The Star-Crossed Sisters of Tuscany(12)

I bend over and grab my thighs, trying to catch my breath . . . and collect my thoughts. It’s been almost a week since I received my aunt’s invitation. As Nonna demanded, I replied the next day with a polite note of thanks-but-no-thanks. Did she not receive it?

“I’m sorry, Aunt Poppy. I can’t go to Italy.”

She taps a painted fingernail against her chin. “Please, my dear girl, avoid saying no so quickly. You’ll find life is much more interesting when you learn to say ‘It’s possible.’”

In the background, her doorbell chimes.

“Look,” I say, grateful for an excuse to end the call. “You’re busy. We’ll talk another time.”

“Nonsense. We’ve got a trip to plan.”

She scurries through a periwinkle-blue living room as she talks, the bobbing screen making me dizzy. I catch sight of a cluttered array of knickknacks—an old gas station clock mounted above a fireplace, mismatched pillows of every size and color, a zebra-print chair sitting on a purple shag rug. In a corner, an egg-shaped wicker chair hangs on a chain from the ceiling. Is that a carved monkey, dangling from her light fixture?

Suddenly a door bursts open and the screen erupts in sunlight.

“Brody!” She aims her phone at a tall, sixty-something man with shaggy blond hair, dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt. “Brody, meet Emilia. Emilia, meet Brody.”

I chuckle awkwardly. “Oh. Well. Nice to meet you, Brody.”

“Same to you,” he says in a deep voice that matches his rugged exterior. “Your aunt is mighty excited about the trip.”

I cringe. She’s telling people I’m going to Italy? I listen as the man informs my aunt he’s finished for the day. The phone wobbles, then I catch sight of a wrinkled hand. “For luck,” Poppy says, placing a shiny penny in his palm. “So long for now, dear friend.” Poppy’s hand flutters in the screen as she waves good-bye. “Go spread your sunshine in the world!”

The phone finally returns to her face. “That man is a godsend,” she says, closing the door behind her. “Lost his leg in Vietnam, but he’s my right hand. He comes every day to help with Higgins—that’s my twenty-year-old gelding.”

I’m still trying to digest the fact that my aunt has a horse when she adds, “Brody’s father was my man companion.”

“Your man companion? You mean . . .”

“Yes, Emilia. My lover. Past tense, God bless his soul.”



* * *





If Nonna is old Italy, heavy and drawn and dark, Poppy is cosmopolitan America, with a light and frivolous air that complements her bright, perky voice. She’s kept just enough of her Italian accent to sound European and exotic.

I almost feel like I’m with her, in Devon, Pennsylvania, as she moves into a cluttered kitchen. When Poppy announces it’s teatime, I naturally assume she’s talking Earl Grey or oolong. Instead, she lifts a bottle of Bombay gin from her teal-colored cabinet and grins. “Do you prefer your martini up or on the rocks?”

“Up and a little dirty,” I say, playing along and sending Poppy on a riff of laughter.

“Oh, how I wish we were side by side right now, lost in day-drinks.”

I settle onto a park bench, the sun warming my shoulders, and watch my aunt mix her martini. She has propped her phone against a bottle of wine, but it’s off center, capturing only a slice of her left side. Most of the screen is aimed at a fridge covered in photos of babies and children and adults of every race and shape. A mass of pink-capped women carrying signs at a rally. Poppy in full riding gear astride a beautiful black horse—Higgins, I presume. My aunt ankle-deep in the ocean, locking arms with a swarm of friends who look half her age.

She glances at the fridge behind her. My cheeks warm, as if I’ve been caught snooping. Her eyes twinkle. “Life is better measured in friendships than years, don’t you think?” Without waiting for my answer, she grabs her drink, along with the martini shaker. The screen goes dark, and I imagine it’s tucked under her arm. Next thing I know, she’s standing on a shady terrace.

“My little heaven,” she says as she slowly pans the area with her phone. Misshapen plants and unruly vines, pink hibiscus and bright orange poppies mingle haphazardly in clay pots, littered among ceramic fairies, colorful gnomes, a life-size alligator, a wooden peace sign, a tin rainbow. “Check out my latest project,” she says and lowers herself next to a koi pond. “Come here, Nemo,” she calls, making ripples in the pond. “Over here, Dory!”

I laugh out loud. “Your place is fascinating.” It’s the truth. Poppy’s home looks stimulating and dizzying and strangely inviting, like a scene in a fantasy novel, where the character might be whimsical and young at heart . . . or batshit—

“Crazy as a crane fly,” Poppy says, interrupting my thoughts.

“What?”

She rises to her feet. “That’s what you were thinking, was it not?”

“No!” I give a nervous chuckle. “I, uh . . .”

She laughs and settles into a wicker chair with mismatched cushions. “It’s okay, Emilia. You see, I adore crazy people. Those who are crazy to explore. Crazy to laugh. Crazy to create. The ones who embrace broken bones and broken hearts, who risk failure and welcome surprises. I suspect you’re one of these people.”