The Star-Crossed Sisters of Tuscany(110)

“No. But I spoke to someone on the phone earlier this week—maybe you? I said I’d be coming in today to sign some papers that my aunt—my grandmother—and my grandfather had drawn up.”

He shuffles through several folders on his desk. “You must have spoken to my father. He has left for the day.” He lands on a stack of papers and squints at the top page. “You are Emilia Antonelli?”

“That’s me.”

“Ahh, Poppy and Rico’s granddaughter, at last.” He places his warm hand in mine. “Hello, Emilia. I am Domenico De Luca.” He cocks his head and stares directly into my eyes. “But you and I have met, I am certain.”

“Nope. Not me.”

“Maybe six . . . eight months ago? I would not forget a face so beautiful.”

I stop short of rolling my eyes. “You must be mistaken.”

“No. I do not think so.” He stands, stroking his beard, gazing at me, until finally I point to the pages.

“Are those for me?”

“Ah, yes.” He gestures to a rectangular table and pulls out a chair for me before taking the seat beside mine. He’s tall, with broad shoulders and long legs. When he positions the first page in front of me, I catch sight of his long, tapered fingers, minus a ring—not that I’m looking. In a deep voice that, I must admit, does sound vaguely familiar, he explains the legal jargon as I read along. He smells of soap and heat—the way a man should—making it hard to concentrate.

I look up when I realize he has stopped reading. He studies me with knit brows. “I remember your face, those eyes.” He vaguely lifts his hand toward my face. “I have thought about it many times. I believe we met at Giardini Caffè? Am I right?”

I shake my head. “Never heard of it.”

His eyes twinkle. “Perhaps you would allow me to take you to dinner sometime, so we can uncover this mystery?”

I get it. You’re incredibly charming, and lines like this probably work on many an unsuspecting signorina. But let’s cut the bullshit.

“Shall we sign the papers?” I say, pulling a pen from my purse.



* * *





I roll my suitcase up the cobblestone walk, greeting a couple as they pass. Ravello is cast in bronze now, and the thrashing sea croons in the distance. Poppy’s old Welsh word hiraeth springs to mind. She predicted one day I’d understand its meaning, and she was right. It feels as if this seaside town, half the world away from the city where I was raised, is the home I’ve been yearning for my entire life.

I stop when I reach the pink stucco building. A dim light shines in the old bakery, and I imagine my young nonna inside, some sixty years ago, making bread before sunrise. A faded sign sits in a clouded window, marking the business Affittasi—For Lease.

I gaze through the large window, taking in the tin ceiling, the wall of ovens, the uneven plaster walls. Instead of a bakery I see the perfect bookstore, a cozy shop with shelves up and down the center, and a small reading area in the back.

My mind wanders as I move around back. Does Ravello need a bookstore?

The hum of the piazza quiets when I step into the wonderfully rebellious courtyard, overgrown with vines and tangled roses. A café table and a pair of chairs are housed beneath the sprawling lemon tree—the perfect spot for writing.

I catch sight of the staircase and my smile fades. Will I ever climb these steps without thinking of my pregnant nonna Poppy, collapsed and near death? What strength she had, what resilience and grace. Just like my scar of courage, these steps will remind me that I can endure anything, that nothing is impossible. After all, I am Poppy Fontana’s granddaughter.

I fit the key into the lock. The old wooden door creaks when I open it. I step into Rico and Poppy’s old apartment—my new home in Ravello, the place I’ll launch memories and write my next novel. Yes, it’s possible.

I flip on a light switch. The colorful poppy painting comes to life, along with a new piece of art, my favorite. I move into the living room, my eyes already misty. Hung in a thick, contemporary frame, it’s the photo Lucy snapped almost a year ago in the hospital courtyard. Printed in a cool black-and-white, giving it an artsy vibe, the picture covers much of the wall. I’m sandwiched between my grandparents, laughing, as Poppy kisses my cheek and Rico gazes at me with a tenderness I only now understand.

I travel from room to room, giggling, saying prayers of thanks to my nonna and opa. The place is gorgeous. How did they know this is where I was meant to be planted?

I spot a note on the kitchen counter, written in Italian.

Welcome home, Emilia. Best wishes settling in. I trust you will love this place as much as your nonna and I did. Remember us at dusk, when you take a glass of wine to the rooftop and bid farewell to the sun, before it ducks beneath the sea.

Elene and Jan send their best wishes. They would love to see you, once you are settled. We will all have dinner when I visit next month. Until then . . .

All my love,

Opa

P.S. I hope the signing with the lawyer went well. Mr. De Luca has been a godsend to us during this transaction.

My eyes fix on the Italian word for “lawyer.” The hairs on my arms stand erect.

At once, I remember.

I glance at my watch. It’s almost seven. Is he still there, reading his novel perhaps?