The Star-Crossed Sisters of Tuscany(108)

I lower my gaze. “I’ve already confronted Rosa.”

Poppy takes my hand. “Of course you did, my little pollia berry. But please, promise me you’ll keep it from the rest of the family, at least until Rosa passes.”

My beautiful, generous nonna, still protecting her sister.

She reaches into the manila envelope. As if handling an ancient relic, she gingerly places a photo on the table in front of me. “My favorite picture.”

I stare down at the old, yellowed Polaroid snapshot. I recognize my dad’s old brown sofa immediately. Wearing a hideous sweater with huge shoulder pads, a young brunette sits, her shadowed eyes gazing at the baby in her arms. She looks sweet . . . and fragile. I laugh through tears and trace her face with my finger. “Mom,” I whisper.

“Jesus!” Lucy cries. “You and Em look exactly alike.”

I turn my attention to the forty-something woman beside my mother. Slim, with dark eyes, she smiles into the camera, her arm around my mother and two-year-old Daria on her lap.

“I get it now,” I say, unable to pull my gaze from my beautiful young nonna. “I finally know why Rosa never liked me.” I look up, into the eyes of the courageous and selfless, wise and wonderful woman who gave life to my mother. “I was a constant reminder of you—and the truth.”





Chapter 56




Emilia

Eleven Months Later

Trespiano

I shield my eyes from the morning’s haze. A warm breeze brushes my skin, carrying the faint scent of roses and sage. Beneath a pergola canopied with pink bougainvilleas and braided vines, I spy Lucy and Sofia. A rush of love comes over me. I soak in the scene, Sofia on a chaise with her nose in her iPad, and Lucy at a small iron table with her bare feet propped on the chair in front of her, gazing out at the vineyard.

I make my way down the flagstone path. Lucy smiles when she sees me, her skin tawny from the Tuscan sun, her dark hair cropped and unruly.

“Finally,” she says, “someone who’ll talk.” She thrusts a thumb at Sofia. “I can’t get this one to put down that damn novel.”

“Don’t interrupt,” Sofia says, lifting a finger but not her eyes.

My future novel! I can hardly believe it. It’s only a Word document now, and I still have months of revision ahead of me, but my editor predicts it’ll hit the shelves next fall. It’s the story of a beautiful Italian woman in 1960, who fell in love with an East German violinist. I close my eyes and say a silent prayer of thanks to Nonna Poppy. If not for her, there would be no book. Until Poppy, I didn’t have the courage, or the heart, to share my words with the world. I imagine Poppy shaking a finger at me. “Of course you did. You just needed to find your voice. But your next novel, Emilia, must be your story.”

Is she still hoping I’ll find love? Some people think having a ring on your finger is the ultimate goal. Not Nonna Poppy. And not me. In Italy, Poppy broke the curse. She helped me find my freedom. Not freedom to marry, necessarily, but freedom to believe. I may choose to love—or not. But I know one thing for certain: it’s possible.

“You and Sofie seem really happy.”

My cousin smiles, the kind of smile that comes from deep down in her heart and carries all the way to her eyes. “Things are great, with the exception of having the friggin’ ocean between us.” She raises her shoulders. “Que será, será. Who knows what the future will bring? We’re happy with what we have now, a week here and there. The boys love Bensonhurst. Did I tell you Franco wants to be a barber?” She laughs. “Grandpa Dolphie has a chair reserved for him. Oh, and they’re all coming for your dad’s wedding in April.”

“Perfect.” When my dad proposed to Mrs. Fortino last month, they insisted it would be a small wedding. But when two Italian families merge, “small wedding” is an oxymoron. Secretly, I think he’s pleased.

Lucy studies a persimmon tree, its autumn fruit a mosaic of ocher and orange. “You know, all that time I was looking for someone to love me. But what I really wanted was to love.”

“You found it, Luce.”

She nods. “And look at you, Em. I can’t believe my cousin is a famous author.”

I wave her off. “‘Famous’ and ‘author’ are mutually exclusive terms.”

She rolls her eyes. “I don’t know what the hell you just said. All I know is that I’m proud, and you should be, too.”

My phone chimes and I peek at it. “Daria,” I say. “I’ll call her back.”

Lucy tips her head. “You still haven’t told her, have you?”

“Not yet.”

“But you’re allowed to now,” Lucy says. “Poppy said you could spill the beans once Rosa died.”

“It’s only been six months. Dar’s still grieving. She and Rosa were tight. But one day, I will. The girls need to know how incredible their great-nonna was.”

“And how evil Rosa was.”

“No. Poppy was right. Rosa was trapped in a lie, and it poisoned her. When Poppy and I FaceTimed with Rosa, just hours before she died, she actually cried.”

“No shit? Like real human tears?”

I can’t help but smile. “Yup. I think even her nurse was shocked.”