The Star-Crossed Sisters of Tuscany(19)

“We’ve been out five times,” she offers. “Well, four, actually. The first was just a hookup.” She shoots me a look. “Got a problem with that?”

“No,” I say, honestly. “I don’t care.”

She peels the label from her beer bottle. “Carmella thinks I’m a slut who dates pigs.”

I rear back. “Your sister actually said that?”

Lucy shrugs. “May as well have. My mom thinks I’m a loser. She prays—literally prays on her knees—that I’ll meet a nice boy and get married and have kids. My dad’s no better. They’re both terrified I’ll be single forever.”

I frown. “Why is being single terrifying?”

She gives me a look. “No grandchildren.”

“Ah,” I say. “My family’s the opposite. They’ve given up on me. And I’m good with that.”

“Yeah,” Lucy says, “you’re lucky.” She looks down at her cleavage. “When you look like I do, they think you might actually have a chance.”

I picture adorable little Lucy, with big curious eyes and short chubby legs mapped with scrapes and bruises. Poor Luce. Aunt Carol, a pretty woman whose face I’ve yet to see without full-coverage foundation, didn’t appreciate her little tomboy. She enrolled Lucy in dance classes and every princess contest in Brooklyn. But Lucy wasn’t a dancer, and chubby girls didn’t win beauty pageants.

Things changed when Lucy hit puberty. Her baby fat morphed into voluptuous curves, and her confidence seemed to grow with each cup size. I study her now and can’t help but think my cousin looked more natural in her baggy shorts and Popsicle-stained T-shirt than she does in that ridiculous Spider-Woman jumpsuit.

“Tell me about him,” I say. “Your friend—this guy you’re seeing. I can’t remember his name.”

She lets out a breath. “Jack. As in beanstalk, if you get my drift.” She grins. “He’s gorgeous—even ol’ Carol’s hot for him. And he likes me, Em. He told me he’s never met anyone like me.” She checks the time again.

“Lucy,” I say, taking advantage of her alcohol haze. “Come to Italy with Poppy and me. Get out of Bensonhurst for a while.”

She gnaws on her thumbnail. “I can’t. It’s too new. You think Jack’s going to stick around if I’m gone? Get real.”

The guy is obviously a complete jerk, standing Lucy up. But still, she wants him. She’s one determined second daughter, I’ll give her that.

As she drones on about Jack, my thoughts spin. I could leave right now. I could call Poppy tonight and tell her that Lucy refused her offer. Poppy would find other travel companions, Lucy wouldn’t be disappointed, and Nonna would never know I entertained the thought of going to Italy.

I jump when Lucy slams her phone on the table. “Check your messages, asshole!” She leans her head against the sofa and stares at the ceiling. “It’s happening. It always happens. Jack’s losing interest.”

“Oh, Luce, I’m so sorry.”

“We haven’t hooked up in a week. And now the fuckwad’s standing me up.”

I long to wrap this desperately lonely girl in my arms, but I know better. “You don’t deserve this.”

“And neither do you. But we both have it, don’t we?”

She’s talking about the curse. Do I owe it to Lucy to tell of Poppy’s promise? No. If she’s gullible enough to believe in the curse, she may be gullible enough to believe Poppy could break it. And of course that’s . . .

Poppy’s words call to me: It’s possible.

With a nagging sense of foreboding and the utmost care, I open my mouth. “Luce, I need to tell you something.” I turn to her, the knot in my belly tightening. “Poppy has some ridiculous notion that if we come with her to Italy . . .” I pause, caressing my scar. What if Lucy actually believes our crazy aunt? What if she agrees to go to Italy, expecting to return home no longer plagued by the centuries-old curse? She may never recover from the disappointment. I imagine Lucy an old woman, bitter and angry and frustrated, just like the second daughters in the old family photos.

“She swears the second-daughter curse will be lifted.”

“What?”

“I know. Complete bullshit, right? I mean, first of all, there is no curse. Let’s get that straight. But secondly, the idea of Poppy somehow breaking it . . .” My voice trails off and I laugh, as if the idea is absolutely ludicrous.

Lucy stares at me, her eyes brighter now. “I guess I could go, I mean, if it’s so important to Poppy.”

“O-kay,” I say cautiously. “But, Luce, it’s just a trip to Italy. That’s it. Please don’t expect Poppy’s foolish promise to—”

“I know!” she snaps. “Jesus. Do you think I’m that desperate?”

I want to spare her some dignity, so I don’t answer. My heart settles in the pit of my stomach. Aunt Poppy is setting Lucy up for the greatest disappointment of her life.

And I’m her accomplice.





Chapter 11




Emilia

Every Sunday following mass at Saint Athanasius, our family gathers for dinner at Nonna’s apartment. We sit around her custom-made, eighteen-foot walnut table, covered with a trio of ancient-looking cloths flaunting more wine stains than a vintner’s apron. The arms of our chairs—all two dozen of them—overlap, just like our conversations. Most Sundays we fill the table, but sometimes Uncle Vinnie has to work at the dock, or Daria’s husband, Donnie, has one of his Sunday head colds.