The Star-Crossed Sisters of Tuscany(24)

“I won’t, I promise. I’m here now, at the airport.” A smile hijacks my face and I practically levitate.

“I can’t believe you’re actually doing this. Nonna is beside herself.”

“She’ll be fine,” I say, wishing I believed it.

“So you’ll be back Friday?”

“Friday? This Friday? Of course not. We’ll be back a week from Tuesday—the twenty-third. Eight days in Italy, remember?”

Daria lets out an exaggerated groan. “But this weekend is our getaway to Atlantic City.”

I slap a hand on my forehead. Oh, God! The Groupon deal. I’d agreed to watch the kids . . . but that was weeks ago. Why hadn’t she reminded me? “I am so, so sorry. What can I do? I’ll call Carmella. Maybe she can babysit.”

“You think because she’s my cousin she’ll babysit for free? Forget it. She’d charge me a fortune.”

“Look, I’ll pay—”

“Never mind, Emmie, just go. Obviously, pleasing Poppy—someone who broke our nonna’s heart—is more important than we are.”

My fingers tremble as they trace the scar beneath my lower lip. “I’m sorry, Dar. We’re about to leave. I can’t abandon her now.”

“You can’t . . . or you won’t?”

I look over at my aunt. She’s playing peekaboo with a baby across the aisle. This peculiar old woman is ready to embark on yet another adventure, one that might lead to great joy . . . or bitter heartbreak. And something tells me that if I’m brave enough to join her, I might have an adventure, too.

My voice is soft when I finally speak. “Please understand—”

“No, Emmie, I don’t understand. This isn’t like you. Nonna’s right. Poppy has brainwashed you.”

“Daria, please—”

“I have to go,” she says, interrupting me. “Have a great time.”

Her sarcasm is punctuated by a click, disconnecting us.

I rush to the restroom. I fling my glasses onto the counter and blot my eyes with a paper towel. Daria is furious. Nonna is livid. Lucy is pissed. My father’s probably a wreck. Is there anyone I haven’t disappointed? And for what? An old woman’s fantasy that she’ll finally find true love? To end a curse that I don’t even believe? To hear stories about my mother that may or may not be true?

Poppy rounds the corner, and skids to a stop when she sees me in the mirror. “Oh, heavens!” She takes me in her arms, and I’m enveloped in her citrusy perfume. “What’s wrong, my girl?”

“Nothing,” I say, pinching the rough paper towel to my nose. “Everything.”

She rocks me against her bird-bone body. I swear I can feel her heart beat with mine. I close my eyes.

“Daria’s upset. I was supposed to babysit Natalie and Mimi this weekend.”

She pulls back. “You gave your word?”

I nod. “Back in August. We never confirmed a date. I forgot all about it.” I toss the paper towel into the trash. “Maybe I should just forget this trip.”

She takes me by the arms and spins me, so that my back is to her. I’m startled when she starts swiping at my shirt.

“What are you doing?” I ask, looking over my shoulder.

“Wiping the footprints off you.”

“Footprints?”

“The ones your sister leaves when she walks all over you.”

Poppy looks into my eyes and then bursts out laughing. Despite myself, so do I.

“Is there any feeling more sublime,” she says, lifting my glasses from the counter and settling them onto my face, “than laughing through tears?”

This, I realize. This is why I’m going to Italy.

Ten minutes later, I return to the gate, my eyes red rimmed but dry. Poppy is happily people-watching and Lucy’s on her phone, uttering a series of curt, one-word responses. I’m guessing it’s her mom, quizzing her about Aunt Poppy and the curse. I grab my notebook and pen, desperate for something to take my mind off all the family members I’m failing. I shield the page with my left hand as I write, but still Poppy zeroes in.

“You’re a writer!”

I close my notebook. “Oh, no. Not even close. It’s just a silly hobby.”

“That which brings us joy should never be besmirched.”

I let out a laugh. “Besmirched? Who even uses that word?”

“Writers, that’s who. Now tell me, what is it you write?”

“Romance,” I say. I quickly add, “But my stories have never been published.”

“Romance. I’m impressed.” She wiggles her brows mischievously. “You must have plenty of experience?”

“Um, well, not exactly. I did have a boyfriend in college, Liam. It lasted a few months.” I laugh. “Lucky for me, I have a good imagination.”

“I suspect we’re alike that way. We prefer to see life as it should be, not as it is.” She plucks a tube of lipstick from her purse. “This boyfriend . . . Liam. What happened? Were you in love?”

I’m caught off guard by her direct questions. Without warning, a lump rises in my throat. I work my mouth into a smile. “I think so. It ended before it got started, really. I left Barnard at winter break to fill in for Uncle Bruno at the store. I ended up transferring to Brooklyn College. Liam and I just . . . grew apart.”