The Star-Crossed Sisters of Tuscany(11)

I bend down. A pair of black orthopedic shoes lay haphazardly in the foyer. “Your shoes, Nonna,” I say, and hand them to her.

She snatches them from me as if she’s peeved. But I know my nonna. She left her shoes out on purpose so she would hear me when I came in.

“Mi dispiace,” I say, offering an apology, never mind that I nearly broke my neck.

I turn and make my way to the staircase, hoping for a quick escape to Emville.

“You received a letter?”

I close my eyes. Is there nothing Dar doesn’t share with Nonna?

She crosses her arms, settling them atop her round belly like it’s her personal countertop. “How does my sister get the idea that you would go with her to Italy? You have been corresponding with her, Emilia Josephina?”

“Only on holidays, Nonna. She still sends cards. I haven’t seen Poppy in a decade, not since Uncle Bruno’s funeral. I swear. We’re friends on Facebook, but she hardly ever posts.”

Nonna bats a hand and harrumphs. “Facebook. Who does she think she is, doing the Facebook? I tell you, Emilia, the woman is indecente. You must stay away from her. Capisci? Stay away!”

I stare at my grandmother’s pinched face, her glowering eyes. If her teeth were visible, I’m certain they would be gnashing. She glares at me, waiting for my assurance. It takes all my strength, but tonight I refuse to acquiesce or even blink. She lifts her chin.

“In the morning, you will give me the letter. I will reply. I will tell my sister you want nothing to do with her and her tricks.”

I clench my jaw, Matt’s words shouting to me as I march up the steps. You’re scared. You tiptoe around her . . . I’m almost to the landing when I stop. I look down at my grandmother shuffling back into her apartment, her shoes dangling at her side.

“Nonna?” She turns and looks up at me, her brows creased. My pulse speeds. “I’ll reply to Poppy.”

She blinks several times. “You will tell her you do not wish to travel with her to Italy?”

But that would be a lie. I do want to go to Italy. Indecente or not, I want to know Paolina Fontana, the enigmatic woman who annotates her letters with silly little drawings, the spunky old gal who’s ready to travel the world.

“You will do this, Emilia?” Nonna continues, her eyes narrowed.

I turn away and continue up the stairs, knowing that tomorrow, the dutiful granddaughter that I am will comply with her wishes. Nonna will be satisfied. Daria will be relieved. But tonight, it gives me a perverse charge of pleasure having not agreed to it.



* * *





Young girls often dream of a white dress and a diamond ring. I suppose I had that dream, too, when I was younger. But I’m over it now. I’ve learned to accept single life—in fact, I embrace it. Unlike most women approaching thirty, I can enjoy a night with my friends without the anxiety of wondering whether I’m going to meet “the one.” With the exception of my concealer stick, I save a fortune on makeup and skin care. I get to wear practical shoes and comfy glasses. I’m spared from awkward first dates and the heartbreak that inevitably follows. I don’t bother joining a gym, where I might meet other “active singles.” I run outside in sloppy old sweats and do online yoga in my living room, sometimes in my pajamas. When I do meet the occasional guy who shows interest, my chest doesn’t flood with butterflies. I don’t imagine a flock of children with his nose and my eyes. I never make a show of being witty or clever. I’m simply myself—which generally stops potential suitors from continued pursuit.

It’s a gorgeous Monday afternoon—my day off—and I’m jogging in Petrosino Park, lost in a new song by Lord Huron, when my phone chimes. I slow to a trot and glance at a text. Hey, Ems. Netflix tonight?

Matt and I are currently binge-watching reruns of The Office, providing the perfect excuse for hours of dormancy and gluttonous amounts of cheesy popcorn. I smile, happy to see he’s using my old nickname. Maybe the weird vibe between us is finally waning. I reply with a thumbs-up. Immediately, he responds with a heart.

A heart? Seriously? I stuff my phone into my pocket and break into a sprint. A minute later, a call comes in. I double-tap my AirPod.

“What’s up, Cusumano?”

“Well, hello, Emilia!”

I screech to a halt and pull out my phone. A pretty, olive-skinned woman smiles into the screen. Who FaceTimes without forewarning? I rear back and remove the clip-on shades covering my glasses.

“Aunt Poppy?”





Chapter 7




Emilia

A cobalt-blue scarf snakes around Aunt Poppy’s head, corralling a mass of silver-threaded waves. I wipe my brow with my shirtsleeve.

“Aunt Poppy? Is that you?”

“Last I checked.” She laughs, unleashing a magnificent display of lines from the corners of her dark eyes. “Look at that beautiful smile,” she says, peering closely at the screen. “You’ve finally grown into your teeth!”

I laugh. “I guess I have,” I say, and put a finger over the scar beneath my lip.

“And you’re still wearing those vintage glasses.”

“Oh,” I say, “these aren’t vintage.”

“No, but one can pretend. Now, let’s talk about our upcoming trip.”