The Star-Crossed Sisters of Tuscany(18)

My aunt Carol, who sells Avon, doesn’t think it’s professional to leave orders on customers’ porches. Whether it’s a complete facial regimen or a single bottle of nail polish, my aunt insists on a personal delivery, one that inevitably leads to a piece of cake or a cup of coffee. Since she started selling Avon, she’s gained thirty pounds and all of the gossip from Coney Island to Bay Ridge.

“I’m here to see you, Lucy. Is now a good time?”

She checks the phone in her hand. “Um, I have a sec, I guess.” She holds the door open. As I pass, she peers out at the street again, searching in both directions. “I’m having someone for dinner.”

I bite back a smile. Decked out in a red spandex jumpsuit with smoky eyes rimmed in thick black liner, my cousin looks like she really could “have someone” for dinner. Or perhaps she’s hoping someone has her.

The tiny living room that, for years, has served as our family’s gathering place for baptisms and first communions and high school graduations is immaculate, as always. Aunt Carol claims that the only thing worse than a messy house is a woman without lipstick. The savory aroma of roast chicken wafts from the kitchen, making my mouth water. In the adjoining dining room, I notice the table set for two. A vase of hydrangeas rests in the center between two flickering candles.

“Are you here to gawk or talk, Emmie? Can’t you see I’m in a hurry here?”

I smile. There was a time when my sharp-tongued cousin, who’s eight years younger than I am, intimidated me. But I realize now, her sarcastic barbs are generally aimed at those she loves most dearly.

“I promise I’ll vanish as soon as your friend arrives. But I have an offer for you.” I take a deep breath. “How would you like to go to Italy, all expenses paid?”

She blinks. “Italy? With you?”

“And Aunt Poppy.”

She chokes out a laugh. “That sounds like massive amounts of no fun.” She spins around. “What do you think?” She puts a hand to her hair. “Marilyn Platinum.”

“Nice,” I say, hoping I don’t get struck by lightning. Why she’d choose to disguise her naturally rich, dark hair is beyond me.

“We’ll leave sometime in mid-October,” I say, steering the conversation back to Italy. I quickly describe our aunt and relay her story of growing up in Trespiano.

Lucy pretends to snore. “Like I’d go to Italy with a boring lady who’s got one foot in the grave.”

An unexpected sense of protectiveness takes hold of me. “Boring is the last adjective I’d use to describe Poppy.”

“I wasn’t talking about Aunt Poppy.”

I shake my head. “Very funny, Luce. C’mon. It’ll be an experience. And you’ll love Poppy. She seems . . . extraordinary. Really.”

“Extraordinarily nutso.” She checks her phone again. “Nonna’s good with this?”

I rub my scar. “She will be,” I say, praying it’s true. “Lucy, we’re talking Europe. How cool is that?”

She gives a little huff. “It’s not exactly Vegas.” She glances at her phone again before plopping down on the sofa. “Go ahead. Sit.”

I lower myself onto a brown sofa draped in one of Aunt Carol’s crocheted blankets—this one in oranges and yellows—and explain my conversation with Aunt Poppy. “She insists we both come with her to celebrate her eightieth birthday. She doesn’t have anyone else. Aunt Poppy is . . . a second daughter.”

Lucy flinches. Always an undercurrent, the curse is something we Fontanas rarely mention aloud. “Thanks to her, we’re left to break the curse—not that you’re any help.” She scowls and points at my sweater. “Don’t tell me. Coldwater Creek clearance rack? Or have you been raiding Nonna’s closet again?” She starts singing her own rendition of Right Said Fred’s “I’m Too Sexy.”

“I’m too sexy for my cardigan, too sexy for my cardigan, too sexy for my No-nna’s cardigan.”

I laugh. “Okay, okay. I get it. You don’t like the sweater.”

She checks her phone for at least the twelfth time. “Seriously. Tell Pops thanks anyway, but the timing’s all wrong. I’m in a relationship.”

“Yes. I know. That’s great.”

She scowls as she taps her keyboard. My eyes travel to the beautifully set dining room table. Wax pools at the base of the candles and I catch a faint whiff of charred meat. Lucy’s date is late. Very late. My heart breaks for her. I rise and give what I hope is a reassuring smile.

“We can talk later. I’ll get out of your hair.”

She grabs my arm, her purple nails digging into my skin. “Don’t do that, Em.”

“What?”

“Don’t give me that pitiful look!”

I sit back down, unsure what to do or say. “I’m sorry.”

“He just texted. He’s running late. But he’s coming. You’ll see.”

“I believe you, Luce. But, um, you might want to turn down the oven.”

The final rays of sunlight fade and I click on a lamp. Lucy twists open a bottle of Budweiser. Then another. “He’s coming,” she tells me once more as she opens her third beer.

“I know.”