The Star-Crossed Sisters of Tuscany(22)

His head snaps to attention. “You know about this?”

“Nonna told me. Why would Aunt Poppy do such a horrible thing?”

He takes a puff of his cigar and stares off into the distance. “She was heartbroken when her baby died.”

I gasp. “Aunt Poppy had a baby?”

“She was pregnant, sì. But of course, she was the second daughter. She should have known it would end badly.”

I rub the gooseflesh from my arms. Dolphie shakes his head. “Poor Paolina . . . she was never the same. When Rosa delivered her own baby, it was too much for Paolina. She snapped like a twig. Paolina became attached—too attached—to baby Josephina.”

“So she took the baby,” I say. “But then she realized she was wrong and she gave Josephina back.”

He nods. “And two days later, she left Bensonhurst for good, allowed to return only on holidays.” He stubs out his cigar and plants it tip side up in the front pocket of his sports coat. “It was for the best. Being near Josephina was too tempting for Paolina. Rosa and Alberto no longer trusted her. Your nonna still thinks Paolina is pericolosa.”

My heart breaks for my young aunt. Did she ever recover from the loss? She seems quite functional now. “What about you? Do you think she’s dangerous?”

He smiles. “Only as dangerous as a kitten. Paolina’s heart oozes honey, of that I am certain.” He rests a hand on my knee. “You know, this trip to Italy could be fortuitous. My sisters are growing old. I am not saying it will happen, but if you were to get into Paolina’s good graces, perhaps you could convince her to beg Rosa’s forgiveness once more, before it is too late.”





Chapter 12




Emilia

It’s been thirty-two days, and thanks to my preoccupation with the trip, I’ve managed to avoid another serious conversation with Matt. Now, as our taxi zips down the Belt Parkway Sunday afternoon and Lucy’s busy painting her nails, I lift my phone to text him. I want to tell him good-bye, that I love him, that I’ll miss him. But everything’s become so complicated. What once would have been a completely natural message now feels unfair. I don’t want to lead him on.

On way to JFK. I type. See you in ten days. Take care of yourself, MC.

As always, his reply pops up instantly. I’m proud of you, Ems. I’m here if you need anything. Oh, and have you seen my hoodie?

His Nike hoodie, the one he loaned me the night of Daria’s book club. Sorry. On my coatrack. Carmella’s staying at my place while I’m gone. Knock first so you don’t scare her.

Before I have time to turn off my phone, he replies. Can we talk when you get home? Please?

My stomach clenches. I take a deep breath. Sure.

I toss my phone into my purse. As I go to snap it shut, something in the bottom catches my eye. I freeze. The hairs on my arms stand erect. No. It can’t be.

It’s heavy and cool as I lift it, about the size of a silver dollar. Around its circumference it reads Saint Christopher, Protect Us. The bronze medallion that once belonged to our mother.

For years this medal was Daria’s most prized possession. My dad gave it to her when she made her first communion. “The patron saint of travelers,” he told her. “Your mother would want you to have it.”

And now Dar wants me to have it. She must have slipped it into my purse, too embarrassed to give it to me personally.

A soft moan rises before I can catch it. I clutch the medal and hold it to my heart, filled with the comfort of Saint Christopher’s protection . . . my mother’s memory . . . my sister’s love.

Lucy stops blowing on her nails and looks over at me, her head cocked. “Jesus, Em. You having an orgasm over there, or what?”



* * *





As promised, Aunt Poppy is waiting just outside the Delta counter. Though it’s been ten years since I’ve seen her in person, I recognize her instantly. In fact, she’d be hard to miss, dressed in bright green slacks, a patchwork blazer, and big round glasses that nearly swallow her tiny face.

“If it isn’t Elton John–ette,” Lucy mumbles.

Poppy’s waving both hands at once. Beside her sit two wheelie bags splashed with purples and reds and yellows, as if someone—Poppy perhaps—took a brush dipped in paint and flicked it at a perfectly good set of white luggage.

“My sunshine!” she cries, trotting over to us. Her nails are painted a flaming coral to match her lips. “You’re even lovelier in real life!”

I want to be angry with this woman who tried to steal my mother. But when I step into her open arms, all reservations vanish. Criminal or not, my aunt makes me feel loved, a feeling I’m growing to like. But just as quickly, guilt rises. I’ve lived my entire life with Nonna, and now I’m betraying her for an aunt I barely know.

“My heart is dancing!” she says, planting one last kiss on my cheek before turning to Lucy. “And you!” She goes to draw her other niece into a hug, but Lucy stands stiffly, her arms at her sides.

“It’s wonderful to see you, Luciana,” Aunt Poppy finally says, and she grins. “Though I may have preferred seeing a little less of you.”

Lucy rears back. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

I turn away, embarrassed for my poor cousin. What was I supposed to do when Lucy came wobbling down her porch steps, dressed in a clingy white cocktail dress and black open-toed ankle boots? Who, besides my cousin, ever thought open-toed boots were a good idea? But the cab was racking up a fortune, and we needed to get to the airport. Why start the trip with an argument?