Read Online The Lost Art of Second Chances by Courtney Hunt - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Courtney Hunt
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more than talk, or assist each other to bundle away priceless art treasures in rough burlap and twine. Still, they’d become friends. Paolo knew her better than anyone, understood her far better than Tommaso ever had or ever could.
One gray January day, just after the New Year, though they had precious little to celebrate, she told him about the diNovo painting.
“A diNovo painting, here? Antonio diNovo?”
“The very same. After his lady love married another, he he fled Firenze and traveled amongst the little towns, painting the Madonna with his lost love’s face. Ali d’Angelo was his favorite stop. My Babbo always said the Rossi wine kept him here but . . .”
Paolo laughed, his blue eyes dancing in his handsome face. She grinned back and toasted him before sipping her own wine, a particularly good vintage from the mid-1930s. “Would you like to see it?”
“A diNovo? You bet!” Paolo scrambled to his feet. They picked their way through the jumble of treasures to the cramped exit into the catacombs of caves, stooping as they walked along, single-file.
“It’s like Aladdin’s cave in here,” Bella laughed. She laughed more with Paolo than she had in the previous three years. She stubbed her toe on a statue and Paolo took her hand to steady her. She glanced up into his face and tightened her fingers on his. They made their way through the maze of caves until they came to a large, open space, full of bundled treasures. She shifted aside the statue of the Madonna they used to crown every year, a custom abandoned with the war. She pulled out a small, burlap-wrapped canvas, less than a foot square. She struggled to unknot the ties securing the burlap. Together they pulled away the covering. His jaw dropped.
“A real diNovo. That’s amazing,” Paolo breathed, admiring the way the painter caught the orange blossoms in mid-breeze, the lovely expression on the Madonna’s face, as well as the gleeful exuberance of the Christ child.
“It’s the Coronation of the Virgin , though we always called it the Madonna of the Orange Blossoms .”
“Yes, that was quite a popular subject for the Renaissance painters. DiNovo himself supposedly painted it some fifteen times. But most were thought lost.”
“Nope, just hiding out here. You’d be surprised at the treasures hidden all over the Italian countryside.”
His eyes locked on hers and heat flashed through her.
“No, I wouldn’t,” Paolo whispered, his gaze dropped to her mouth before meeting her eyes again. He stepped closer. Even in the chill of the subterranean chamber, his body radiated warmth. When less than a foot separated them, he whispered, “Thank you for showing me the painting, Bella.”
“You’re welcome.” Bella shocked herself by reaching up to touch his soft, shiny hair. Cupping the back of Paolo’s head, she pulled him down to her, pressing their lips together briefly. She let go and stepped back.
“You call that a kiss?” Paolo laughed before winding an arm around her waist and pulling her against him. He pressed his mouth to hers, and she tasted the richness of the summer wine on his lips, smelled the heady mix of bay rum, lime and manly musk. She wrapped her arms around him and kissed him back.
Bella knew she shouldn’t. But, if she didn’t seize this moment, this opportunity, she’d never get the chance. Lying in her narrow bed at night, she went over every line of conversation in her head, imagined his smile, his touch, and anticipated seeing him again. She wanted Paolo, in a way she’d never even imagined with Tommaso. She needed Paolo’s lips and hands and kisses, for however long it lasted.
Before meeting Paolo, she’d believed she understood lust on an intellectual level. But experience was a whole new teacher. She hadn’t known that lust, twined with the deep friendship they’d built together over the past few months, would be so explosive.
The deprivations of war had worn on her, in ways she hadn’t fully
One gray January day, just after the New Year, though they had precious little to celebrate, she told him about the diNovo painting.
“A diNovo painting, here? Antonio diNovo?”
“The very same. After his lady love married another, he he fled Firenze and traveled amongst the little towns, painting the Madonna with his lost love’s face. Ali d’Angelo was his favorite stop. My Babbo always said the Rossi wine kept him here but . . .”
Paolo laughed, his blue eyes dancing in his handsome face. She grinned back and toasted him before sipping her own wine, a particularly good vintage from the mid-1930s. “Would you like to see it?”
“A diNovo? You bet!” Paolo scrambled to his feet. They picked their way through the jumble of treasures to the cramped exit into the catacombs of caves, stooping as they walked along, single-file.
“It’s like Aladdin’s cave in here,” Bella laughed. She laughed more with Paolo than she had in the previous three years. She stubbed her toe on a statue and Paolo took her hand to steady her. She glanced up into his face and tightened her fingers on his. They made their way through the maze of caves until they came to a large, open space, full of bundled treasures. She shifted aside the statue of the Madonna they used to crown every year, a custom abandoned with the war. She pulled out a small, burlap-wrapped canvas, less than a foot square. She struggled to unknot the ties securing the burlap. Together they pulled away the covering. His jaw dropped.
“A real diNovo. That’s amazing,” Paolo breathed, admiring the way the painter caught the orange blossoms in mid-breeze, the lovely expression on the Madonna’s face, as well as the gleeful exuberance of the Christ child.
“It’s the Coronation of the Virgin , though we always called it the Madonna of the Orange Blossoms .”
“Yes, that was quite a popular subject for the Renaissance painters. DiNovo himself supposedly painted it some fifteen times. But most were thought lost.”
“Nope, just hiding out here. You’d be surprised at the treasures hidden all over the Italian countryside.”
His eyes locked on hers and heat flashed through her.
“No, I wouldn’t,” Paolo whispered, his gaze dropped to her mouth before meeting her eyes again. He stepped closer. Even in the chill of the subterranean chamber, his body radiated warmth. When less than a foot separated them, he whispered, “Thank you for showing me the painting, Bella.”
“You’re welcome.” Bella shocked herself by reaching up to touch his soft, shiny hair. Cupping the back of Paolo’s head, she pulled him down to her, pressing their lips together briefly. She let go and stepped back.
“You call that a kiss?” Paolo laughed before winding an arm around her waist and pulling her against him. He pressed his mouth to hers, and she tasted the richness of the summer wine on his lips, smelled the heady mix of bay rum, lime and manly musk. She wrapped her arms around him and kissed him back.
Bella knew she shouldn’t. But, if she didn’t seize this moment, this opportunity, she’d never get the chance. Lying in her narrow bed at night, she went over every line of conversation in her head, imagined his smile, his touch, and anticipated seeing him again. She wanted Paolo, in a way she’d never even imagined with Tommaso. She needed Paolo’s lips and hands and kisses, for however long it lasted.
Before meeting Paolo, she’d believed she understood lust on an intellectual level. But experience was a whole new teacher. She hadn’t known that lust, twined with the deep friendship they’d built together over the past few months, would be so explosive.
The deprivations of war had worn on her, in ways she hadn’t fully
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