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Authors: Courtney Hunt
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don’t want to let her down.”
“You could never do that, Jack.” Lucy’s espresso colored eyes locked on his face. She licked her lower lip and Jack fought the urge to pull her close and kiss her, as he should have, all those years ago at their junior year Homecoming dance. He stuck his hands in his pockets instead. “I’m leaving for Italy tomorrow morning.”
She gestured to the neatly stacked suitcases by the front door. He’d walked right past and hadn’t even notice them. “You’re going alone?”
“I’m taking a week-long tour of Tuscany, see the sights and all that. But yes, after that, I’ll be on my own to find this Paolo, whoever he is, and give him his painting back and Nonna’s letter.
Jack’s shoulders slumped. Once again, he was too late. “Oh, well, bon voyage then. Have a safe trip.”
He headed for the door when Lucy called his name. He turned back to her. She fiddled with the tie of her robe, biting her lip. “I wouldn’t mind company though. If you want to come . . .?”
He smiled at her then and she grinned back. “Let’s make a plan then.”
Belladonna
Ali d’Angelo, Italy
1944
Belladonna felt nothing but trapped, like the paintings and sculpture hidden beneath the church, wrapped up in burlap to protect her from the ravages of war. Her Mamma died during the first year of the war, a sudden, shocking death from influenza. Her final letter from Tommaso expressed his deep condolences. Then he’d vanished. Missing in Action.
She didn’t miss him, precisely. She missed her way of life before the deprivations of war, the bone-rattling echo of bombs, the constant fear and worry and anxiety. And she missed her Mamma , more than she’d expected to.
Her sister, Ava, always up for any adventure, joined the war effort to become an ambulance driver of all things. Her infrequent letters were full of dashing off to rescue bleeding, near-death men and delivering them via bumpy rides over damaged roads to make-shift field hospitals.
Bella dutifully stayed with Babbo, as he became increasingly infirm each day. She wouldn’t have minded going off to help the war effort and indulge in adventures of her own but someone needed to stay and tend to the old people. Babbo couldn’t manage on his own without Mamma . Once sharp and vital, he’d shrunken, preferring to sit among his vines and ponder the ruin of their world.
Bella struggled to run the vineyard without workers. Most of the fruit rotted on the vines as she could no longer harvest it. The bottles in their wine cellars diminished as the early years of the 1940s rolled by without a single vintage. She planted vegetable gardens and learned to cook simple, peasant fare.
Now, with the war edging ever closer to Firenze and to the north, they lived in constant danger of siege or attack. Life in Ali d’Angelo rolled past in an uneasy combination of anxiety and dull monotony. Until Father Torricelli asked her to help him on his secret project.
She no longer remembered what Tommaso looked like, now she’d met Paolo. It wasn’t just Paolo was handsome—though he was, with gray-blue eyes and chestnut hair shot through with auburn highlights in the sun. He radiated a warmth, a vitality that she missed from her endless cycle of dull days. At eighteen, Bella was old enough and honest enough to recognize her feelings as pure, unadulterated lust.
Handsome might not have been enough to interest her though, beyond a passing fancy. But not only was Paolo handsome, he didn’t mock her for wanting to study art. They spent many nights in the cellar, chatting about their mutual favorites. He and his men would arrive near dusk. Before the moonrise, they would unload whatever treasure trove of paintings, sculpture, and other art Paolo brought into the secret storage area, and, hunker down for the night to depart before daybreak. She would bring them sandwiches and wine. She and Paolo would chat all night. They never touched, never did anything
“You could never do that, Jack.” Lucy’s espresso colored eyes locked on his face. She licked her lower lip and Jack fought the urge to pull her close and kiss her, as he should have, all those years ago at their junior year Homecoming dance. He stuck his hands in his pockets instead. “I’m leaving for Italy tomorrow morning.”
She gestured to the neatly stacked suitcases by the front door. He’d walked right past and hadn’t even notice them. “You’re going alone?”
“I’m taking a week-long tour of Tuscany, see the sights and all that. But yes, after that, I’ll be on my own to find this Paolo, whoever he is, and give him his painting back and Nonna’s letter.
Jack’s shoulders slumped. Once again, he was too late. “Oh, well, bon voyage then. Have a safe trip.”
He headed for the door when Lucy called his name. He turned back to her. She fiddled with the tie of her robe, biting her lip. “I wouldn’t mind company though. If you want to come . . .?”
He smiled at her then and she grinned back. “Let’s make a plan then.”
Belladonna
Ali d’Angelo, Italy
1944
Belladonna felt nothing but trapped, like the paintings and sculpture hidden beneath the church, wrapped up in burlap to protect her from the ravages of war. Her Mamma died during the first year of the war, a sudden, shocking death from influenza. Her final letter from Tommaso expressed his deep condolences. Then he’d vanished. Missing in Action.
She didn’t miss him, precisely. She missed her way of life before the deprivations of war, the bone-rattling echo of bombs, the constant fear and worry and anxiety. And she missed her Mamma , more than she’d expected to.
Her sister, Ava, always up for any adventure, joined the war effort to become an ambulance driver of all things. Her infrequent letters were full of dashing off to rescue bleeding, near-death men and delivering them via bumpy rides over damaged roads to make-shift field hospitals.
Bella dutifully stayed with Babbo, as he became increasingly infirm each day. She wouldn’t have minded going off to help the war effort and indulge in adventures of her own but someone needed to stay and tend to the old people. Babbo couldn’t manage on his own without Mamma . Once sharp and vital, he’d shrunken, preferring to sit among his vines and ponder the ruin of their world.
Bella struggled to run the vineyard without workers. Most of the fruit rotted on the vines as she could no longer harvest it. The bottles in their wine cellars diminished as the early years of the 1940s rolled by without a single vintage. She planted vegetable gardens and learned to cook simple, peasant fare.
Now, with the war edging ever closer to Firenze and to the north, they lived in constant danger of siege or attack. Life in Ali d’Angelo rolled past in an uneasy combination of anxiety and dull monotony. Until Father Torricelli asked her to help him on his secret project.
She no longer remembered what Tommaso looked like, now she’d met Paolo. It wasn’t just Paolo was handsome—though he was, with gray-blue eyes and chestnut hair shot through with auburn highlights in the sun. He radiated a warmth, a vitality that she missed from her endless cycle of dull days. At eighteen, Bella was old enough and honest enough to recognize her feelings as pure, unadulterated lust.
Handsome might not have been enough to interest her though, beyond a passing fancy. But not only was Paolo handsome, he didn’t mock her for wanting to study art. They spent many nights in the cellar, chatting about their mutual favorites. He and his men would arrive near dusk. Before the moonrise, they would unload whatever treasure trove of paintings, sculpture, and other art Paolo brought into the secret storage area, and, hunker down for the night to depart before daybreak. She would bring them sandwiches and wine. She and Paolo would chat all night. They never touched, never did anything
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