Second Chance At Two Love Lane

by Kieran Kramer

  “Why are they so unhappy?” asked Nonna Boo. She’d been called Boo since she was five years old and made the international news when she met the Pope at a church in Sicily and yelled “Boo!” at him when she presented him a bouquet of flowers. She’d been going through a ghost phase. “That one has the same bag I do. And a doting husband. Who cares that he’s ugly? He loves her!”

  “Are you ever going to walk around with your Birkin, Nonna Boo?” asked Ella.

  “Why should I?” Nonna Boo kept her eyes on the TV set. “It makes a perfectly nice yarn holder.”

  “Esattamente,” said Nonna Sofia, who was quieter and more dignified than Nonna Boo.

  Exactly.

  Ella smiled to herself. The nonnas so rarely agreed, even though everyone except them knew they were almost like twins. Their little arguments were what kept them alive, Mama said.

  On the screen, the women were promenading on Rodeo Drive in their spiky-heeled Louboutins. Ella said, “It’s just a show about the rich, powerful wives in Hollywood. Most of them don’t work, but some of them do. The ones who stay at home kind of have careers in charity work, raising money and awareness and such.”

  “They totter around in those ridiculous heels,” said Nonna Sofia, who wore sensible—and very ugly—orthopedic shoes.

  “So silly,” said Nonna Boo, who also wore orthopedic shoes.

  “But nonnas, look at my shoes.” Ella stuck her foot out. She wore three-and-a-half-inch heels. “They give me height.” She was five foot two. “I feel more powerful. And I think they’re sexy.”

  Nonna Sofia gazed at them a moment. “I wore a pair like that in December of nineteen seventy,” she murmured, then smiled in that far-off way Ella knew meant she was caught up in the past. “You don’t want to know the rest of the story.”

  “I’ll bet I know it,” said Nonna Boo, and laughed. She winked at Ella. “Your nonnas used to wear gorgeous heels, and the men flocked to us like flies. We are now only jealous old women who wish we still could flaunt our sexy legs in supple Italian leather.”

  “Speak for yourself,” said Nonna Sofia primly. “I don’t miss those shoes.”

  “Hmmph,” said Nonna Boo.

  “Nonna Sofia, will you tell me the story someday? About December of nineteen seventy?” Ella asked her. “And those shoes?”

  Nonna Sofia considered it. “Very well. Before I die, I will tell someone.”

  Mama put her hand on Nonna Sofia’s shoulder. “You can tell me too. I’m your daughter, after all.”

  Nonna Sofia’s brows came together. “A mother doesn’t reveal everything to her daughters. Unless she wants them to call her a fool behind her back.”

  “I would never call you a fool,” Mama said, “ever.”

  But Nonna Sofia didn’t answer. She kept knitting and watching the television screen.

  Ella and her mother exchanged glances. Nonna Sofia was very hard on herself. Sometimes Ella saw that same trait in her mother. And sometimes she wondered if she was following in her mother’s and grandmother’s footsteps that way. She worried that she’d been a fool with Hank—and that she’d pay for it the rest of her days. And it was because she hadn’t listened to Papa. He’d told her not to let anyone or anything get in the way of her acting dreams.

  But even worse than not listening to Papa—she’d disappointed herself. She’d given up on her dreams …

  Because of a man.

  Her history with Hank played into her decision to team up with Macy and Greer. When they’d started Two Love Lane, they’d each had had their own reasons for wanting to get involved in the love business. Macy had never been in love, so she wanted to experience it vicariously. Greer had broken someone’s heart very badly, and she felt that she owed it to the world to bring people together. And Ella was the one who’d had her heart broken badly—by Hank. She’d become a partner because she decided she’d turn a negative into a positive. She’d help other people have their own happily ever afters.

  “I’ll bring out the antipasti,” she said to the nonnas, “and we’ll settle in. You go, Mama. Go to the quilting store.”

  “Only if you’re sure,” Mama said, her eyes bright with excitement. She loved machine quilting. It was a new hobby for her.

  “Of course I am,” said Ella.

  Poor Mama. She so needed this break. Ella knew it made her mother very happy when she came over. Dealing with the nonnas was Mama Mancini’s full-time job. Ella loved to provide her with a little relief, and she also loved being around her nonnas. So it was a win-win situation.

  She kissed Mama’s cheek at the door and watched her toddle off to the silver Dodge Challenger sitting at the curb and strap herself in. The engine roared to life (thanks to Mama’s insistence on pressing too hard on the gas pedal whenever she started the car) then settled down to a quiet purr. Mama took off, waving from the window. Ella waved back, then shut and locked the door behind her, as she always did. She’d been brought up in the Bronx and wasn’t naive. Crime could happen anywhere, even in sunny Charleston, where people you didn’t know said hello to you and smiled when you passed them on the street. And she had the nonnas to protect, anyway.

  She bent down and petted the two gray tabby cats, Max and Henrietta, who’d sidled up to her feet at the door. The nonnas had each bought an adult cat from the no-kill pet shelter in Charleston when they’d arrived separately from Sicily. Nonna Boo had been here the longest, five years, so Max had lived in the bungalow that long too.

  “You’re a sweetheart,” Ella told each kitty in turn. Max preened at the soft voice and wrapped himself around Ella’s leg. Henrietta sat back on her haunches and stared at Ella. Female cats were so much harder to read! But maybe Henrietta needed more time, just like Nonna Sofia did. Nonna Sofia had only been in the States eighteen months and still wasn’t sure of herself. She refused to go to McDonald’s or Starbucks. Minor league games at The Joe, Charleston’s baseball stadium, scared her, with foul balls flying backward sometimes into the stands. The only part of the United States Nonna Sofia wasn’t totally intimidated by was American television shows. She’d watched many of the older ones in Sicily, and now she had even more to choose from. She was obsessed with Netflix.

  But before Ella could walk ten steps back to the kitchen, another knock came. Mama must have forgotten something. Ella quickly turned around and unlocked the door, then flung it open. “Sorry I locked it,” she began.

  But it wasn’t Mama. A stranger stood there—a woman about Ella’s age with a dark ponytail, torn jeans—really torn—and a sexy V-neck T-shirt with a word on it that was entirely inappropriate, at least according to Mama’s and the nonnas’ standards. She squinted at Ella through gorgeous almond-shaped green eyes surrounded by thick lashes. Her mouth was wide and pouty with a beautiful bow on her top lip. She was a woman you’d look at twice if you saw her walk by.

  “Hello,” she said, almost primly, although she looked totally fierce in her street clothes. “I’m Pammy Lockhart, and you’re Ella, right?”

  “Y-Yes,” Ella said. “Have we met?”

  “No, but you’re the closest thing to family I have in this town,” the woman said without preamble. “I’m Hank Rogers’ cousin. Can we talk?”

  CHAPTER THREE

  At her mother’s front door, Ella tried to take it all in. She remembered Hank mentioning he had family on the West Coast, including a cousin he adored but never saw. But that was ten years ago. She knew absolutely nothing about Pammy Lockhart.

  “Hank said he was gonna contact you and let you know I was hoping to meet up.” Pammy scratched the side of her nose, sniffed, and crossed her arms over her voluptuous chest. Then she proceeded to look anywhere but at Ella. For some reason, she found the edge of the roof fascinating.

  “Oh, okay,” Ella said, striving for cool. “He did get in touch last night. I-I just haven’t been able to call him yet. Thanks for coming by to meet me. Are you visiting for a few days?”

  “I live here.”

&nb
sp; “Oh!” Ella couldn’t help sounding surprised. Every part of her body went on high alert—not because of Pammy herself but because of her relationship to Hank. “Welcome to Charleston,” she tacked on, and tried to sound upbeat and warm, even as she wondered how Pammy had found her at her mother’s house.

  Pammy looked down and scuffed a boot on Mama’s welcome mat. “Your roof’s wonky,” she said quietly, then looked up at Ella with those gorgeous eyes.

  She looked lonely, which immediately touched Ella’s heart.

  “The roof is wonky?” Ella eked out.

  “Yep. It’s drooping on one side. When did you last have it inspected? The shingles look like sh—”

  “Don’t say it.” Ella grinned and held her finger to her mouth. “My grandmothers can hear really well, although they pretend not to. And they get upset at bad language.”

  Pammy started to say something beginning with an F, but caught herself just in time. She nodded. “What the hey. I can go with that.”

  “Good,” said Ella. “I don’t know about the shingles. But would you—would you like to come in? I mean, please do come in. I’ll make you some tea. Or coffee.” She held the door wide.

  “I could go for a beer,” Pammy said when she walked over the threshold in military-style boots.

  Ella could use a beer too. “Sorry, Mama and the nonnas—my grandmothers—don’t drink beer. But if you’d like a good glass of wine—”

  “Nah,” Pammy said. “I’ve never developed a taste for it.” She laughed.

  Ella liked her for being honest.

  By this time, they’d made it to the kitchen, Pammy stomping in her boots. She tilted her chin to the ceiling. “Interesting guy up there. He’s hot.”

  Jupiter was pretty hot. “My sisters and I painted him,” Ella said. “We used a GQ model as inspiration.”

  “Nice,” said Pammy. “Oh, and tap water’s good.”

  Ella got her visitor some water and wondered how the nonnas were going to take her. Maybe she and Pammy had better hang out in the kitchen for a little while first.

  “Ella! Who is it?” cried Nonna Sofia.

  “Ellaaaaa!” yelled Nonna Boo. “I heard the doorbell. Who was it?”

  “We’ll be right there!” Ella called to them, then said to Pammy, “We’ll go in and meet them in a minute. First, tell me, how’d you find me here at my mother’s house?”

  “Easy,” said Pammy. “I stalked you online.”

  “Okay, then.” Ella was going to go with the flow.

  “Didn’t even have to pay. Found you right away. Lots of Mancinis in Charleston. And I think you’re all related.”

  “We are.”

  “I checked your apartment first, then came here next. Hank said you were close to your mother.”

  “What else did he tell you?”

  “Nothing. Except you used to date. I remember that from a long time ago. But just barely, as in ‘Cousin Hank is dating some chick who acts too.’ Sorry. I was West Coast. He was East. And ne’er the twain shall meet. Except through airplanes. And you know how that goes.”

  Pammy was warming up to her, which was good.

  “No worries,” Ella said. “So tell me more about stalking me then.” She was trying to be flattered that Pammy had sought her out. She wondered if Hank, as a Hollywood A-lister, had to live with being incessantly stalked.

  Of course he did.

  “You can learn so much through Google,” Pammy said. “Your mother is sixty. And you’re my age. There’s a picture of you lying on your side in a bikini with a big red balloon on your shoulder. How’d you do that?”

  “Spring break, Tampa. Junior year in college. Duct tape.”

  “Why?”

  “It was spring break. Don’t you do that in Oregon?”

  “Not me. I never went to college. I got straight into carpentry. While you were on spring break, I was probably building kitchen cabinets in Bend. I’m often surrounded by sweaty carpenter guys in tool belts, so that’s kind of like spring break, isn’t it?”

  “I think so.”

  “I didn’t check to see if you had any arrests—”

  “That was kind of you.”

  “Your Uncle Sal owns a pizza parlor on Wentworth Street,” Pammy said.

  Which was one reason Ella had issues with her weight: Uncle Sal’s calzones. “He does,” she said, and wondered what else Pammy had found out about her family. “I’m glad you found me, but tell me more about what’s going on with you?”

  “It’s a little embarrassing,” Pammy said, her tone uncertain. “Long story short, I’m not supposed to be homesick at my age. And I’ve been doing really well here. But now that I have a regular routine and can look up from all the chaos that comes from moving someplace new, I feel a bit lost. I was hoping to connect with someone in town who at least knows of me, however distant the connection. That would be you.”

  Ella handed her the water and shot her a warm smile. “I’m glad you found me. I’m happy to help you settle in. Before you know it, Charleston will feel like home.”

  Pammy took a huge gulp of water then decided to chug the whole thing. She gasped at the end and handed the glass back to Ella.

  She put it in the dishwasher and hid a smile. Pammy wasn’t polished. But she was interesting. Over the years, Ella had come to find that Charlestonians loved truly interesting people. “Where are you living?”

  “In a converted carriage house behind a big mansion facing the harbor.”

  “Wow. That must be great.” Those little historic homes that used to house servants and horses were adorable.

  “The mansion and the carriage house are owned by Beau Wilder, the movie star. Hotter than hell but married. Sadly.”

  Ella grinned. “Yes, he is cute. And definitely off the market. His wife Lacey is awesome.”

  “He and his whole family are in England at the moment,” Pammy said. “He’s filming.”

  “I didn’t know that.” Ella wiped some droplets of olive oil off the counter.

  “They won’t be back for a month, and, well, every night we ate dinner together, and I played with their kid. I felt kind of part of a family, even though they’re not as close to Hank as you used to be.”

  Ella tried not to sound pained about the “used to be.” She’d focus instead on the fact that Pammy obviously needed some company. “Hey,” she said in an assuring tone, “especially while the Wilders are gone, I’ll be happy to try to fill in some missing social gaps for you.”

  Pammy grinned. “Thanks.”

  “Of course,” said Ella. “Do you have a job here?”

  “Yes, at the Charleston School of the Building Arts. I’m a professor of architectural carpentry. I teach student-apprentices historic-home renovation. I’m working on Beau and Lacey’s house in my spare time.”

  “Wow, you must be really talented.” The Charleston School of the Building Arts was the only place in the entire country someone could get a college degree and also become a master craftsman.

  “Thanks. It’s so exciting to be a part of it. Which is why—” Pammy hesitated.

  “Why what?” Ella coaxed her.

  Pammy sighed. “Why I don’t like that I’m having trouble finding my groove. It’s so different from Bend. I’ve never lived anywhere else. Until now.” She hesitated. “I love the faculty at the building school, but they’re all married or paired off. And I can’t socialize with the students.”

  Ella smiled. “Well, we can hang out, okay? And I’ll introduce you to a bunch of people.”

  “That’ll be great. I think I’ve been relying on the Wilders too much, too.”

  “I get that. When I moved to Charleston as an eighteen-year-old college freshman, I felt weird, too, coming from the Bronx down to the slower, more sedate South. My roommate Macy’s family took me in a lot. That helped a lot with the transition.”

  Pammy nodded. “And this place is really Southern. They all drink tea with tons of sugar in it. All day.”

  “
Yes, they do.” Ella chuckled. “Did you do historic-home renovation in Bend?”

  “Some,” Pammy said. “We have some nice Craftsman-era houses out there, but most of the stuff I worked on was in San Francisco. But only a month at a time. I plan to live in Charleston for years, not skedaddle home whenever the mood hits me.”

  Ella was nervous for Pammy. Excited for her too. And worried. Very worried. She didn’t need to have her own equilibrium disturbed—her happy Lowcountry life—by Hank. But now her former lover had a vested interest in Charleston, in her city.

  There was room for Pammy in Ella’s life. But not for him.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Ella and Pammy were still hanging out in Mama’s cozy kitchen, but only because the nonnas were arguing about one of the Real Housewives in the living room—in Italian—and it was getting heated. Ella didn’t want Pammy to have to walk into that.

  “I want to make it here,” Pammy was saying. “And Hank’s always been so supportive. He flew me out to New York three or four times the last couple of years, and we had a lot of fun. He encouraged me to see more of the world, and let the world see me and all my talent.”

  Aww, that was very sweet.

  And Ella didn’t want to hear it.

  She didn’t want to fall in love all over again, with a guy who wasn’t even there, a guy who’d walked away from her a full decade ago and had made no attempt to win her back. But inside, she was feeling all melty and daydreamy thinking about him. Her body was betraying her! She needed a date with a nice man from Charleston. One who wore khakis with little whales embroidered all over them, and a bow tie. Maybe a shy doctor who wore glasses. Not some random A-list celebrity with rangy good looks and a style that came off as sexy and outdoorsy and yet also museumy, as in “I can go to museums and like them, and hold your hand while we look at old paintings, then take you home and strip you naked.”