Read Online The Lost Art of Second Chances by Courtney Hunt - Free Book Online
Authors: Courtney Hunt
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there weren’t resting at all. Instead, they all fretted over what didn’t get done or the family breach that couldn’t be mended or the bucket list items they failed to check off.
He did pro bono work there twice a week to help the residents draw up wills or with any other legal issues. So many of the elderly died intestate leaving the state to eat up their meager resources. The history buff in him loved to listen to his friends’ stories, to learn their histories and life stories, all about to pass out of living memory.
He strode in to the spacious foyer, waving to the front desk clerk and headed to see his favorite residents, Don and Owen. Tall, thin Owen and stooped, mustached Don, both widowers, roomed together. They spent most of their time together bickering and playing endless board games. Tonight, he found them in the lounge, playing chess.
“Don, you’re cheating again,” boomed Owen before breaking into a hearty laugh.
“I am not!” Don answered in his squeaky, wheezy voice, long wrecked by emphysema. “That’s a special exception.”
“Might be how you all played chess down in Southie but . . .”
“Not from Southie.” The two friends laughed together again. Jack stopped at their table.
“If it isn’t Lawyer Jack!” Owen cried, patting the chair next to him. “Have a seat.”
“Good evening, fellas. I’ll only sit for a bit. I have several appointments tonight.”
“Rushing around is no good for you. Sit a spell.” Jack smiled and dropped into the chair next to them. After a few moments, Don continued, “Jack, I wondered if I could ask you a question. It’s about my family farm. It’s up in New Hampshire, just over the state line. We used to grow the most beautiful apples up there.”
“And pumpkins too. He showed me pictures.” Thus reminded, Don pulled out a small photo album—the smartphone revolution hadn’t reached here—and pressed it into Jack’s hands. Dutifully, Jack flipped through the pictures and admired and exclaimed over prize pumpkins and goats. As the pictures passed, he saw Don as a young man, with a pretty wife by his side, and a little boy seated atop an enormous pumpkin.
“That’s my Richard. He was so proud of that. We carved it into a Jack-o-Lantern. He was only about three there, so tickled he could stand up in it and peer out.”
“I didn’t know you had a son, Don,” Jack said.
“I did. He’s still in Vietnam,” Don murmured, pushing his glasses up on his face.
Owen winced and waved at the chessboard. After a pause, he said, “We goin’ to finish this game?”
“Yes, but, just let me ask Jack a question first. After we gave up hope of Richard ever coming home, the heart went out of my wife. We sold most of the farm and packed up and traveled some. Cancer got her soon after that. Anyway, I wondered whatever happened to the farm and if you could tell me.”
“Of course. Let me get a few details.” Jack took a few notes and stood to go, just as he made a decision of his own. “It might be a few weeks before I get back to you, Don. I’m going to Italy.”
“Is it about a girl?”
“Aren’t all the best journeys?” Jack smiled at his friends and headed off to work.
* * *
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
He did pro bono work there twice a week to help the residents draw up wills or with any other legal issues. So many of the elderly died intestate leaving the state to eat up their meager resources. The history buff in him loved to listen to his friends’ stories, to learn their histories and life stories, all about to pass out of living memory.
He strode in to the spacious foyer, waving to the front desk clerk and headed to see his favorite residents, Don and Owen. Tall, thin Owen and stooped, mustached Don, both widowers, roomed together. They spent most of their time together bickering and playing endless board games. Tonight, he found them in the lounge, playing chess.
“Don, you’re cheating again,” boomed Owen before breaking into a hearty laugh.
“I am not!” Don answered in his squeaky, wheezy voice, long wrecked by emphysema. “That’s a special exception.”
“Might be how you all played chess down in Southie but . . .”
“Not from Southie.” The two friends laughed together again. Jack stopped at their table.
“If it isn’t Lawyer Jack!” Owen cried, patting the chair next to him. “Have a seat.”
“Good evening, fellas. I’ll only sit for a bit. I have several appointments tonight.”
“Rushing around is no good for you. Sit a spell.” Jack smiled and dropped into the chair next to them. After a few moments, Don continued, “Jack, I wondered if I could ask you a question. It’s about my family farm. It’s up in New Hampshire, just over the state line. We used to grow the most beautiful apples up there.”
“And pumpkins too. He showed me pictures.” Thus reminded, Don pulled out a small photo album—the smartphone revolution hadn’t reached here—and pressed it into Jack’s hands. Dutifully, Jack flipped through the pictures and admired and exclaimed over prize pumpkins and goats. As the pictures passed, he saw Don as a young man, with a pretty wife by his side, and a little boy seated atop an enormous pumpkin.
“That’s my Richard. He was so proud of that. We carved it into a Jack-o-Lantern. He was only about three there, so tickled he could stand up in it and peer out.”
“I didn’t know you had a son, Don,” Jack said.
“I did. He’s still in Vietnam,” Don murmured, pushing his glasses up on his face.
Owen winced and waved at the chessboard. After a pause, he said, “We goin’ to finish this game?”
“Yes, but, just let me ask Jack a question first. After we gave up hope of Richard ever coming home, the heart went out of my wife. We sold most of the farm and packed up and traveled some. Cancer got her soon after that. Anyway, I wondered whatever happened to the farm and if you could tell me.”
“Of course. Let me get a few details.” Jack took a few notes and stood to go, just as he made a decision of his own. “It might be a few weeks before I get back to you, Don. I’m going to Italy.”
“Is it about a girl?”
“Aren’t all the best journeys?” Jack smiled at his friends and headed off to work.
* * *
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
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