First love, p.13
First Love, page 13
Forcing all images of Francesca out of his mind, he managed to complete his homework, then changed into his pajamas.
Restless all evening, he woke up early the following morning. He etched a crisp part in his sandy-blond hair, chose a blue tie that matched his eyes, and spit-shined his shoes to a mirror-like image. He dressed quickly and scrutinized his tall, lean image in the full-length mirror. He gave himself the ‘thumbs up’ signal and dashed out of the house.
With the Harvest Dance in only a few weeks, Oliver thought of nothing else on his way to school. But how will I ask Francesca? he repeated to himself over and over. The answer finally came to him.
Before school started, Oliver picked some autumn flowers in the adjacent field. He sat on the school steps, staring down the street. “There it is,” he exclaimed, jumping into a standing position.
He raced to the curb.
The black limousine from the previous day skidded to a halt. The driver sprang out and immediately opened the door.
Francesca stepped onto the sidewalk. She was even more beautiful in the hazy morning light.
“Good morning, Oliver. How wonderful to see you again.”
Oliver found it hard to breathe. After swallowing hard, he attempted to speak. No words escaped his lips.
Francesca glanced at the flowers in Oliver’s hand. “Are those for me?”
Temporarily paralyzed, Oliver did manage to nod.
“Autumn flowers, my favorite.”
Here’s your chance, say something! Oliver told himself. He cleared his throat. “I’m glad.” He cleared his throat again, “Francesca?” His voice cracked as he handed her the flowers.
“Yes, Oliver?”
Oliver gulped hard. “I-I was wondering if you would do me the honor of—” Oliver paused, attempting to swallow away the massive lump in his throat. “—of accompanying me to the Harvest Dance?”
Oliver held his breath for what seemed like an eternity.
“I would be delighted, Oliver.”
Oliver exhaled. “Terrific. Shall we go to class?”
“We shall.” Francesca handed the flowers to the driver and laced her arm in Oliver’s.
Imagine he, Oliver Morgan, taking the most beautiful girl in the country to the Harvest Dance. He could hardly believe it.
The fourteen days leading up to the dance were like a whirlwind to Oliver. The more time he spent with Francesca, the more he realized she was the girl for him.
The same could not be said for Mr. and Mrs. Morgan. Oliver’s ears rang from his parent’s pleas. “Oliver, you’ll get hurt,” Mrs. Morgan continually said.
“She’s a diplomat’s daughter, son. She’s way out of your league,” Mr. Morgan said. “Find a local girl to take to the dance.”
For two hours, they tried to convince him, but nothing would change Oliver’s mind.
On the night of the dance, Oliver dressed in a navy blue wool suit accented by a silk harvest-gold tie. He viewed himself in the mirror. After combing his hair one last time, he checked his breast pocket for his handkerchief and wallet and then his pants for his house keys. “Ready.”
Francesca’s driver arrived five minutes later. Oliver slid into the empty limousine. Perspiration beaded on his forehead the moment the driver shut the door. Who am I kidding? Oliver’s insecurities and his parents’ warnings haunted him for the duration of the drive.
Bright lights illuminated the long driveway winding through the estate. As they pulled up to the house, Oliver gripped the limousine’s armrest with sweaty palms, and his breathing came to a sudden halt.
The driver opened the door, and Oliver nearly fell out.
“Are you all right, young sir?”
“Y-yes,” Oliver said in a quivering voice. He wiped his hands on his pants and reached for the corsage beside him.
He stood tall and stepped up to the front door. After straightening his tie, he rang the doorbell: musical chimes echoed through the heavy paneled wood door.
A gray-haired butler greeted Oliver and escorted him into a grand foyer. “The young miss will be down shortly,” he said with a voice that could crack ice. “Please be seated. The master will be with you in a moment.”
Of course, Mr. Di Nova wants to talk to me first. Oliver suspected as much. He was to meet Mr. Di Nova on at least two other occasions, but then, miraculously, Mr. Di Nova would be called away right before their meeting.
Oliver’s stomach flip-flopped the moment he saw a short man with very dark hair approaching him. His thin lips curled into a kind smile, and he extended his hand.
“Oliver. Finally, we have a chance to meet. Welcome to my home.”
Oliver reached out his hand and bent his knees to shorten his height. He stood at least six inches taller than Mr. Di Nova. But, surprising, Oliver felt at ease.
“Thank you, sir. It is an honor to meet you.”
“Please, sit down. Francesca’s mother should have her ready in a few minutes.”
Oliver was not sure what to expect. But he did not expect Mr. Di Nova to be so friendly. The only Italian men he had ever seen were in gangster movies, and Mr. Di Nova did not look nor act like any gangster.
“Thank you, sir.” Oliver joined Mr. Di Nova on the nearby settee.
“Well, Oliver, Francesca has told us all about you. I understand your father is the foreman at Woodstock Typewriter Company in town. A difficult job to manage so many workers. It is not unlike what I do.”
Oliver panicked. Once again, droplets of perspiration burst from his forehead.
“Sir. I’m sorry to correct you, but my dad is not a diplomat. Our house is on the outskirts of town—”
“Calm down, son. You misunderstood what I said. What I meant is, we both have responsibilities to make sure all aspects of our job run smoothly, whether it is in a factory or a diplomatic post.”
Oliver inhaled deeply and calmed. “I see, sir. I just didn’t want you to have the wrong impression of me.”
“You are an honest young man. I like that.” He looked up the highly polished wood staircase and stood. “Ah, here comes my lovely wife and daughter now.”
Oliver sprang to his feet; his gaze focused only on Francesca gliding down the stairs. The corsage slipped from his fingers and landed next to his feet, but no matter how hard he tried to pick it up, Oliver could not take his eyes off her.
An overhead chandelier brought out the shimmering color of her dress, reminding Oliver of ripened pumpkins glistening in the morning dew. Her wavy hair gathered under a matching hat in the shape of a flying saucer, and her eyes sparkled through a whisper of a veil covering them. Then, he held his breath as she parted her plump pink lips to say, “Good evening, Oliver.”
Oliver was lost for words, once again.
Francesca glanced at the ribboned box resting against the heel of Oliver’s shoe. “Is there something that you would like to give me?”
Oliver dove for the box and popped back up like a Bozo the Clown bop bag. “Y-yes. This is for you.” He gently handed it to her.
With delicate fingers, she opened the box to reveal a single, white orchid dressed in persimmon ribbons. “Oliver. It is so beautiful. Would you please pin it on me?”
Oliver’s face burned. He attempted twice but was all thumbs, growing more flustered by the minute. Swiftly, Francesca’s mother extracted the orchid from Oliver and pinned it to Francesca’s right shoulder. Oliver, still in a state of embarrassment, never saw her coming.
“Oliver,” Mr. Di Nova called out. “I would like to introduce you to my wife.”
Oliver took a step back to compose himself, then slightly bowed, accepting Mrs. Di Nova’s extended hand. “Nice to meet you, ma’am.”
“The pleasure is mine, Oliver. You are a very tall young man. We Italians are rather small compared to the people of the Midwest. Exactly how tall are you?”
Oliver dropped his head, and his face burned hot. “Almost six-foot, ma’am. I’m the tallest boy in my class. I take after my dad. He’s six-foot, five.”
“My goodness. I do not believe I have ever met a person that tall.”
“I guess that’s the way we are out here.”
Mrs. Di Nova smiled, then stepped over to Francesca and kissed her on the cheek. “Have a wonderful time tonight, my darling.”
“I believe it is time for us to go. Goodbye, Mama, Papa.”
“Take good care of my little girl, Oliver. I know you will be a gentleman,” Mr. Di Nova said as the smile he carried throughout their conversation slipped into a slight scowl.
“Yes, sir. My parents taught me always to respect girls.”
His smile returned. “Excellent. You were raised well, then, Oliver. Make sure you are back by eleven o’clock.
Oliver clasped Francesca’s hand, and they were off to the dance.
* * *
“Wow, talk about intense. Poor Oliver,” Olivia says, repositioning herself on the sofa.
“Your father will do the same when boys start to call on you.”
“Not, me. I’ll just meet them at the dance.” Olivia giggles. “Did Oliver at least have fun?”
“It was the most magical night of his life. He had his first real kiss that night.”
“Real, kiss? What do you mean, G-dad?”
“You’ll find out when the time comes.”
“Why do parents always say that?”
Oliver chuckles. “There are certain moments in life one needs to experience. Parents don’t want to spoil that for their children, and your first ‘real’ kiss is your first milestone.”
“Fine.”
Oliver notices the light from the southern windows had shifted to the west.
“It is getting late. Your gran should be here soon.”
“But G-dad. I want to know what happened to Francesca and Oliver. Do they eventually get married?”
Oliver’s eyes tear. He croaks out a “No.”
“No! They didn’t get married? Why? It was Francesca’s parents, right? They didn’t like Oliver because he was poor. Some people are just so nasty.”
Oliver swallows to clear a knot in his throat. “It wasn’t that. The situation was complicated.”
Olivia sprang off the sofa. “Complicated. Ha!” she shouts and throws her arms into the air. “That’s another thing parents always say.”
Oliver gasps. “Calm yourself. You should curb that passion until you are at least sixteen. I think we should go down now.”
Olivia drops onto the sofa, crosses her arms, and mumbles, “Fine.”
Oliver attempts to stand, but his knees give way, and he falls back down.
“G-dad, let me help you.”
She lifts Oliver under his arm until he is erect. Oliver gazes into Olivia’s face. “You are a kind child. Never lose your compassion, my little one.”
Olivia shakes her head. “Whatever. I still want to know why they didn’t get married. Please, tell me.”
“Fine,” Oliver says, mimicking Olivia. “Downstairs, I will give you the Reader’s Digest version.”
“The what?”
“Never mind.”
Olivia navigates Oliver down the two flights with ease and places him gently on the living room sofa. “Okay. Why?”
“You see, Olivia, Francesca left the country a month after the dance. Oliver was heartbroken, but he understood why she had to return to Italy.”
“Well, that makes sense, then.” Olivia knits her brows. “Wait a minute…that’s not complicated at all.”
Oliver sighs. “That is not the complicated part. In his senior year, Francesca returned to Woodstock. They fell madly in love and planned on marrying right after graduation.”
“So, why didn’t they?”
“Fate lent a disastrous blow. Soon after Oliver’s eighteenth birthday, the armed forces drafted him.
“Oh, no. But Francesca surely would have waited for him?”
Oliver sighed again. “She wanted to, but Oliver was critically injured.”
“OMG. D-did he eventually die?”
“I’m sure at times he wanted to, but no. He lived but was paralyzed from the waist down.”
“That is so sad. But Oliver still could’ve married Francesca.”
“He loved her too much to burden her with a crippled husband.”
“Oh, poor Oliver. He never married.”
Oliver swallowed hard. He could not lie to Olivia. “Well, that is not exactly true. Several months later, the feeling returned to his legs, but it took five years of therapy for him to be able to walk again. The therapy nurse was so kind to Oliver, he could not help loving her, but he never loved her the way he loved Francesca.”
Olivia’s eyes brighten to the exact shade as Oliver’s. “Hold on…” She glances down at Oliver’s legs and then stares deeply into his watery eyes. “You’re Oliver.” She claps her hand over her mouth. “That’s why you have Francesca’s picture. Now it all makes sense.”
Several tears slide down Oliver’s face. “I wondered how long it would take you to figure it out. I gather you were never told my first name? Or why you were named Olivia?”
“No.”
“Well, you were named after me because you inherited my eyes.”
“I get it, G-dad, but what happened to Francesca?”
“I heard through a mutual friend she married the American Ambassador for Italy and later moved to New York.”
“She lives in New York! We should get in touch with her. I’m a whizz on the computer. You do have one, right?”
Oliver smiles. “Yes, I do. But this isn’t a good idea. It’s been over sixty years since I last saw Francesca. She may not even be alive or live in New York anymore.”
“There’s only one way to find out. Where’s your computer?”
“No, Olivia.”
“Please, G-dad, you need to find her.”
“I am a broken-down old man. What would she want with me, even if she is alive?”
Olivia pats Oliver on the hand. “Come on, think how wonderful it will be to see Francesca again. Besides—you’re not getting any younger.”
Oliver laughs through tear-stained lips. “Very well, the computer is over there inside that desk.”
Olivia dashes to the desk and pulls out the computer. Her nimble fingers type in Francesca Di Nova, the American Ambassador of Italy’s wife.
Several names pop up on the screen, mostly all current American Ambassadors’ wives.
Oliver drops his head deep in thought. All is silent except for the clicking of the computer keys.
“I found her! She’s still alive. She lives in New York City. Her husband died fifteen years ago, and she has four children and six grandchildren. Wow, she still looks great.”
Oliver raises his head. “I am not surprised. She was quite the beauty.”
“If I dig deeper, I can find out more.”
“No, Olivia.”
The front door slams shut. “Olivia. Why are you upsetting G-dad?”
“Gran!” Olivia races into the foyer. “Gran, help me convince G-dad to find Francesca.”
“Whatever are you talking about, Olivia? Francesca?”
Olivia grabs her gran’s arm and drags her into the living room.
“Dad. What’s going on?”
Oliver raises his head and sighs. “I told Olivia about Francesca, and now she wants me to contact her.”
“Francesca is still alive? Then you should, Dad. Mom’s been gone for such a long time, and you were always honest with her about Francesca.”
“See?” Olivia exclaims. “Even Gran agrees with me.”
“It has been over sixty years. I was eighteen the last time I saw Francesca. And now—”
“You’re still the same wonderful man she fell in love with all those years ago. Love has no time limit, Dad.”
“I’m not convinced. What if Francesca does not want to see me?”
“There’s only one way to find out…Olivia, find some way to contact Francesca, and we’ll let her decide.”
“Yay! I’m on it.”
“In the meantime, Dad. You look tired. Go have a lie-down.”
* * *
By Thanksgiving morning, Oliver has no knowledge of what has transpired. He has asked Olivia countless times if she had found out anything about Francesca. Her response was always the same. “I’m working on it, G-dad.”
Once again, Oliver rocks on the front porch lost in time. A chill grabs hold of his joints, and he tucks the woolen throw around his legs. Filtered sunbeams creep up the stairs as a car approaches and parks in front of the house.
A small group of people exit and walk toward Oliver. Olivia leads the way, followed by her gran, mother, and father, who is carrying a large metal roasting pan.
“Happy Thanksgiving, everyone,” Oliver says as he greets his family.
Olivia rushes to his side and hugs him gently. “We have lots of cooking to do, G-dad. Gran made the turkey, but we still have all the sides to prepare.”
“Very good. Go on then. I will be in soon. I feel like sitting here a bit longer.”
“Great idea,” Olivia says and enters the house with the others.
Distant birds tweet in the bare trees, and Oliver watches several squirrels gathering nuts. The rumble of a car’s engine breaks the tranquil scene. A black limousine pulls up behind the parked car.
Oliver rubs his eyes.
The driver opens the door, and a tiny, silver-haired woman steps onto the sidewalk. She looks like a film star from the past. Dark sunglasses shade her eyes, her form draped in black wool.
Oliver cranes his neck for a closer look. The driver hands the woman a bouquet of autumn flowers, not unlike the ones Oliver gave Francesca so many years ago.
His heart races like a hummingbird’s wings. With each step the woman takes, Oliver’s eyes widen. He grasps the arms of the rocking chair and, with great difficulty, forces himself into an upright position.
She slowly climbs the few steps and hands the flowers to Oliver.
“Francesca—is it you?”
