morning, I’d love a do-over. I’d really like to be friends” Carlisle offered.
Her tall, beautiful neighbor seemed barely coherent, which Carlisle thought was odd given the late hour.
“Sure, we can try again,” Nicolette responded before glancing at the sign. She looked at Carlisle. “What’s this?”
“A potluck, I guess,” Carlisle answered. “Tonight, in the back courtyard. I’ve never even ventured back there. But I’m going to go. How about you?”
“Why not?” Nicolette responded as she grabbed the pencil that dangled from the sign and checked off bread and cheese. “I’ll see you tonight.”
Thank goodness for second chances, Carlisle thought as she marked off dessert and wine before heading out for a morning walk. The past several weeks had been all about second chances and, after a shaky beginning, she’d done her best to view them as the gift they were. The fact that Will and Anna were never coming back had been the most excruciatingly painful truth she’d ever had to face, and she was certain that running from it for seven years had only compounded the pain of finally accepting it.
In the weeks that followed, it had all caught up to her. Each day was filled with a mixture of tears, remembering happy times with her husband and daughter, more tears and the slow rebuilding of her inner strength. By the end of her first month in Verona, Carlisle vowed to make a new start, no matter how slowly she needed to move with it. She owed it to herself to live life in the present instead of always running from the past. Will and Anna would have wanted that for her, too.
Slowly, she resumed her daily walks to explore different parts of the city. She spent her days working on a new novel, and she was amazed at how inspired she suddenly felt—the words flowed. Carlisle had even started working with a tutor once a week to learn the language. Maria was both a patient teacher and kind person, which helped Carlisle build her confidence.
Sometimes, as she sat by her kitchen window and worked on her writing, Carlisle saw Nicolette and her husband coming and going. She’d also seen a man about her age with wavy brown hair come in and out of the apartment building, occasionally accompanied by a beautiful, young Italian woman. He must be the neighbor upstairs, she’d guessed. Maybe his Italian girlfriend had posted the sign about the potluck dinner. Carlisle looked forward to meeting her other neighbors and getting to know all of them better. She’d had enough of her self-imposed solitude and knew that making friends was the next step in her second chance at life.
Carlisle walked past the tomb and private church once owned by the historical Scalagieri family. Just beyond the Piazza delle Erbe , down at the end of the street, stood a small bakery run by an older Italian woman whom Carlisle was sure made all the beautiful desserts and pastries herself. She’d treated herself to a pastry or cookie now and then, but mostly just admired all the cakes decorating the large picture window. It was clear they were made with the best ingredients, along with a large dose of pride and love. When she marked off that she would bring the dessert to dinner that night, Carlisle decided she finally had the perfect excuse to buy one of those beautiful Italian cakes.
She peered in at the cakes on display and saw the round woman standing behind the counter with her gray hair pulled back in a bun. The baker glanced up from the confection she was making and waved at Carlisle. Taking that as her cue, Carlisle walked into the bakery. “ Buongiorno , Sig nora,” Carlisle said, smiling.
Using a combination of pantomime, broken Italian and broken English, the two women discussed the occasion to come up with the ideal dessert. In the end, the tiramisu won out over the yellow cake decorated with white frosting and fresh strawberries, the chocolate cake laden with hand-grated chocolate shavings, or the fruit torte topped with copious
Her tall, beautiful neighbor seemed barely coherent, which Carlisle thought was odd given the late hour.
“Sure, we can try again,” Nicolette responded before glancing at the sign. She looked at Carlisle. “What’s this?”
“A potluck, I guess,” Carlisle answered. “Tonight, in the back courtyard. I’ve never even ventured back there. But I’m going to go. How about you?”
“Why not?” Nicolette responded as she grabbed the pencil that dangled from the sign and checked off bread and cheese. “I’ll see you tonight.”
Thank goodness for second chances, Carlisle thought as she marked off dessert and wine before heading out for a morning walk. The past several weeks had been all about second chances and, after a shaky beginning, she’d done her best to view them as the gift they were. The fact that Will and Anna were never coming back had been the most excruciatingly painful truth she’d ever had to face, and she was certain that running from it for seven years had only compounded the pain of finally accepting it.
In the weeks that followed, it had all caught up to her. Each day was filled with a mixture of tears, remembering happy times with her husband and daughter, more tears and the slow rebuilding of her inner strength. By the end of her first month in Verona, Carlisle vowed to make a new start, no matter how slowly she needed to move with it. She owed it to herself to live life in the present instead of always running from the past. Will and Anna would have wanted that for her, too.
Slowly, she resumed her daily walks to explore different parts of the city. She spent her days working on a new novel, and she was amazed at how inspired she suddenly felt—the words flowed. Carlisle had even started working with a tutor once a week to learn the language. Maria was both a patient teacher and kind person, which helped Carlisle build her confidence.
Sometimes, as she sat by her kitchen window and worked on her writing, Carlisle saw Nicolette and her husband coming and going. She’d also seen a man about her age with wavy brown hair come in and out of the apartment building, occasionally accompanied by a beautiful, young Italian woman. He must be the neighbor upstairs, she’d guessed. Maybe his Italian girlfriend had posted the sign about the potluck dinner. Carlisle looked forward to meeting her other neighbors and getting to know all of them better. She’d had enough of her self-imposed solitude and knew that making friends was the next step in her second chance at life.
Carlisle walked past the tomb and private church once owned by the historical Scalagieri family. Just beyond the Piazza delle Erbe , down at the end of the street, stood a small bakery run by an older Italian woman whom Carlisle was sure made all the beautiful desserts and pastries herself. She’d treated herself to a pastry or cookie now and then, but mostly just admired all the cakes decorating the large picture window. It was clear they were made with the best ingredients, along with a large dose of pride and love. When she marked off that she would bring the dessert to dinner that night, Carlisle decided she finally had the perfect excuse to buy one of those beautiful Italian cakes.
She peered in at the cakes on display and saw the round woman standing behind the counter with her gray hair pulled back in a bun. The baker glanced up from the confection she was making and waved at Carlisle. Taking that as her cue, Carlisle walked into the bakery. “ Buongiorno , Sig nora,” Carlisle said, smiling.
Using a combination of pantomime, broken Italian and broken English, the two women discussed the occasion to come up with the ideal dessert. In the end, the tiramisu won out over the yellow cake decorated with white frosting and fresh strawberries, the chocolate cake laden with hand-grated chocolate shavings, or the fruit torte topped with copious
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