“My grandfather and uncle died at Ali d’Angelo when I was a baby. My grandmother and mother would never speak of it.”
“I am Belladonna Rossi’s granddaughter. She sent me,” Lucy said and the owner glanced up, surprise lighting his eyes.
“My mother spoke of the Rossi family, the owners of the vineyards.” Lucy nodded.
He sighed, putting his hands on his hips. “I am Vincenzo Santini.”
“Can you take us there?” Jack broke in and the old man shook his head.
“No, I cannot. But I will ask my grandson to take you, if you are sure you wish to go.” Both Lucy and Jack nodded. “Be here tomorrow morning. Now, I am closing so . . .”
Lucy and Jack departed, unwilling to press their luck any further. As they walked out into the Tuscan night, she realized she’d never asked Jack where he was staying.
“I’m staying at the same hotel as you are. Jenny told me where to book.” He smiled as they walked the short distance to the hotel together, enjoying the balmy night breeze and the velvety sky strewn with stars.
“I wonder why he was so closed mouth about Ali d’Angelo,” Jack mused.
“I guess we’ll find out more tomorrow.”
“I could research more online tonight,” Jack offered.
“You’re good at internet stuff, aren’t you?”
“I suppose.” Jack shrugged. “It’s easier than the way I learned to do legal research. I’ll let you know what I find.”
Hands in his pockets, he strolled down the hallway and out of sight, leaving Lucy to wish she’d asked him inside instead.
Belladonna
Ali d’Angelo, Italy
1944
Over the months of Paolo’s infrequent visits, the crawlspace under the church and the caves beyond gradually filled with higgledy-piggledy piles everywhere, a sultan’s treasure, a cave of wonders. Priceless art stacked like so much rubble. Through her long and difficult days, keeping body and soul together not only for herself but also for her increasingly frail father, knowledge of the secret treasure trove concealed beneath the church and in their vineyard caves, once so full of wine, buoyed Bella’s spirits. Somehow, in the end, they would emerge victorious from the hellish nightmare of war and the treasures of Italy would see the sunshine again.
She still wore the pearl ring Tommaso gave her but even if Tommaso ever emerged from the fog of war he’d disappeared into, she’d never marry him. One rainy Tuesday in late March, a dull, gray spring day that proved that winter still possessed the upper hand, Paolo came back, alone, after an absence of endless weeks.
When she received his summons, she hurried up to the church. He greeted her, taking her hands in his. She squeezed his fingers, thrilling from the warm touch of his hand and stepped back, away from the watchful eyes of the woman who hung Father’s laundry on a line behind the small rectory. To the rest of the village, she still belonged to Tommaso.
“Why are you wearing black, Bella? Did your father . . .” Bella shook her head. Her sister, Ava, killed when her ambulance flipped into a ditch. First Mamma and now her only sister . . . She hadn’t much liked Ava but she loved her and wished her back, if only to share the increasing burden of their vacant shell of a father. “My sister.”
She took his hand in hers and guided him into the chilly, bare church. There weren’t even any flowers yet to decorate the dreary altar and vestibule. Hand in hand, they slipped down into the dark storehouse, flipping on a single flashlight when they reached the bottom. Bella stepped away from the stairs and turned into Paolo’s embrace. He cupped her face and kissed her, his strong hands stroking down her back to her waist, pulling her close. With Paolo, Bella felt real, awake and alive, free of the nightmare dreamscape that her world had become.
“Bella, amore mia. My mission . . . I’m being sent . . .” Here he kissed her deeply again before wrenching away. “I’m needed elsewhere.”
Bella nodded and swallowed hard, pressing her lips together and glancing away, as she twisted her ring around her finger.
“I know you’re spoken for.” He nodded at her hands. “I know I should not say more. But . . .” He raked his hand through his thick hair, his wavy curls falling into disarray.
Bella stood on her tiptoes and brushed her lips over his again. “You don’t need to say anything other than how long you can stay.”
His gray blue eyes turned bleak. “Just until dawn.”
She drew a deep breath and nodded. His stomach growled, echoing in the tiny space, breaking the seriousness of the moment. She smiled. “Let me go and get you something to eat, Paolo. I will be right back.”
She dashed to her home, made sure Babbo would be cared for overnight, and packed a small repast of cheese, bread, wine, and grapes. A meager meal, perhaps, but the best they had. She tidied herself, noting that their passionate kisses made her eyes sparkle and her cheeks flush with color. Within a few moments, she returned to their hidden room, under the chapel. They walked through the hidden tunnels, made even narrower by the artwork crammed into them, they headed toward the largest cave, which opened on their southern vineyard. Here, in the largest cavern, the diNovo painting still sat, wrapped tight, hidden beneath the bug-out bag that Paolo insisted she pack. Paolo moved a few storage boxes so they could have a picnic, burrowed in the earth, surrounded by the creative legacy of Italy, cloaked in blankets and hay, awaiting the end of the ravages of war to emerge into some future sunshine.
“Did you pack your bug-out bag, Bella? You never know when you might need to escape.” She nodded. He’d instructed her last time to store some clothes and food in the caves. “The bombing comes ever closer.”
Bella herself didn’t eat much. She nibbled on the tart grapes and sipped her wine, wrapping a scratchy blanket around her shoulders as the damp chill of the subterranean chamber soaked into her.
“Tell me about your life in America. Tell me about your art.”
“I wish I could paint you. That I could do justice to your beauty.”
“Paolo, you flatter me.” She shook her head, though his words made her feel drunk than their most potent wine. “Eat your supper and tell me of your art.”
He silenced her with a kiss, brief and fierce, tasting of wine, enveloping her with the blessed warmth of his body in the tiny space. They slipped from the crates they sat on to entangle themselves on the blanket at their feet. Without the meager light of the flashlight, the darkness became absolute.
They’d said no vows, their union was not officially blessed, recognized. Deep under the earth, they united, in a primal, passionate union, their lovemaking fierce and passionate, bold and daring, fumbling and awkward. Clumsy with lust and inexperienced, their lovemaking was eager, passionate, made even more desperate by their pending indefinite separation. When it was over, far too quickly for Bella’s preference, Paolo lay next to her, sweeping her into his arms, cuddling them close.
“When the war is over, amore mia . . .”
“If it ever ends . . .”
“Don’t say that, amore mia. It will.” He pressed kisses to her cold hands, wrapping her in the warmth of his embrace. “And then, we will be married.”
“Isn’t that supposed to be a question?”
“In truth, amore mia, I already feel married to you.” Here, Paolo paused to kiss her breathless again. “But, we should make it official. I love you, Bella.”
In answer, Bella just pressed her mouth to his again and loved him as fiercely as she could, for as long as the gods and the war allowed. All through the long night, they made love, talked, and dozed. Just before dawn, Paolo woke her with a fierce deep kiss. The pre-dawn light at the entrance of the caves washed all the color out of the world, giving them both a silvery cast as they made love once more, their eyes locked on each other. Paolo rose and donned his uniform. No matter how much they wished, they couldn’t hold back the dawn, like lovers eternal, all through time, wishing and wanting to hold back the sweep of time and tide. In the pearly light, just before d
awn, they crawled from the cellar. He pressed one final fierce kiss to her swollen mouth.
“You are mine, Belladonna. I will return for you, I swear.”
And then he was gone.
Lucy
Florence, Italy
Present Day
“You can’t be serious. That car won’t fit all three of us!” Lucy exclaimed late the next morning, upon spying Vincente’s grandson’s minuscule, battered, yellow Fiat. After Vincente fed them a fantastic breakfast, he’d introduced them to Gino, his grandson and his incredibly tiny car. To Lucy, Gino didn’t look much older than her Juliet and she trembled at the thought of this child driving them around Italy in a matchbox car.
“I think I can squeeze in the back,” Jack said before attempting to accordion himself into the backseat. As Jack topped six feet, the laws of physics prevented him getting into the backseat of the tiny, rust spattered car.
Lucy tugged on his arm, feeling the muscles in his arm bunch under his light windbreaker. “I’ll do it.”
She clambered in—a much easier feat for her at just under five feet and two inches, even though she could rest her chin on her knees. “I think this car would be a roller skate back home.”
Jack laughed as he climbed into the front seat. “I bet it could make it through the Boston tunnels at rush hour at record speed though.”
“It’s a glorified skateboard,” Lucy grumbled.
Gino got in and, if he heard their insults to the car, ignored them. “Nonno says you wish to go to Ali d’Angelo, yes?”
“Yes, that’s right,” Jack confirmed. “You can take us there?”
“It is not too far—about an hour. We will have to walk some of the way, okay?” Gino said. “The roads are—disappeared?—not there anymore.”
“What happened there?” Lucy asked as Gino passed a large picnic basket back to her that she secured on the seat beside her before Gino, without appearing to consult his mirrors or the car windows, flung them into traffic. He didn’t talk much as he weaved through the heavy Florentine traffic but soon they headed out of the city, climbing up into the foothills.
“I do not know, exactly, what happened there. It is not often spoken of. All I ever heard my Nonno say is that Ali d’Angelo was a casualty of the war. Somehow, the town was destroyed.”
“But was it bombed or . . .”
“No, I do not think it was bombed.” Gino shrugged, “Again, I do not know.”
Lucy leaned back and watched the incredible Tuscan scenery flash past. Autumn was a gorgeous time of year here—reminding her of the fall back home in New England—but far more intense. Tuscany favored more golds and crimson in its autumn dress, like the fine wines the region was known for. The turning trees blazed, studded with the emerald of evergreens and cyprus trees. Even the vineyards dressed in the color of chardonnay, their harvest past. The roads here were narrow, winding, and steep. Every so often, they’d come across a low slung, red tiled villa nestled in a patchwork of colorful fields. Some were private homes, others vineyards. As they drove through the woods, the constant patter of heavy thuds accompanied them, metallic percussion on the roof of the car.
When she asked Gino, he explained, “It is the chestnuts tumbling to earth. Soon, it will be the Festival of the Chestnuts. My favorite!”
They drove on through tiny villages and hamlets, never stopping their breakneck pace. The towns they sped through remained unchanged for centuries, as though time spooled backwards as they drove. They could be medieval peasants on a pilgrimage. Lucy leaned back and tried to savor the sunshine, the warm day, the perfect fluffy clouds scudding across the sky. While everyone in New England worshiped at the shrine of perpetual business, the Italians seemed to take little pleasure in hurrying around like ants. Instead, they lingered over meals and passionately pursued their interests, entranced by simple pleasures in life and delighted to find abundance and relaxation. For the first time in many years, Lucy felt relaxed here. For so long she’d been Andrew’s wife and Juliet’s mother. Here, she was just Lucy.
She cracked her eyes open to find Jack leaning back on the front headrest, his face only inches from her own. He looked years younger, far more like the Jack she remembered, the grooved lines on his face relaxing. How in love with him she’d been in high school. Sometimes, she convinced herself he felt the same but then she’d talk herself out of it. She’d suffered her terrible crush alone and in silence for years, believing it was better to preserve their friendship than admit her feelings. Then, the Parkers—Jenny and Andrew—arrived in town. Life was never really the same after that.
“How far is it to Ali d’Angelo?” Jack asked, his rough voice indicating he’d dozed off.
“Not far,” Gino answered. “When I was a boy, Nonno told me the stories of the place. Bedtime stories, you see. About how the fallen angels fell from Heaven near there and the villagers of Ali d’Angelo must keep them imprisoned. Nonsense children’s tales.”
“Did the town fall in the war?”
“Yes, near the end. I think. Nonno was a baby—a bambino. He escaped with his mother.”
“Did she ever tell stories of the town?” Lucy asked.
“Some—about the people or the life in the village. But she wouldn’t talk about the end. She said it was a great sadness. Although Toscana did not see much fighting during the war—Firenze was a free city, you see. It was mostly spared. But some villages—some were not so lucky. This road we are on . . . .it goes through much of the old city. I will take you to the ruins.”
Gino turned the car into a bumpy, narrow, rutted road where vegetation speared up from all sides, creating a crimson, orange, and gold tunnel as though they drove through fire. The road circled the hill so they enjoyed the panoramic views of the valley they’d just driven through peeking through occasionally as they wound their way to the top. About two-thirds of the way to the crest, they stopped in front of some rocks that blocked their passage.
“From here, we must walk,” Gino said and hopped from the car. He took the heavy picnic basket from Lucy and smiled as Lucy and Jack struggled from the tiny car. They walked to the top—a hard climb of about fifteen minutes, on the uneven ground of the overgrown path. Pale green spiked balls studded their path. When she asked Gino about them, he picked one up and cracked it open to revel the chestnut hidden within. As they walked, more chestnuts thudded to earth all around them among the rustling leaves. On one pass, they could see the city of Florence, encroaching in the distance. As the crow flies, they were not that far away in distance but Ali d’Angelo seemed to be lost in time. They circled one last bend in the road and reached the flattened top.
“This would have been a remote village back in World War II,” Jack said as they paused to glance out at the valley. Both Lucy and Jack were winded, their breath sawing in and out of their chests. Gino did not seem even slightly out of breath.
“Yes, that is true,” Gino agreed. “We have many such villages in Toscana. Even today, they are not modern.”
The ruins of the village—more of a tiny hamlet—sat at the flat top of the hill. Mica flecks in the stone foundations reflected the sun, giving the town a glittering gold patina, though vibrant green vegetation covered most of the remaining foundations. On the far side, a larger structure bore sooty scorch marks.
“I think there was a fire,” Lucy said, breaking the absolute silence at the hilltop.
“Yes, I think that’s where the church would have sat.” Jack pointed to a blackened area across the square. “Whatever happened here, happened abruptly, I think.”
“An attack?”
“But why attack a remote village such as this?” Jack asked. “We are far on the outskirts of even modern Florence. What could they have had or done to provoke an attack?”
“Towards the end of the war, my teacher in school always said that the Germans were drunk on blood sport. Just killed for sheer meanness,” Gino put in.
“The Germans?” Lucy echoed, astonished. “Why would the German
s attack here? I thought Italy allied with Germany in the Second World War.”
“They did, at first. But Italy exited the war in early 1943, making the occupying Germans their enemies. After Mussolini fell, Italy became a battleground between the retreating Germans and the Allies. As they retreated, they often attacked,” Jack said grimly, surveying the ruins of the town.
“It happened to many other towns in Tuscany,” Gino nodded.
“There is a deep sadness here. I can feel it,” Lucy said and shivered. “I know that sounds crazy but . . .”
Jack took her hand. “No, it doesn’t.”
“I will go back a little ways and set up our picnic, yes?” Gino offered and they waved him away. Jack and Lucy spent significant time wandering the town, trying to get a feel for what it must have been like before whatever terrible wave of destruction poured through. They reunited near the dry and cracked fountain, covered with vines in the village square.
“I don’t want to do this any more,” Lucy blurted out. Jack cocked his head to the side and she continued, “It just feels . . . This will sound silly.” Jack waited, his hand clasping hers. “I don’t believe in signs or intuition or anything like that. But I feel like if I continue, my whole conception of Nonna will shatter. Sounds melodramatic, huh?”
“I understand.”
“I would have said Nonna and I were friends. But yet, she hid this whole big secret from me all my life. It’s odd. Why didn’t she tell me this when she was alive? When we could have talked and I could have asked questions? Why didn’t she tell me whatever this is sooner?”
“Maybe she couldn’t face it.”
“I think that too. Nonna was the strongest, bravest person I ever knew. If this is something so awful she couldn’t face it, I don’t know if I can.”
Lucy swiped at the tears gathering. As if to echo her mood, a resonant clap of thunder echoed overhead. Jack guided her to safety in the shelter of an overhang before the rain began to pour from the sky.
The Lost Art of Second Chances Page 7