The Lost Art of Second Chances

by Courtney Hunt

  “I’m Susan’s daughter,” Lucy nodded.

  Paolo took her hand. “Then you are my granddaughter too.”

  Mario started behind the old man at his pronouncement, his jaw falling open. Lucy nodded, feeling the truth in his statement, though it was the first time she’d heard it aloud. Mario spoke in rapid Italian, a stream of words. Paolo put up his free hand and answered Mario in Italian.

  “He wants to know where Belladonna is,” Mario said. “What I want to know is, who the hell is Belladonna?”

  His grandfather turned to him, wiping his streaming eyes on a poppy embroidered napkin. “Belladonna was my first love.”

  Mario sank into a chair nearby, raking his hands through his hair. Lucy felt a strange kinship with him. She knew firsthand how startling it was when your established grandparent morphed into a person with passions and a love story from before you were born. To discover such hidden depths was disorienting and she felt for Mario. Her cousin.

  As an only child without a father, she’d often wished for a magical family to arrive—to claim her, make her part of the large, extended families she saw around her. Now, that these familial vistas opened up around her, it was bewildering, strange, and a bit terrifying. She didn’t know what to do or say. Jack stepped in for her.

  “Belladonna asked us to bring this letter to you.” Jack handed the cream envelope to Paolo who peered at it for a long moment before reaching to run a finger over his name.

  “Belladonna is not coming,” Paolo said and his shoulders sagged. Lucy squeezed his hand as Jack broke the news.

  “She passed away about a month ago. I am so sorry.”

  Paolo nodded and continued to stare at the tiled tabletop’s pattern of bright sunflowers. He tapped the envelope on the table, his lips pressed into a tight line, and sighed again. He gestured to his grandson to pull up a chair and Mario joined them, the foursome crowded around the tiny table.

  “I suspect she told you her side of things, yes?”

  “No, not really. A bit . . . I think I’ve figured most of it out,” Lucy said.

  Paolo smiled. “Then now it is my turn.”

  Lucy

  Tuscany, Italy

  Present Day

  After Mario settled them all with fresh coffee and pastries to fortify themselves for the story ahead, Paolo cleared his throat and began. He spoke in a rush, stopping only when he was unsure of a word in English, as though he’d waited for years to tell the story. Now that the dam shattered, the story flowed out like water.

  When I turned sixteen, my parents sent me to family in New York City. My older brother died in the war and I think my parents thought sending me away would keep me safe, make me forget about the glories of war. At the time, I did not understand their reluctance to lose another son in the grinding, crushing war machine. I wanted to go and fight, to chase victory, sure of the glamor of war. Now, that I am a parent, a grandparent, even a great-grandparent, I know what it is to want to protect your child. Instead of fighting, I went to Yale and studied art, always a fascination to me. I wanted to be a painter but . . . God did not give me enough talent so I studied instead.

  My professor joined the military and became part of the allies’ effort to preserve the world’s art treasures from the destruction of war. When my country fell, in 1943, I joined them, to help, as a translator. My country became a war zone, centuries of art at risk. The monastery at Monte Cassino fell . . . so much art destroyed. So, we did what we could to protect the remaining treasures. My work involved taking the art out of the cities to hide it in the countryside, in little nooks and crannies, tiny towns in the foothills, places where the enemy would not think to look or to bomb.

  So, one day, we came to Ali d’Angelo. They sat on the top of a hill, filled with a warren of deep caves, where they’d aged their wine for centuries, as well as a stone church with a thick basement. We brought truck after truck up to stash our treasures away, like squirrels before the winter. And there I met Belladonna. She worked in the church, typing correspondence for the priest, who helped us. So, we would drive up under cover of evening and leave out at dawn. After our cargo was unloaded, we would sit in the caves and talk.

  Belladonna was the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen, before or since. She also loved art, which made her even more beautiful in my eyes. We loved to chat during the long nights of waiting, after the art was secured.

  One night, she showed me the treasure of Ali d’Angelo, the tiny painting of the Coronation of the Virgin surrounded by orange blossoms by diNovi. You will not have heard of him. His works would have rivaled Michelangelo had he lived. Instead, he died after the love of his life married someone else. All we have left are the paintings of the Virgin—based on his own lost love—surrounded by flowers and trees. Ali d’Angelo possessed the Orange Blossoms. It hung in pride of place in their ladies chapel for many centuries, though by the time I arrived in Ali d’Angelo, they’d hidden it neatly away in the vineyard caves. Belladonna shared this treasure with me and my great passion for art. We would admire the artwork together and talk of our favorite books.

  She’d been engaged to the most handsome boy in the village but he’d gone off to war and not come back. I loved to talk to her—she was so quick-witted and smart. I remember the moment I realized I was already in love with her. We argued about Pride and Prejudice.

  “She married him for Pemberley alone.” She teased me and laughed when she saw my expression. I was lost—that rich, throaty laugh did it. Looking back, I think it was that moment when I forever lost my heart.

  One day, I finally worked up the courage to kiss her. By then, she’d confided to me she had not been in love with her fiancée—she’d only agreed to marry him out of duty and expectation. His family—the Innocentis—owned the store in Ali d’Angelo and she knew joining their families made sense. But, even though she had not loved him, she still mourned him.

  Finally, when we had stored all we could in the caves, I needed to move on to Roma. I promised I would return. I wanted to marry her. I was gone for many months, only able to write occasionally. That’s when I sent her this photo, hoping she would not forget me. One day, in late summer 1944, I managed to come back here. I was on my way to a mission near Venice but I stopped in Ali d’Angelo—just for one day, just to get a glimpse of my beloved Belladonna.

  We met in the vineyard and, in the caves, our passion overtook us. I knew—we both knew—we were sinning in the eyes of God and the church and the village. But, this I swear to you, in my heart, we were already married. Even then, I should have known God does not give so much joy. Our incredible happiness was no match for the outside forces that raged in our world. Within moments of our stolen bliss, we heard the rumble of jeeps. At first, we thought it was the friendly Americans and dashed to the village.

  A mistake. Why didn’t we run? Why?

  The Germans rounded up all the men, including Bella’s feeble-minded father. I wasn’t in uniform—probably a good thing for me as I would have been shot on sight. They didn’t seem interested in the women and I will give them this—they did not attack them. They let the women with the youngest children escape. In other villages, in other places, the women were not so lucky. They herded the men into the square, forced us to sit with the hot sun beating down. Only the elderly and the children remained as the young men fought at the front lines or the fierce war already claimed them.

  We sat there, the whole long day, with the sun beating down on us while the Germans raided the stores and nearby houses for anything they could steal. I asked for water for Bella’s father and the other old men but the Germans only laughed at me.

  Near twilight, they herded us into the church. The priest fought them at the door, begging for mercy, but they had none. They beat him to death in the doorway. They lined us up against the wall and shot us, one by one, the oldest first. Belladonna’s father died quickly, one of the first to fall. I pushed Matteo, Bella’s young cousin, into a pew and crawled toward the Lady’s
Chapel. A laughing German soldier shot Matteo, on his hands and knees and pleading for his life, in the head and aimed at my chest. The bullet struck me in the collarbone with an agony beyond anything I could imagine as I fell backwards. He did not shoot me again, the only reason I am alive today

  They walked out and I heard the splash of liquid against the wooden walls of the church, the sweet, sharp scent of gasoline. As long as I live, I will never forget the utter terror I felt when I heard the whoosh of the fire igniting. I dropped to the floor and crawled along. I came across a young boy I didn’t know. He only had a shallow wound. Together, we managed to get to the back door, where the priest entered during Mass. We flung ourselves into the creek behind the church, putting out the flames on our clothes. Through the excruciating pain, beyond everything I’d ever known before or since, I focused on survival. I wanted to live long enough to enjoy my future with my beloved Belladonna.

  I passed out in the woods. One of the old women from the village nursed me back to health. She knew the woods too well for the Germans to find her and managed to hide both me and the boy I’d rescued. By the time I was well enough to search for her, Belladonna was gone, without a trace.

  “By the grace of God, the fire did not spread to the caves. The artwork, the treasures we’d squirreled away survived, though we could never find the diNovo. She took it with her. Clever girl.” Paolo patted the painting, swiping at his eyes.

  “Eventually, when it became clear Bella was gone forever, I married another girl from the village. We have a beautiful family, a good life. But, she too lost her first love. Our love is comfortable, easy, like a favorite old shoe. That blinding passion Belladonna and I shared—that only happens once in a lifetime, you see.”

  “How did you find out she lived in Boston?” Lucy asked, when it became clear Paolo had run out of story to tell.

  “Maria’s brother, the boy I saved—Vittorio Innocenti—went to seek his fortuna in America. They lived to the North End in Boston and he met the Castillos. He wrote me to tell me. Belladonna believed me dead. She married someone else and bore a child, though I suspected that I fathered her daughter. She must have been terrified—alone—unmarried and pregnant at a time when that was not acceptable. I understood why she married, just as I did.”

  But I could not let her continue to believe me dead. And I confess I hoped my letter would be enough to bring her home eventually. But that was not to be. Now I must read my letter.”

  He stood and walked outside to a table in the shade. He sat and opened the letter. Lucy didn’t want to intrude on her Paolo’s—her grandfather—private moment. She swiped at her eyes and excused herself to go to the ladies room. Jack pretended to check his voicemail and Mario resumed work in the cafe.

  “I have no idea what to do now,” Lucy said to Jack as she sat at the table. She’d done as her grandmother asked and given Paolo his letter and the painting.

  “You will come to our house to celebrate the chestnut festival,” Paolo proclaimed, shuffling back inside. “It is a celebration of the harvest. And I will be celebrating the return of my granddaughter to me. You will come.”

  Lucy

  Tuscany, Italy

  Present Day

  “I need to tell my mother. And Juliet,” Lucy commented, as the silvery moonlight traced lacy shadows across the ceiling of the tiny pensione they’d found to be nearer to the LaRosa family. Jack laced his fingers through hers and squeezed. She shifted to rest her head over his heart, so they lay entwined on the tiny bed together. He played with her hair, not saying anything, just holding her.

  “Juliet and I are going to Florida for Thanksgiving. I could tell my mom then.”

  “You could wait. But your mom might want to come and visit him,” Jack said. “I mean, Paolo was her father.”

  “I can’t imagine telling her this whole story over the phone. But, at the same time, I don’t want to keep it from her.” Lucy worried her bottom lip while Jack drew lazy circles on her arm and back with his warm hand.

  “She knew you were coming here? She knew about Nonna’s quest?” Jack asked and Lucy nodded. “Then she expects something crazy.”

  “She told me to open the letter to Paolo right away. Mom is all practical and pragmatic. She’s not . . .” Lucy waved her hand around, as if she could pluck the right word out of the air. “Magical. She doesn’t believe in fate or chemistry or the power of dreams.”

  “I don’t know, remember that time I was upset about Santa and she talked to me as a kid? She made it sound magical, at least to a heartbroken little boy.”

  Lucy shifted on the bed to see his face. “I don’t remember that.”

  “You don’t remember? One of the most traumatic moments of my young life?” He laughed and shifted so they lay face to face on their sides. He entwined his legs with hers and a thrill ran through Lucy at how easy and natural they were together. She pushed away the sadness she knew would follow upon their return to the real world and tried to focus on the here and now instead. “Okay, do you remember Anita Warner?”

  “From St. Agatha’s?” Lucy nodded. “She said I had fat hips when we were in seventh grade.”

  “Yes. I’m sure that was nearly as devastating to you as the time she told me there was no Santa was to me. I believed late. Now, with the internet, it’s impossible to keep it a secret. But back then, I really believed.”

  “I met you when we were ten. You believed even then?”

  “Yep. Anita disabused me of that notion right quick. I came over to your house to talk to you about it but you’d gone into the city with Nonna.”

  “She always took me into the city to Filene’s to get a new Christmas dress—a tradition she continued with Juliet. I remember eating with her at the lunch counter at Filene’s. We’d get grilled cheese and tomato sandwiches and eat date nut bread with cream cheese. For dessert, we’d share a fig bar with vanilla ice cream. Then we’d go meet Nonno at the clock. I guess I mean Tony.”

  “No, he’ll always be your Nonno,” Jack murmured, squeezing her hand.

  “When I got older, he’d take us both to that old Italian place with the little old wooden booths. But I liked the Filene’s lunch counter better. I felt grown up eating there. I’m sorry—I keep interrupting you. I feel like I’m about to fly out of my skin with all that has happened. All that’s changed. Tell me about Anita.”

  “Anyway, I went to your house and your mom said you weren’t there. She must have seen the devastated look on my face or sensed something was wrong because she invited me in. We sat at your kitchen table and she fed me Nonna’s lemon cookies. I remember she didn’t ask me any questions or anything but we sat in silence for a bit. Somehow, I ended up telling her the whole story. By the end, I was crying.”

  “Jack, I’m so sorry.”

  “So she said that I must feel sorry for Anita. I just stared at her, like, did she not understand me? And your mom said something I never forgot. She said I must feel sorry for Anita because she didn’t have any magic in her life and people without magic were always jealous of the people who had it.”

  “My mother said that?” Lucy couldn’t conceal her astonishment. “My mother is the most practical woman I know.”

  “She did. I explained it to Justin and Jared the same way when the time came.”

  Lucy lay for a long moment, staring up at the ceiling. “I feel like the world keeps shifting around me over here, like a kaleidoscope. All the old signposts, familiar landmarks, known terrain keep sliding around and I can’t get my bearings. I felt like an unmoored ship, adrift in a bewildering sea. All this shifting—it’s confusing.”

  “I think you should call your mom,” Jack said. “I think she deserves to know.”

  “I can’t call now. It’s too late,” Lucy stalled.

  “It’s not even dinner time in Florida.”

  “Right. I forget about the time difference,” Lucy sighed. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “You will. Better not to plan a speech. Ju
st come out with it, okay?” Jack pressed her cell phone into her hand and stood up to put his pants on.

  “I have a better idea,” Lucy said saucily as she slid her hands up his well-muscled back, dropping kisses along the back of his neck. Jack turned and took her hands, trapping them against his chest.

  “That would be a wonderful idea.” He dropped a kiss on her lips. “But you’ll feel better after you call your mom. I’ll give you some privacy.”

  “Jack, don’t be silly.” But he’d already headed out of the room to the terrace. Damn. Now she had no excuse. She dialed quickly, before she could talk herself out of it.

  “Mom, it’s Lucy,” she said when her mother picked up, “I have something to tell you.”

  Lucy launched into the whole story. When she finished, she walked out to the balcony and sat next to Jack, enjoying the cool breeze on her skin and the silvery moonlight.

  “How did it go?” He took her hand, his long fingers warm over hers.

  “She took it well. Thought I needed money at first. Said she looks forward to meeting Paolo and Nonna could have saved us all a lot of trouble by just telling us the whole story.”

  “Paolo seems like a nice guy.”

  “He does. But, he’s not my Nonno, you know? It’s like you said. Tony Castillo will always be my Nonno.”

  “Forming a relationship with Paolo doesn’t mean you’re being disloyal to Tony’s memory,” Jack said and Lucy wondered if he were really talking about Andrew. This whole trip, they’d carefully avoided speaking of her late husband but she felt the specter between them often. What would Andrew have thought of her and Jack together? Had he sensed her unrequited crush on Jack? She’d never told him but that didn’t mean he didn’t know. Marriage was like that.