The Star-Crossed Sisters of Tuscany(111)

A memory finds me. It’s time we found you someone . . . I’m thinking someone cerebral. A dreamer . . . a lover of books. My arms erupt in gooseflesh, and I know for certain my nonna has led me here, to this moment.

I fumble through my paperwork. Finally, I find his number. I lift my phone. My heart batters in my chest. He answers on the second ring.

“Nico De Luca.”

“I remember now.” A smile overtakes my face. “I called you an avocado.”

He is silent for a moment, and then deep, rich laughter pours over me. “Yes! That is right! It wasn’t Giardini Caffè. We were in front of Piacenti’s Bakery.”

I smile as I meander down the hall. “I think you were wearing sunglasses that day. And a hat, too, if I’m not mistaken.”

“If you tell me I was without a beard, you are completely forgiven.”

I laugh. “The beard! That’s what threw me off!” I step into Poppy and Rico’s—my—bedroom. In the distance, the bells of the Ravello Cathedral chime. I pull back the gauzy white curtain and gaze across the piazza at the beautiful church, aglow with the last rays of sunlight. “I can’t believe you remembered me, after all that time.”

“It was an unusual encounter. You were like an angel who appeared out of nowhere, reminding me of my dream.”

“You had a plan for the bakery,” I say, recalling our conversation.

“Sì. And now you own that building.”

I freeze. “I do? I own this entire building? Including the bakery?”

“Sì. I explained this before you signed.”

My chest floods with gratitude and excitement . . . and anxiety.

“So I need to find a tenant? I don’t know the first thing about commercial real estate.”

“Do not worry. My father can help you. Or my uncle.” He pauses, and when he speaks again, his voice is tinged with hope, and trepidation, and seduction. “Or perhaps you will choose me?”

My breath catches. I know, somewhere in my heart, that his simple question comes loaded with possibilities. But I am happy now. I own this beautiful pied-à-terre, in a place that feels like home. I have a wonderful opa, and my sister’s love again, along with my cousins’, Lucy and Carmella. Matt Cusumano is my future cousin-in-law—or would that be my second-cousin-in-law? Whatever the title, he’s my best friend again. And I have a new family in Germany, too, one I’m excited to meet. And on top of everything, I’m a soon-to-be published author. Do I dare risk the happiness, the genuine joy I feel now, for the possibility of love . . . and heartbreak?

His offer stretches between us like a bridge, waiting to be crossed . . . or circumvented. I can almost see my nonna Poppy, feel her soft hand enfolded in mine. If love comes to you, if you find it within your grasp, promise me you’ll pluck it from the vine and give it a good looking-over, won’t you?

“I am sorry, Emilia,” Nico says. “I did not mean to be so forward.”

I let go of the curtain and turn back to the room. The day’s final shaft of sunlight follows me, landing on a scratch etched above the door. I step closer, squinting up at it. It’s been painted over, but I make out one letter . . . and then another. Shivers blanket me. A word comes into focus, then an entire sentence.

We chose love.

PF & EK

“I won’t need your father,” I say. “Or your uncle.” I close my eyes, gathering all my courage. “I choose you.”





Dear Reader,

Several years ago, I received a six-page letter from a reader in Germany. Dieter “Dieto” Kretzschmar, an elderly man from Germany who grew up during World War II, had suffered unspeakable atrocities during the Nazi regime, and later behind the Iron Curtain under the German Democratic Republic. In 1965, Dieto and the love of his life, Johanna, made a harrowing escape from their home in Dresden. Dieto went on to become a world-famous juggler. He wanted me to write his memoir.

I replied to Dieto, explaining that, although his story was fascinating, I write fiction. In no time, we were corresponding regularly. We’ve become great pen pals, and even met in person when Dieto visited the United States.

Though Dieto’s story was not mine to tell, I couldn’t stop thinking about the heartbreaking life he had endured, his spirit and resiliency. What happened to a relationship when a couple was split, one living in freedom, the other trapped behind the Iron Curtain? Soon, a story formed, this one contemporary fiction with a female protagonist. Though vastly different from my German friend’s story, with his permission (and delight) I was able to sprinkle the novel with bits of his journey—his father being part of a troupe of prisoners that entertained the Russian soldiers, his mother finding shelter for her children in a sawmill in the village of Clausnitz, the angst he felt when leaving his family behind, his escape route using the trains and his bicycle.

I hope you enjoy Poppy and Rico’s story—and Emilia’s and Lucy’s, too—as much as I enjoyed writing it. As Dieto signed off to me in his very first letter:

With kindest regards, yours sincerely,





ACKNOWLEDGMENTS




One of the first rules of writing is to show, not tell. Though I’ve tried to show my heartfelt gratitude to those who’ve traveled with me on this novel’s journey, I have no doubt I’ve fallen short. Therefore, I must resort to telling, using mere words in an attempt to convey my deepest appreciation.