Second Chances

I dreamt of him again last night; of his hands on my hips, thumbs tracing languid circles like he always did. I dreamt of his lips hovering over mine, his breath tickling my skin. I dreamt of twisting my fingers through his dark brown curls and smelling the sweet smell of him which was salt and sea and air. I dreamt of him last night and when I awoke twisted and tangled in sweaty sheets I believed, for that one sweet second between sleep and consciousness, that I was back on that tiny Grecian island in the Aegean Sea. My heart constricted in my chest when my eyes adjusted to the daylight and my surroundings came into focus. I was not back on that tiny Grecian island in the Aegean Sea. I was in my small, Napa Valley apartment, I was alone, and I was late for work.

“Well, look who decided to show up today?” The old woman who managed the vineyard tours pursed her wrinkled lips and glared at me from behind a pair of thick-rimmed glasses. I rolled my eyes and brushed past her towards the lounge where the tour guides kept their things. It had been six years since the summer I spent in Greece on the tiny island of Corfus as an art student and six years since I walked away from the love of my life.

Sighing and exhausted already at 9 am, I tossed my bag into a free cubby. The mirror above the benches seemed to laugh at me as I tried to do something, anything, with my long brown hair. My reflection was a mockery of the life I had built. I had given up painting and lived alone in an overpriced apartment, my dreams dead and dried up like the vase of flowers I’d bought for myself several months ago and never thrown out.

I’d never gotten over Anthony or the magic he inspired in me. With him, every day felt full of enchanting possibilities. He had opened my eyes to a world without limits, fear, or criticism; he had nurtured my dreams lovingly, tending to each one delicately and, he’d loved me, loved every piece of me. Every part of myself that I brushed over or purposefully ignored he loved with an intentional devotion. Each night, as I lay falling asleep I played through our story, from the moment I first saw him mending a fishing net on his boat to the last night we’d danced together under the stars, the promise of forever hanging delicately between us. The following morning, too afraid of the unknown to leap with him into a life I now realized was meant for me, I’d left, and every morning over the last six years I’d woken up with a heart still swollen with longing for a life I’d thrown away before its conception.

“Lily! Your group arrives in ten minutes!” The woman called from the front.

“I’m coming!” I called back.

As I walked down the long gravel drive to the gift shop where I would meet my first group I let myself remember the letters I’d sent him after the regret had become too much. I had written 12 letters, all of which had been returned to me unopened and unanswered. I tried to let the idea of a reconciliation between the two of us fade away, but somewhere inside lived a kernel of hope. Maybe someday...I thought as the gravel crunched under my shoes. I opened the gift shop door, the little golden bell dinging delightfully.

“Good morning, everyone!” I said cheerfully, plastering a fake smile onto my red lips. “Are we all here and ready to begin?” The people in my group looked around to make sure everyone was accounted for before turning back to me happily. I smiled again and took a deep breath. “Alright, then! Let’s go.”

After the tour, we were walking back to the gift shop when I heard it. I stopped dead in my tracks, a small, strangled noise escaping my lips. It couldn’t be. My heart drummed in my chest and my hands shook. My feet were frozen to the ground. It’s not him, I thought to myself, it can’t be him. I didn’t recognize the car, a small, red Fiat, and tried to breathe but there, standing in front of the gift shop was a man in khaki pants and a white linen shirt and his broad shoulders were unmistakable. The man’s brown curls moved gently in the light breeze and my hands shook as I heard his laughter tumble down the driveway. It was impossible.

“Are you alright, dear?” a hand touched my elbow and I jumped.

“What?” I asked breathlessly, looking down at a little old woman from my group. Her eyebrows knitted together in concern.

“I said, are you alright?” I couldn’t answer. Just then, the man turned around and my knees threatened to give out. It was him. A sob caught in my throat and his eyes met mine. They widened in surprise and we stood, still as statues, not believing the other was real.

“Lily?” Anthony asked. I couldn’t speak. He walked slowly towards me and then faster as his strong legs quickly closed the distance between us.

“Anthony?” I somehow managed to croak out. At my voice, a giant, beautiful smile broke out on his face and he swooped me into his arms.

“How can you be here?” he laughed loudly. I pressed my face against the soft linen of his shirt, breathing in the smell of him that was salt and sea and air. I couldn’t help myself then and cried. I cried for leaving him. I cried for the time we’d missed. I cried for the impossibility of him being here now. Gently, he sat me down and pulled away from me, hooking his finger under my chin tilting my face up towards his own.

“Lily Anderson,” he said softly, brushing tears from my cheeks.

“I wrote to you,” I blurted out, “I wrote to you and… the letters…you never opened them, you sent them back.” Anthony's eyes widened and he shook his head.

“I never received any letters,” he said. I stared at him in disbelief. All this time and he’d never even received them. Never even had the chance to open them and read what I’d confessed. Realization washed over his eyes after a moment and he smiled with sad humor.

“I know what happened,” he said. “Shortly after you left, I moved to another island. I opened a restaurant, Lily, like I always talked about. I’m sure they never forwarded your letters.” I could only stare at him, at the planes of his face and the depth of his eyes unbelieving that it was truly him standing in front of me.

“I would have opened them,” he said sternly. “I would have written back.”

“Why are you here?” I whispered. I shoved down the hope flapping desperately in my stomach. Surely he was not here to declare love for the woman who had run out on him years ago.

“I do business with this vineyard,” he said softly, his words brushing against my face as warm and welcome as the summer sun. Just then the owner of the vineyard approached and cleared his throat.

“Mr. Caras, we are ready to begin when you are.” Mr. Kingston cleared his throat again as I tore my eyes away from Anthony’s face.

“Lily, you have another group starting in fifteen minutes,” he said sternly. Anthony pulled away from me and turned to look at the man behind him.

“Just a moment, please,” he said, and then, turning back to me, his eyes desperately searched my face.

“Will you meet me here? Later?” I nodded and willed myself to smile securely.

“Alright then, come to the vineyard restaurant at 8. I’ll have a table for us.”

The rest of the day passed slowly, all the while endless scenarios of our date played through my head. Finally, after my last tour ended at 5, I drove home; miraculously managing to make it there in one piece despite how quickly and recklessly I’d driven. I showered shakily and put on the white sundress with red flowers that was tucked away in the back of my closet. It was the last thing I’d worn with Anthony before leaving.

It was 8 o’clock and there he was, sitting at a table on the balcony of the vineyard restaurant. The twinkling, yellow lights entwined through the wooden beams above him cast a serene glow over the table. The string quartet played something beautiful inside the restaurant and I pinched myself at the possibility of redemption, renewal. Anthony rose from the table when he saw me.

“You look beautiful,” he said, his voice deep and husky and full of emotion. I smiled and sat down in the chair he pulled out for me.

“I bought this dress in Greece. Do you remember?”

“Yes, I remember,” he said. He walked back to his chair and then reached for my hand across the table. “We never went on a proper date, did we?”

“No, I don’t think we did,” I answered, looking down at our hands. He was quiet for a moment and then squeezed my hand. I looked up at him.

“Why did you leave?” he asked softly, his voice constricted. I gazed into his eyes and swallowed, preparing myself for the words I had rehearsed over and over in my head should we ever meet again.

“I was afraid,” I answered truthfully. “I was afraid of what I would miss, settling down so young, but after I came home I...I realized I had left the only thing in my life worth missing. You gave meaning to my life, Anthony. After I left…well…I haven’t been able to paint since Greece.” Silence hovered between us as he absorbed the weight of my words.

“Excuse me, can I get you two anything to drink?” Our waiter appeared at the table, smiling the fake smile I’d plastered on earlier that day.

“Uhm, a bottle of your best wine, please,” Anthony answered.

“Any particular kind, sir?” Anthony smiled and glanced at me.

“Surprise us.” The waiter nodded and left. Anthony smiled and turned back to me, giving me the invitation of silence.

“Leaving was the biggest mistake of my life,” I admitted. My throat constricted as I willed myself not to cry. I felt his thumb trace circles on the back of my hand.

“Lily,” he said gently. I looked up. “I never forgot about you, never moved on from our love, and always hoped I would see you again.” A noise came from somewhere in my throat and I dropped my head letting the streams of tears flow freely into my lap. In one fluid motion, he pushed back his chair and stood up, coming around the table and pulling me tightly to him. Our lips met, our bodies pressed together, and my planets and stars snapped back into alignment. This was our first date. After six years and a summer of love, this would be the date we marked forever as our beginning.

“I love you,” he said. I laughed through the tears and smiled with gratitude for this second chance at life and love and happiness.

“I’ve brought you a bottle of our best merlot, sir, would you like me to pour it?” Our waiter had reappeared once more and stood awkwardly before us holding onto a 1985 bottle of Merlot.

“I’ll pour, thank you.” Anthony took the bottle from the waiter who quickly rushed back to the kitchens and then, opening the bottle, Anthony poured two glasses of the vineyard’s finest merlot from the year we met. He handed me a glass and I raised it towards him.

“To love,” I said “And life and the never ending possibilities it holds.”