The Star-Crossed Sisters of Tuscany(20)

Today we have fourteen people, including Matt, who’s here for moral support. Daria and the girls arrive with two loaves of bread and a jar of olives and garlic. They’ve dragged Donnie along today, too. He’s in the living room, watching the Mets game with Matt, while Uncle Dolphie rants about the new development on Forty-Second Street. “It is six stories high. Too big, I say. Does not fit with the old style.”

I move from room to room, conversation to conversation, half listening, half fretting.

“Lucy’s boyfriend is very handsome,” Aunt Carol whispers to Aunt Ethel as they set the table. “I think this could be it.”

My heart sinks. She’s talking about the jerk who stood Lucy up. The odds that this could be “it” are about as remote as Uncle Dolphie switching from opera to Eminem.

“Eccellente!” Aunt Ethel cries. She leans in to Aunt Carol and lowers her voice. “The ghost told me, un matrimonio presto.”

Aunt Carol laughs. “The ghost is right . . . there may be a wedding soon. But we must keep it secret. Let Lucy tell you about her new beau all by herself.”

My niece Mimi looks up from the game she’s playing on her iPad. “I love secrets!”

At two o’clock, Uncle Dolphie calls everyone to the table. “Mangiamo!” he cries, clapping his hands. “Let’s eat!”

Matt settles into a chair beside Lucy’s sister, Carmella. My twenty-four-year-old cousin looks especially cute today, sporting black Converse sneakers and bright red lipstick. She was laid off from her job at the bank last month and now starts regaling Matt with stories of her “interviews from hell.”

I help Nonna bring out our first course, antipasto, followed by steaming bowls of ravioli. My dad pours wine—just a shot glass for the kids. Voices merge and forks clatter. We clink glasses, tear bread, dip the crusts into oil and herbs. But I can barely swallow.

“Buona pasta, Rosa.”

“La migliore! The best,” Uncle Vinnie agrees.

I leave the table at the first chance and clear plates. I pass my father as he’s bringing out the next course, a rack of lamb. “Are you okay, Emilia? You look pale.”

“I’m fine,” I lie.

The lamb is delicious, but I can hardly get it down. I wait until the chocolate amaretto cake is served and the grappa has been poured. Voices lower, movements slow, postures slump with the sated satisfaction of the well-fed.

Catching my eye, Lucy taps her watch. Like me, she wants this to be over with. My heart thuds. I lean in and clear my throat. “I have some news,” I say, careful not to look at Nonna.

Across the table, Daria shushes the girls. “Looks like Aunt Emmie has been keeping a secret.”

Mimi’s eyes go wide. “You have a boyfriend?”

Everyone laughs except Matt. He raises an eyebrow and I look away.

“No!” I say, and bat a hand at Mimi. I take a deep breath. “I’m going to Italy.”

Daria’s face falls. The table goes silent. From the corner of my eye, I see Nonna cross herself.

“That’s right,” Matt says, looking around the table. “She leaves next month. Eight days in Italy. Pretty cool, huh?”

Heads turn. Confused looks are exchanged. Slowly, my family members find their voices.

“Why is she going to Italy?”

“Is it safe?”

“Not for a young woman.”

“Europe is teeming with crime these days.”

“Yes,” Aunt Carol agrees. “Terrorists.”

“And gypsies. They’d steal the blood from your veins if you let them.”

Matt rubs his forehead and steals a glance at me. I work my face into a smile, trying to lighten the mood.

“C’mon,” I say. “It’s Italy, our homeland.”

“You are not traveling alone, are you, Emmie?”

Lucy closes her eyes, as if preparing for a hit. All eyes turn to me. “No,” I say, and glance down the table. “I’m going with Lucy.”

“Lucy?” Aunt Carol snaps her head toward Lucy. “You’re not going to Italy. Are you?”

I twist the napkin in my lap. “We’re going with Aunt Poppy.”

A silence takes over the room, so profound you could hear dust drop. I run a finger over my scar. Finally, Nonna’s chair scrapes against the wood floor. Wordlessly, she rises. Gripping her espresso cup, she moves into the living room, as if she hasn’t heard a word I’ve said.

While my dad and Uncle Vinnie squat beside Nonna’s chair, offering their comfort, Aunt Carol lobs questions at Lucy. I busy myself gathering dishes from the table, trying not to eavesdrop.

“What are you thinking, Luciana, leaving your new beau to go traveling? You’ll ruin your chance.”

As I stack plates, their exchange becomes heated. The vein in Lucy’s forehead bulges. Finally, with her nose inches from her mom’s, she whispers through clenched teeth, “The effing curse will be broken. In Italy. Aunt Poppy promised.”

Aunt Carol’s eyes become saucers. She leans in, clutching her chest. “The curse will be lifted?”

My heart sinks. I hang my head and curse myself . . . and Lucy . . . and Aunt Poppy.

My entire body shakes with frustration as I rinse glasses at the kitchen sink. Just one person with no ulterior motives. That’s all I wanted. Just one person in my family to cheer for Lucy and me, to tell us they’re happy for our adventure, to wish us a good trip. But no, they’d never voice their support aloud. Not one person dares to upset Nonna. She controls all of us . . . including me. Up until now.