The Lost Art of Second Chances (2 page)

Like how to fill in the enormous blank that was the rest of her life.

She didn’t even know where to start. Everything overwhelmed her. She’d married at twenty-two and produced Juliet within six months of the wedding. Her life became an endless round of caring for a newborn and a house, following her military husband around from post to post before he’d retired two years ago. As they’d planned, they returned to their hometown of Applebury. She’d never been able to build her own career with their constant moving, which camouflaged the fact that she actually had no idea what she wanted to be when she grew up. Throughout their marriage, Lucy’d held down a string of part-time jobs but nothing to give her life purpose like being a wife and mother.

At only forty, she was too young to be a widow with an empty nest. Her stale marriage had gone flat as day old champagne. Andrew bored her, with his dull descriptions of office life and endless meetings. Over time, their love for Juliet became their only true connection. Driven to desperation, Lucy contemplated divorce and, just as she readied herself to end her marriage, her ever-considerate husband dropped dead of a massive heart attack in the middle of third floor accounting. And instantly, she transformed from a bored wife to a guilty widow with an empty nest, the rest of her life yawning blankly in front of her like an endless, barren canyon.

“Let’s see. Make a list. Get a career. Find a new place to live. Figure out what to do with the rest of my life. Should be easy, right, Frankie? Why not add
world peace
to the list?”

The cat flicked his tail and snoozed on. Not the best brainstorming partner.

“What was it Barb taught me? Break it down into manageable steps?” She stared at the blank beige wall above the kitchen counter for a few seconds but no manageable next step occurred to her. A dozen dizzying possibilities ran through her head—so much freedom bewildered and intoxicated her. Her hands shook as she chopped the mushrooms. The sharp knife slid dangerously toward her fingers before she caught it and placed it carefully on the cutting board.
“Careful, bellissima. Knives are not good for fingers—they cut like a lover’s words in the heart.”
She heard the echo of Nonna’s patient cooking instructions.

Once she finished chopping the vegetables, Lucy poured herself a glass of water from the tap, staring out at the bleak, summer baked landscape of her suburban apartment complex. From here, all the buildings looked depressingly similar, like the rows of coffins she’d had to choose from when Andrew died. Oh, they might boast some small, distinguishing detail—an extra window there, a railing here. But in the end, the denizens of suburbia lived their lives crammed into identical boxes. Homogenized rows of the living just like the cemetery held homogenized rows of the dead.

“My husband died, my grandmother died, and my daughter left the nest. I need to rebuild my life,” Lucy said aloud to the cat, now ribboning his way through her legs. Frank meowed back, whether in agreement or a plea for his crispy treats, Lucy couldn’t tell. She sighed, tossed some treats to the cat, and started sautéing her veggies.

“
The oil is just to soften them up a bit, take away their thick stubbornness. But the real magic comes during their long soak in the pot, eh, bellisima?
” her grandma instructed her in Lucy’s memory. “
See, I have been in the pot a long time. I am soft now.
” She would poke her middle and throw her head back with her rich, hearty laugh.

Lucy tossed the ingredients into the pot, tidied up, and went about her morning as the sauce simmered, filling the tiny apartment with the rich scent of rustic Italian cooking and her memories of Nonna Belladonna. Towards lunchtime, she set a pot of water—
as salty as the sea
—on the stove to boil and stirred her sauce again.

“What do I wish for?” She wondered aloud to the cat, like a maiden in a fairytale. She and the cat spent an enjoyable few minutes, her tossing out more exotic wishes and him ignoring her.

“I wish for a handsome husband. No, I take that back. I don’t miss being married all that much. But I do miss the sex,” Lucy admitted to the cat. Having been neutered, the cat possessed no great interest in affairs of the heart. He tucked his head back into his paws and resumed his nap.

She did miss sex. She thought about Andrew and her greatest hits. There’d been the time in San Francisco; another at Disney World on the hotel balcony, so as not to wake their daughter; sunrise at the beach; thousands of times in the big cozy bed she’d sold because it wouldn’t fit through the front door of her apartment. Their sex life was the one constant in their crumbling, boring marriage, the bedrock, so to speak. And all she missed of it.

And now Andrew was gone. After she recovered from the first shock of her sudden widowhood, she missed sex the most.

“The problem is, where to get a convenient man? It’s not like they sell them at Wal-Mart or Costco. There is no Men R Us—well, not more than plastic body parts and I’ve already got plenty of those. They’ll do in a pinch. But they’re not the same.”

“That’s what I wish for! A lover!” She muttered before banging her spoon on the pot. Frankie, startled by the unexpected noise, leapt from his spot on the chair and streaked out of the kitchen, past a pair of shiny, polished black loafers.

Wait. Loafers?

Ali d’Angelo, Italy
May 1938

Belladonna Rossi knew, just knew, this was going to be her year. Since before she could remember, she’d wanted nothing more than to be Queen of the May. Each year, the sisters at the Ali d’Angelo primary school selected the most virtuous girl in the village to lead the May procession through the town, honoring the Blessed Mother. After leading the faithful past stunning views of Toscana in the spring, following the life-sized statue of the Blessed Virgin borne by the strongest altar boys, the May Queen crowned the statue, before laying a bouquet of spring blossoms in front of a Renaissance painting of Mary being crowned Queen of the Heaven, standing beneath a blossoming orange tree.

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 the statue up into the niche carved for her. They’d file into their pews, still singing, waiting for Mass to begin.