Destined - Episode 11

Novella Thursdays

Chapter Seven

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On the flight over to San Francisco Aaron couldn’t help but think of Jimmy, and how he had spent a third of his young life on planes searching for a soul mate he didn’t even know truly existed. Or maybe he did. Maybe his soul was John, subconsciously reassuring him that he was on the right path. Aaron wondered if this was really what our souls were. Were we like snowballs rolling down the hill of existence? The accumulation of all we had ever been, and continue to be, forever within us? Was this the ‘spirit’, the ‘energy’ that humankind had sought to understand for thousands of years?

He had been very tempted to take Jimmy, or the part of Jimmy that had been dormant for so long, up to the fifth floor to see Gloria, but he knew he needed a couple of more pieces of the puzzle in place before he could do such a thing, for they would probably only have one shot at reuniting. Even John had understood this, and encouraged Aaron to do what he had to in order to make since of it all. The thing is, all would have to be complete before Monday, as there was little to no chance that they’d be able to get past the obstacle that was Moran.

Sitting there looking out at the passing clouds, thinking of the whole situation, Aaron had an impulse to go for his wallet, to take a look at the card that gentleman back at the hospital had given him.

Dennis Brinks

CityScape Magazine

Editor-in-Chief

Aaron turned the card over and looked at the name: Sarah Moore

He took out his phone. No internet access. Took the pamphlet from his seat and contemplated spending the ridiculous price for wi-fi. He knew he wouldn’t be able to wait out the urge to know, and so he pushed the flight attendant call button.

Sarah Moore. Instantly, a number of photos came up with the name search, most associated with CityScape. He clicked Images for more, and froze when he saw the image of the person he knew to be Gloria staring back at him.

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The cemetery was divided by century, with grave stones going all the way back to the days of the California gold rush. Generals, celebrities, politicians. According to the old groundskeeper leading Aaron, this was the final resting place to a variety of souls. Final resting place. A statement he would have believed less than a week ago.

Approaching the middle of the estate, the twentieth century section, Aaron patiently followed the old man down rows of grave markings that must have been twenty yards long. The further back they went the closer they got to the middle of the second to the last decade, until they had reached the mid 1980’s.

The headstone they were looking for was among the ninth row, and when Aaron caught sight of it he couldn’t help but get a little teary-eyed.

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Here lies John and Gloria Borelli.

Loving parents to Jeannie,

loving souls to one another.

1894-1984

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The grass was nicely trimmed, the stone cleaned to a shine, but this could have been the work of the old man. What really grabbed Aaron’s attention were the fresh stargazers that had recently been laid down, for they couldn’t have been more than a few days old.

‘Have their relatives recently stopped by?’ he asked as he looked over at the next grave site, wondering if Jeannie might be buried nearby.

‘Only got one living one far as I know. Daughter. Jeannie.’

Aaron almost fell over from his squatted position, and stood up so fast he got a little light-headed. ‘She’s still alive?! But she must be-’

‘Ninety-six. Says her secret is the Italian food she was raised on.’

Remembering the name Borelli’s Bistro, Aaron got a lump in his throat. He was so excited he began to shake a little. ‘Please. I believe I’ve found a long-lost relative of hers. That’s why I’m here. Can you please give me Jeannie’s address?’

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Atop a hill overlooking The City by the Bay and its long golden gateway sat a quaint cozy house surrounded by a picture-perfect landscape, a gazebo in the back and a well-manicured shrubbery serving as a perimeter to the soft green lawn that beckoned to be rolled around in.

But what really made the property burst in beauty were the hundreds of Stargazers cushioning the base of the home. From one shade to the next, exquisitely displayed like a natural color scheme.

This is where Jeannie was when she spotted the young fellow coming up the driveway, tending to her prized lilies like she so often did.

‘Excuse me, ma’am? Mrs. Jeannie Borelli?’

‘Miss,’ she said as she stood from her gardening chair and removed her sun hat. ‘Never married. But call me Jeannie. Never been one for formalities either.’ She had aged well for a woman of her years, and moved with the agility of someone three decades younger.

‘That’s quite the walk from the main road, ain’t it?’ she asked as she removed her gardening gloves.

‘Sure is,’ Aaron wiped the bead of sweat trickling off his eyebrow and down his cheek, the bridge at his back being illuminated by the rays of the sinking sun.

‘Care for some lemonade?’ Jeannie asked as she gestured toward the steps of her home.

‘Would love some, thank you.’

As soon as Aaron entered the house he felt as though he had stepped back in time a hundred years. From the furniture to the décor, everything must have been from the first half of the last century. But like Jeannie, the items from a more innocent time had stood the test of time. Wasn’t it his grandmother who had said, “they don’t make things like they used to”?

There were about a dozen paintings hanging throughout the living room, including one which read Borelli’s Bistro, no doubt made for advertising. And when he spotted the one above the fireplace he felt for sure he would have fainted if it weren’t for his youth.

Steadying himself, he took off his glasses, clinched his eyes shut to refocus, wiped the sweat from his face with the back of his sleeve, took a breath, and put his glasses back on, once again looking up at the picture.

It was Memory. It was the same exact painting as the one he had watched Gloria working on. It even had the three horizontal lines drawn in the snow, connected by a vertical one going straight down the middle.

Thought, word, and deed. When in alignment with truth, anything is possible.

That’s what she had said.

‘That was one of her favorites,’ Jeannie commented as she re-entered the living room with their lemonade. ‘Her and daddy’s time in The Himlayas.’

Odd how she had just started talking about her parents as if they had been conversing about them all afternoon.

‘Ma’am- I mean Jeannie, do you happen to have any living relatives? Perhaps a great granddaughter in her early to mid-twenties?’

‘Nope. I’m the last of the Borelli clan. You’re trying to make sense of it, aren’t you?’ She handed him his glass of lemonade.

‘Thank you. Were you expecting me?’

‘I may have had an inkling. This is why you’re here, is it not? To learn more about my parents?

‘Have a seat.’

And so it began. The old paintings on the wall, the black and white photos, a few items actually owned by Gloria and John Borelli. Reminiscent of the look back Aaron had taken Jimmy on, Jeannie was now taking him on a journey of their past.

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1911

Fresh-faced and with a pep in his step, the delivery boy for Antonio’s Italian Eatery made his way down the lively streets of his neighborhood with a bag of calzones and a box of something special, every now and then a pal calling out to him, “Hey, Johnny, what you doin’ workin’ on a Sunday?”

“Johnny-boy, we’re a man short. Come play some stick ball!”

But this seventeen-year-old was focused, having eagerly waited all week for a delivery he just couldn’t stop thinking about.

Through the sawdust, the hammering, the chiseling, the teenager made his way to the back of a furniture shop where he found the owner, Louie Granatelli, varnishing a chair.

‘Got your calzones here, Mr. Granatelli,’ he said as he handed over the bag he had been so careful with.

‘Ah, still warm. That’s why you’re the best, Johnny! What’s in the box?’

‘Just a little something I baked for Glory, if you don’t mind, Mr. Granatelli. May I?’ He gestured toward the backyard.

‘Go on,’ he said, with a smirk of knowing all about being smitten over a girl. He didn’t seem to mind this innocent courtship that was going on between this young man and his daughter. After all, Gloria and Johnny had practically grown up together, with the boy having shown nothing but respect since their friendship had turned to attraction.

‘Oh, Mr. Granatelli?’

‘Yes?’

‘One more thing.’ His throat was as dry as sandpaper. ‘Next week is Valentine’s Day and all, and I’ve been working awful hard to save-’

‘Have her home by seven.’

‘Oh, Mr. Granatelli, thank you. I’ll be sure to have her home by seven. Seven o’clock sharp. Thank you, Mr. Granatelli!’

The nervous delivery boy headed for the backyard, where he found the girl he was in love with as he did every weekend; her back to him, painting a picture. She had a remarkable talent for being able to bring to life whatever she envisioned in her mind’s eye, and today it was the coastline to the port city they called home.

Sharing the same age, they had known each other since they could remember, but it wasn’t until about a year ago that they started to see one another in a new light. Both had kept such intimate feelings to themselves, but Johnny had dreaded the thought of spending Valentine’s Day, a day for those in love to cherish one another, alone in his bedroom cursing himself for not having enough courage. And so he had gathered all he could muster up for this moment now. 

He wiped his sweaty palms, took a breath, and took that first step towards destiny.

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1912

It was a rather bare hilltop, but the view of San Francisco was amazing. It was the place where Glory and Johnny, along with many of their friends, had spent many of summers playing tag, stickball, kick-the-can, and anything else that came to mind.

It was also the place where the delivery boy had asked the carpenter’s daughter for her hand in marriage not even a month after their first date. Upon her acceptance, he had proclaimed, with such conviction, how they were going to spend forever together. With such a declaration had also come the promise that he would one day buy the land they were standing atop and make it their home. The special place where they had forged their friendship, fallen in love, and had their first kiss.

And there they stood, in the very spot where they had committed to one another, in a beautiful gazebo Louie Granatelli had built for this ceremony of matrimony, friends and family surrounding the intimate dwelling as they bear witness to the vowels this young couple swore to uphold, with the last line stated by each having been written by their own hand.

‘May this ring represent the infinity of our love.’

That night they consummated such powerful love not in the suite of The New Palace Hotel Johnny’s parents had arranged for them to stay in, but instead had snuck away back to their special hilltop, their gift of innocence given to one another within the coziness of that small hand-crafted gazebo.

For the rest of the night they remained in their intimate embrace, staring out through the sides of the structure at the starry sky that encompassed them and their special little spot.

‘It just has to be, Glory. I just know it does! Europe, Africa, The Far East. There must be something out there that can help us. You’ve seen those exotic people that come through the port. They’re from all over the world. There must be secrets out there we’ve never even imagined!

‘And what better time than now? The new ships nowadays are making it possible for anyone to travel. In fact, I just heard about one they say is unsinkable! They call it Titanic, and they say it’s like the grandest hotel you’ve ever seen. We can get a job on one of these luxury liners and use it to explore the world. To find the answers to forever!’

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1912-1917