Til You Come Back to Me Again - A Love Story

Prologue

Til You Come Back to Me Again

A Love Story

Jewel Adams

Second Edition

Copyright © 2017 Jewel Adams

All Rights Reserved.

"You are always new. The last of your kisses was ever the sweetest; the last smile the brightest; the last movement the gracefullest. When you pass'd my window home yesterday, I was fill'd with as much admiration as if I had then seen you for the first time...Even if you did not love me I could not help an entire devotion to you."

–John Keats

Orlando, Florida

I have been told that we all have defining moments throughout our lives. I can only recall two from my childhood. One was the car crash that killed my mother. That same crash left a long, horizontal scar just at my hairline. The second was the day my father and I left Italy and moved to the United States. For a fourteen-year-old, leaving my country was not a big deal. My family had traveled frequently, taking vacations for months at a time. Having inherited a fortune from his father, Papa provided us with a very comfortable lifestyle that we enjoyed. But Mama's death took away much of that joy. Papa said no one could ever take Mama's place in his heart and he never remarried.

The third defining moment came six months ago, when Papa told me he had pancreatic cancer. At twenty-two, I was about to lose the only person left in my life. It was a day of devastation, not unlike the day I lost Mama. After a great deal of crying and almost two hours of sparring with my Jeet Kune Do instructor, I'd sat down with my father and listened with a heavy heart as he gave me instructions and delivered his business and fortune into my hands.

When we first moved to the States, we'd traveled for a few months before finally settling in Orlando. Using his degree in hospitality and management, Papa opened La Villa de Luca, one of the very few five-star hotels in Orlando. At sixteen, I began working at the hotel, receiving training from my father in every aspect of the business. During my senior year of high school, I began taking an online course in hotel management, quickly earning my degree. With the years of training I received from Papa, I helped him run the hotel. And oh, how I loved working alongside him! His love of the business was my love. I aspired to be like him, a CEO and owner that the employees loved. Papa was such a smart man, a wise man. He'd also taught me about solid investing and had helped me to begin my own little nest egg.

Still, even with all the training and teaching, I felt unprepared to take on such responsibility. I felt unworthy of it all.

"You can do this, son," he had said, squeezing my shoulder with a hand that was already showing signs of frailty. "You not only have the knowledge you need, you have the heart."

Wiping the tears from my face before they could fall onto the folder of legal documents, I nodded and smiled sadly. "I'll try to make you proud, Papa."

Standing, my father pulled me up into his embrace. Even at fifty, he still matched my height of six-foot-two. "You've already made me proud, Angelo. You are a good man." He smiled, his eyes still holding the spark that never seemed to fade. "And with God's help, you will find a woman that will make you a better man." He rested his forehead against mine. "And though I will not be here, your mama and I will be watching you become that man."

How quickly the time has passed, Papa.

Drawing my thoughts forward, I stood by my father's grave long after everyone else had gone, taking a last moment to gaze down at the shiny black casket before the workers began their job of covering it with the waiting dirt. Closing my eyes, I held a carnation I had taken from the casket spray to my nose, inhaling deeply. White carnations were Papa's favorite because they were Mama's as well. For a while after she died, he'd purchased a fresh one each week and wore it on his jacket lapel. He said he felt like she was with him because the scent always reminded him of her. Papa wasn't a perfect man. He had many faults. But his love for my mother had been perfect–even when he sometimes did things that would make her shake her head in bewilderment–their love for each other had been perfect. When he'd made the decision to leave Italy, I had asked him, "Do you think Mama is unhappy about us leaving the home she loved so much?" To which he'd replied, "Not at all. She is very happy because she will be in the States with us too." I think that is why he'd purchased the four-bedroom Italian style home in Winter Park, even though there was just the two of us. Mama could never have more children after me, but she'd loved her space. I guess her sentiments had rubbed off on Papa.

But now I'm there alone, Papa. You should have thought of that back then.

Taking a deep breath, I tucked the carnation into my breast pocket, dried my face, and slipped my sunglasses on before turning and heading back to the waiting limo.