The Star-Crossed Sisters of Tuscany(104)

“Look,” I said, my wet cheek pressed against her downy head. “See that distant land, my beautiful girl? This is our new home, the place where you will grow to be wise and free and become anyone you want to be.”

The tears continued to flow. I couldn’t stop them. If anyone had asked, I would have claimed they were tears of joy. But they were anything but. The full gravity of my decision struck me. I’d given up on my husband, my love. I was thousands of miles from my home. And there was no turning back.

A fierce grip on my arm startled me. I turned to find Rosa, her eyes wide with horror. “What are you doing?”

I could see how it looked: me, sobbing, leaning too far over the ship’s rail; baby Joh wrapped in a blanket, wailing in my arms.

“I can’t live without Rico. I must return home.”

I heard the crack of her hand against my face. My hand flew to my cheek and I gasped for breath. As if she, too, felt the heat, Johanna began to scream.

“Stop this nonsense!” Rosa said, yanking Johanna from my arms. “You think you are the only one in pain? No. But do you see me wanting to throw myself overboard?”

Had my sister lost her baby? I wanted to set her straight. I would never take my own life. But now was not the time to defend myself.

“Oh, Rosa,” I said, clutching my chest. “I am so sorry. What happened, my sweet sister?”

She put her hand to her lips, but I could see the downward tug of her mouth. “It happened quickly, back home, the fifth of June. She had stopped growing weeks earlier.” She swallowed hard. “You are never to speak of this. Nobody is to know.”

“But Mamma knows, sì? And Papà?”

She shook her head. “The disappointment would be too great. Papà was so proud of me. He expects many grandchildren from his firstborn daughter.”

For the first time, I realized the pressure the curse had placed on Rosa. “But surely you told Alberto.”

“Especially not Alberto.” Her eyes fixed on mine. “Not until I am in America. He would have told me not to come if he thought I could not bear children.”

Shivers blanketed me. Had she miscarried before? I took her by the arms, all self-pity vanishing. “The doctors in America will help you. You will have many children. We Fontana women are strong. We are resourceful. When a door closes, we take an ax to it.”

She smiled then, a troubled smile that never reached her eyes. How was I to know how fully Rosa would embrace my advice?



* * *





Alberto cried when he first laid eyes on Johanna. He stooped, pressing his lips to baby Joh’s forehead. My throat squeezed. It should be Rico, giving his daughter her first kiss, not her uncle Alberto. Rosa placed the baby in his arms, a contrived portrayal of a loving mother and proud papà. Johanna latched on to Alberto’s pinky. He stood gazing at her, as if she were a beautiful apparition he couldn’t quite believe. Finally, he turned to Rosa. For the first time ever, I saw affection in his eyes.

“My love,” he said, and he planted a kiss on her lips. “You have made me a happy man.”

Had my sister not told him our plan? My heart thrummed. I waited for Rosa to explain. Instead, she gazed at her handsome husband with such devotion it nearly blinded me.

I tried to calm myself. Of course she couldn’t explain at that moment. The news of the miscarriage would break his heart. And besides, we were still within sight of customs officials. Once we got to Brooklyn, she would stop pretending.

Rosa wore her prettiest dress—a navy frock, belted at the waist, meant to show off her curves. But the fabric across her bottom stretched, and the buttons at her chest threatened to burst. I fought a wave of sadness. My sister had the body of a new mother, with no child to show for it.

I smoothed the wrinkles from the old red and white polka-dot dress I’d made back in Trespiano. I refused to wear my best dress. That white garment was packed away, secured in a bag in remembrance of my wedding day.

We stood on the edge of the harbor, shivering. New York’s autumn air felt like the refrigerated room in the bakery, and I rubbed the chill from my arms. I looked up and noticed for the first time an older man standing behind Alberto, eyeing me as if he were judging cattle at the market.

I crossed my arms over my chest and listened as he whispered to Alberto in broken English he foolishly assumed I didn’t understand. “I thought you said her skin was like cream. And she is much too scrawny. No hips, that one.”

I seethed. I’d lost weight on the voyage, it was true. And the sun had darkened my skin. But who did he think he was, this pink-headed man with a watermelon belly?

“I suppose she will do,” he said and pulled a set of keys from his pocket. My stomach lurched. Did Ignacio think I was here to marry him? Had Rosa not made it clear?

He cast me a smile, one I’m sure was meant to charm. It did not.

We climbed into Ignacio’s automobile, a snazzy turquoise car that said Oldsmobile on the back. Alberto hunkered in the backseat beside Rosa, holding Johanna. I had no choice but to sit up front with Ignacio.

Ignacio flipped on the radio. Of all songs, “Que Será, Será” rang out. I bit my cheek to keep from crying out. Rosa let out a whoop and leaned over the seat. “Can you believe it, Paolina? He has his own automobile!”

I turned and reached for Joh. “I can take her, Alberto.”