. As Jack packed up his laptop, the cafe owner hefted himself to his feet and came over to collect their dishes. When Lucy tossed on her sweater, she snagged her top button on her grandmother’s locket, triggering an old memory. Angel wings . . .
“There was some local legend it was near the place the fallen angels fell to earth. Once, when I was sm
all, we went for a walk in the woods, and I found a feather—probably from a hawk or something. It seemed enormous to me at the time. She told me, in her village, when you found a feather like that, it meant the angels had visited to check the fallen ones were still trapped. She said they left a feather from their wing behind. That’s where the town got the name—Angel’s Wings.”
“Ali d’Angelo,” the proprietor murmured, going perfectly still, holding Jack’s coffee cup in mid-air. Both Lucy and Jack looked up at him.
“You know it?” Jack asked. “We’ve been searching for it all this time.”
“You will not find it on any map.” The proprietor shook his head. “It doesn’t exist any longer.”
“What do you mean?” Jack asked before Lucy could speak.
“We do not speak of it. It is one of the—how you say in English—horrors of war. All around the countryside, here in Toscana, villages were destroyed in the blink of an eye. Gone forever.”
“Were they bombed?” Lucy asked.
“Some were.” The man shrugged, picking up the basin of plates.
“My grandmother was from Ali d’Angelo,” Lucy said. “We’re here searching for it.”
“There is nothing to find, bellisima. A road runs through where it used to be and the rest is all in ruins.” He cleared the dishes away and headed toward the back kitchen area.
“Can we go there? Can we walk amongst the ruins?” Jack called. The owner shrugged and kept his back to them. “How can we do that?”
“You would need to find a guide, someone who knows where the ruins are,” the owner said, still with his back to them.
“It wasn’t that long ago, surely there are people who know where . . .” Jack began and the owner whirled back around, his dishes clattering in the empty cafe.
“You do not wish to go to Ali d’Angelo.”
“Listen . . .” Lucy recognized Jack’s lawyer voice and she stopped him with a gentle hand on his arm.
“Did you lose someone there, at Ali d’Angelo?” she asked quietly. The owner’s jaw worked, causing a muscle in his cheek to jump.
The Lost Art of Second Chances Page 6