The Star-Crossed Sisters of Tuscany(13)

“Mmm,” I murmur, hoping she interprets this as a yes.

She props her phone on a table in front of her. This time, it’s pointed in the right direction, giving me my first chance to study my aunt. She’s thin, with pretty olive skin and a wide, full mouth painted bright pink. She’s wearing a white linen sundress, with a chunky orange necklace and a fuchsia belt.

“To Emilia,” she says. She lifts her glass and a dozen colorful bangles clatter against her dainty wrist. From my park bench a hundred miles away, I pretend to raise a drink when she adds, “My fellow second daughter.”

I choke on my make-believe martini, thoughts of Filomena and Cosimo and poor Maria surfacing.

“Cheers,” I say. “But I don’t believe in that curse.”

“Well, I should hope not!” She shakes her head. “I’ve always bristled at the injustice of that tale.”

“Same here. A woman is sexually assaulted and, as a result, gets pummeled with a rock and slapped with a lifelong curse. Go figure.”

“Shameful. Filomena and Maria should have locked arms and given Horny Toad Cosimo a boot in the balls.”

I burst out laughing. “Amen!” I say, feeling a kinship with my fellow second daughter, never mind that we’re two generations removed.

She tucks her legs beneath her, exposing bare brown feet tipped with tangerine toenails. “Tell me every good thing about you, Emilia.”

I shift on the bench and try my best to make Daria and Matt, my cat and my job and my nieces, even my little apartment, sound fascinating.

“That about sums it up,” I say. “My life isn’t all that interesting.”

She shrugs. “No matter. That will soon change. You’re about to embark on an all-expenses-paid trip to Italy!”

All expenses paid? Last I knew, Poppy was some sort of teacher—art history, I think. How can she afford a European trip for two, along with a beautiful home and a horse and an employee? Is she spending her entire life savings on this trip?

I rise and meander over to the paved jogging path. “That’s really generous,” I say as I stroll. “But I can’t get away from the store. I’m sorry.”

“Ah,” she says. “Making cannoli is certainly more memorable than a trip to Europe.” Before I can reply to her sarcasm, she continues. “You’re a young woman, Emilia. If you can’t travel and see the world, you may as well jump in the box right now.”

I think “box” means casket. To Poppy, a life like mine is akin to death.

I open my mouth to say something—what, exactly, I haven’t decided—when a cyclist nearly swipes me. “Watch it!” he yells.

“Sorry,” I call to him and scurry back to the park bench.

“Emilia, my child,” Aunt Poppy says. “Do me one favor, please? Stop apologizing when you’re not sorry.”

I scowl. “What?”

“Back to the business at hand,” she says. “I’ve got our itinerary all planned. Eight days in Italy, with a travel day on each end. We’ll see some sights first, but we must get to Ravello—a beautiful hillside town on the Amalfi Coast—by October twenty-second.” She smiles into the camera. “The day I turn eighty.”

“But, Aunt Poppy—”

“We’ll leave in six weeks. I thought you could drive here, to Devon, and pick me up. I live twenty minutes from Philadelphia International Airport.”

“I don’t drive,” I say.

“You New Yorkers,” she says, tsking. “In that case, we’ll meet at JFK. What a grand time we’ll have. We’ll begin our journey in Venezia—Venice—then—”

I absently massage my scar. “Aunt Poppy, please. I can’t go to Italy. It’s im—”

“It’s possible.” She stares at me with such force that I’m grateful she’s only on-screen. “Despite your protests, you’re dying to go. Isn’t that why you included your phone number in your letter?”

I sigh. “Okay. Maybe I would like to go. The truth is, Nonna won’t allow it. She wanted to write you back herself, but I insisted. For some reason I thought it was important to tell you myself.”

Poppy grins. “Well, what do you know? You’ve got some spunk after all. Must drive Rosa bananas. Your mother was made of honey water. I’m glad to see you’re different.”

My heartbeat quickens. All my life I’ve longed for details about my mother. I stopped asking my father about her years ago, after Nonna accused me of pulling scabs off wounds, something that sounded excruciating to my young ears. Aside from physical traits I’ve gleaned from photos, my father has shared exactly three things about my mother. She liked to dance. Her favorite color was blue. And she hated spiders. It saddens me to think perhaps this was all my father knew of his young wife.

“How well did you know my mom?”

“I saw her every Christmas and Easter. She’d leap from the porch and rush down the sidewalk when she saw me coming.”

I picture my mother and her aunt, spinning in circles, giggling like Mimi and I do.

“Rosa resented our relationship. She was very controlling, as you well know, and sweet Josie was a pleaser.”

I grip the phone. “Tell me more. Did she love books? Was she curious? Kind? Please, Aunt Poppy, tell me everything you know about my mom.”