The Star-Crossed Sisters of Tuscany(16)

“La mia sorella testarda.” It was her pet name for me, her stubborn sister. She fell back against the bed. “I cannot do this, Paolina! How would you like to have to learn all of these boring facts?”

“Boring? These artists are fascinating. And for your information, I do know it.”

She sat up. I could see the balls in her head rolling. “You,” she said, pointing a finger at me. “You take the exam. You work as the tour guide. I will take your job as the laundress and help Mamma with the house chores.”

I couldn’t believe it. She would rather work in a stifling laundry room than give tours at the famous gallery? Why?

“I need to stay close to home,” she said, answering my unspoken question. “Here, I can learn of the local gossip, keep track of Alberto’s comings and goings.”

How do you reply to someone so fearful? My heart hurt for my sister.

“But, Rosa, I have not applied. The Uffizi is expecting you.”

She turned and looked me directly in the eyes. “Then you will pretend to be me.” Her eyes were absent any conflict or guilt.

I rubbed the gooseflesh from my arms. “Rosa, no. We cannot . . .” My voice trailed off.

Hidden within my fear, a tingling of excitement rose. Could we possibly get away with such a charade?





Chapter 9




Emilia

Through the screen of my iPhone, Poppy shakes her head, as if she’s coming out of a trance. I watch and wait, hoping she’ll continue. But she’s reaching for her martini shaker now.

“What a fascinating story,” I say. “You and Nonna were close when you were young.”

“We adored each other.”

“I never knew my nonno Alberto. I had no idea he was a heartthrob, or that Rosa kept tabs on him.”

“My sister treated love like a possession,” Poppy says, pouring the last drops of gin from the shaker. “To me, love is more like a lending library. To keep it, we must continually renew it. Otherwise we pay a hefty fine.”

I smile. “That’s lovely. Did she ever grow confident in Alberto’s love?”

“Things improved once they were in America. Parenthood created a bond, as it often does.”

I peel a flake of green paint from the park bench. “You honestly didn’t believe in the curse, Aunt Poppy? Even when you were young?”

She laughs. “Never. You?”

“No,” I say, and quickly change the subject. “Hey, you never got to the part of the story about my mom.”

“In time, dear.” She sips her drink and leans back in her chair. “Now, I’ll purchase our tickets this week.”

A secret yearning gathers in me. Like mist from a river, it begins to rise. What will Nonna do? What will Daria say? My temples throb as Matt’s words echo in my head. You tiptoe around them, bowing to their every need, so that they’ll love you. Because if you don’t, one day you could end up alone and abandoned, just like Poppy.

If being ostracized once terrified me—and I’m not saying it did—it’s not so scary anymore. In the course of an hour, I’ve come to know my aunt Poppy, the woman my family cast aside like an empty soup can. I’ve been given a snapshot of her rich, full life. I’ve seen photos of her friends and even met her lover’s son. Today, the idea of being the rebel in the family doesn’t frighten me. It inspires me.

“You do have your Italian passport, yes?” Poppy continues. “It’s something your mother would have insisted on.”

Because my mom was born in Italy, I have dual citizenship, and apparently this was important to her. “Really? What else do you know about my mom?”

“She loved this farm. She stayed here with me the summer she turned eighteen.”

For a moment I wonder if she’s lying, or simply delusional. Nonna would never have allowed that. But then she adds, “Of course Rosa was incensed. She ordered her home, and eventually Josie obeyed.”

“I never knew that. What else?”

She gazes into her martini glass. “You come to Italy and I’ll share everything I know about your mother. Everything.”

A flurry sets off in my chest, like a collector awaiting the unveiling of a newly discovered masterpiece. I have a once-in-a-lifetime chance to get away, to travel to Italy with my free-spirited great-aunt, to hear stories of my mother. My heart batters. At this very moment, sitting in Petrosino Park, I make a decision.

“Aunt Poppy?” I take a deep breath. “It’s possible.” My eyes flood with emotions—freedom and excitement and independence and terror. “I’m coming with you to Italy.”

“Yes!” Her face beams. “Emilia, my dear girl, you have inherited the Fontana gene of fortitude. You’ve kept it hidden, but there it is, shining from you like a pollia berry.”

“A what?”

“Pollia berry. Shiniest living organism in the world.”

I laugh, touched by an unfamiliar sense of pride. “Well, thanks.”

“Now that you’re on board, I can invite Luciana.”

“Lucy?” I snicker. “You mean Carmella, your other niece, Lucy’s older sister. My . . . quieter cousin.”

“No. I mean Luciana, the twenty-one-year-old.”