The Star-Crossed Sisters of Tuscany(109)

I startle when someone comes up behind me and kneads my neck. I lift my face and pat his hand. “Good morning, Gabe.”

“Buongiorno, bellezza.”

What a flirt. A year ago, I would have melted at Gabe’s touch. I shake my head, thinking of that na?ve girl who shrank back to her room, red-faced and mortified, heartbroken and humiliated. To this day, it was the most romantic date of my life.

Back then, I thought kisses held promises, and sex implied a future. I’m wiser now, and more realistic. But of all the men who could have delivered my first real heartbreak, I’m oddly proud to say it was Gabriele Vernasco.

I sit up at the sound of a car engine. Dust kicks up in the driveway. “He’s here!” My chair scrapes against the flagstone and I dash to the front yard.

Wearing khaki slacks and a straw Belfry hat, Rico shuffles his way to me. He’s clutching his old violin case in one hand, a metal box in the other. He lowers them to his sides and opens his arms. “Mein M?dchen.”

“Opa!” I press my face against his chest, my heart overflowing.

He finally steps away. “How are you holding up?”

“I miss her so much.”

“She would be overjoyed to know we are all together for her birthday, as promised.”

All except her, I imagine we’re both thinking.

“You gave her the happiest ten months of her life.”

His voice breaks. “We both did.”

Arm in arm, we make our way toward Casa Fontana, the house where his beloved once lived. He stops before we reach the porch, and fishes into his pocket.

“Our pied-à-terre in Ravello,” he says, holding out an old-fashioned brass key. “Poppy and I want you to have it.”

I step back. “No. I can’t.”

He gently places the key onto my palm. “Jan agrees. The apartment belongs to you, our granddaughter. You will need to see Poppy’s attorney friend in Amalfi to sign the papers, and then it will be all yours. We have great hope that it will be the launching pad of many happy memories.”

I stare at the key, and all the possibilities it holds. “Thank you, Opa. You and I will live there together. I’ll buy a sleeper sofa for me—”

He pats my cheek. “I must return to Germany. But purchase that sofa—I will be visiting often.” He smiles. “Luciana will enjoy the apartment, too. And Sofia, of course, and the boys. Perhaps one day even Daria and the girls will visit.”

“Daria,” I say, already imagining it.



* * *





We wait until dusk before setting out to the field where my great-grandparents and their children once toiled. It’s a warm evening, silent except for the chirping of insects and the thrashing of the grasses as we climb the hill. I spread out a blanket and Rico sets down his violin case. He gazes down at the metal container in his hand and gently kisses it.

Lucy, Rico, and I reach into the tin, each taking a handful of our Poppy’s ashes. Rico turns, facing west, where the horizon is dusted with peach and lavender. “As we promised, mio unico amore. One last Tuscan sunset.”

He strikes up his violin. Bittersweet notes cry out, Que será, será. I throw my arm to the pastel sky and release my clenched fist. A breeze rushes over the hill, catching the ashes and setting them afloat. For the briefest moment, Poppy’s remains become iridescent in the sun’s golden halo. Then they’re swept away, into the ethereal, infinite horizon.

An image of my nonna Poppy and her Johanna comes alive. Together, they’re laughing, hugging, dancing in the heavens.

“It’s possible,” I whisper.





Chapter 57




Emilia

Days Later

Amalfi Coast

Daylight softens. Along the beach, two men dressed in black work to fold umbrellas and stack lounge chairs. I check my map, then trot up a hill and wind my way through the seaside town of Amalfi.

I reach the pretty tree-lined Via Pomicara and check my phone again for the address of Poppy’s attorney friend. I pass a white stucco building wreathed in vines and bougainvilleas and almost miss the small placard beside the door. Studio Legale di De Luca e De Luca.

The polished cherry door squeaks when I step inside. I take a deep breath. In a matter of minutes, I’ll have my own home. A balloon of gratitude sets afloat in me.

I gaze about a stylish but deserted reception room. Has everyone left for the day? Somewhere down the hall, a radio plays. I step forward.

“Hello?” I call softly, taking another step.

The music grows louder. I reach an open door and freeze. A thirty-something man with a close-cropped beard sits with his feet propped on his desk and a novel splayed on his chest. His head is tipped back and he’s snoring. I can’t help but smile.

I clear my throat and he bolts upright, sending the novel hurling to the floor.

“Merda!” he says, the Italian word for “shit.” He glances at me as he scrambles to retrieve the book—some sort of crime mystery. “Scusi.”

“It’s okay,” I say. “I’m sorry I . . .” I start to say “woke you,” but opt for the less embarrassing, “startled you.”

He rakes a hand through his wavy hair and straightens his tie. “I apologize,” he says, grabbing a pair of dark-framed glasses from the desk and planting them on his face. “I was not expecting—” He leans in to peer at me. “Do I know you?”