The Star-Crossed Sisters of Tuscany(25)

Poppy knits her brows. “That little fucker.” She slaps her mouth, as if she, too, is surprised by the word. “Pardon me,” she says, “but there are times when no other noun will suffice.”

I can’t help but laugh. “Liam was a good guy,” I say, hoping to leave it at that.

“Sounds like my Thomas—another good guy.” She runs the glossy coral tube over her lips. “It’s time we found you someone with a more interesting description.” She smacks her lips. “I’m thinking someone cerebral. A dreamer . . . a lover of books. Someone with a sharp mind and a firm rear end.”

She erupts in guffaws. Before I have time to tell her I’m not interested, she shifts the topic. “Do you play a musical instrument?”

“Oh, God, no.”

“Your grandfather was a musician.”

“He was?” I’ve seen pictures of Nonno Alberto, always with a cigar stub in his mouth, never a musical instrument. Surely she’s mistaken, but I don’t challenge her.

She extends her lipstick to me. I shake my head no. She stares at my scar before dropping the tube into her purse. “Do you paint? Draw?”

“Honestly, I’ve told you pretty much everything. My life isn’t all that interesting.”

“No matter,” she says. “That will soon change.”

“Tell me about you,” I say, steering the conversation to safer topics. “You left Bensonhurst in 1961. What happened next?”

A shadow crosses her face, but she quickly recovers. “I moved to Hershey, Pennsylvania, and got a job at the chocolate factory.” She puts both hands to her neck and crosses her eyes. “Assembly line. A nerve-twanging bore.”

I laugh. “And then you got a degree in art history?”

She nods. “I enrolled in night classes at Franklin and Marshall College. It took five years to earn my bachelor’s degree. After graduation, the University of Pennsylvania offered me a rare fellowship in their master’s program. That’s when I quit the Hershey factory and moved to Philadelphia.” She tells me about her job at the Shipley School in Bryn Mawr, teaching art appreciation to teens. “Forty-nine years and counting, though for the past decade, I’ve chosen to volunteer.”

“That’s so inspiring,” I say, gazing at this educated, curious, independent woman, so unlike the other Fontana women I know. To think that I share her DNA. I glance at my watch. “We have an hour before we board. Would you tell me something about my mother?”

Lucy looks up from her phone. “How about we keep the convo in the present century, like, maybe who’s our favorite pick on The Bachelor, or something remotely interesting.”

It’s odd to me that nobody in my family, including Lucy, seems to understand my curiosity about my mother. Do they not realize how someone could miss, so deeply and profoundly, a person they’ve never known?

“Of course,” Poppy says, and I assume she’s agreeing with Lucy. But then she laces her fingers with mine and lets out a sigh, as if she’s about to embark on a difficult and daunting journey.





Chapter 13




Poppy

1959

Florence, Italy

Rosa insisted nobody would be the wiser. I scored ninety-eight percent on the Uffizi examination—or rather, Rosa did. Each morning I’d rise at five and walk two miles to the town of Fiesole. From there, bus number seven would pick up the village commuters. An hour later, we would be dropped off on Via Ricasoli, in the center of Firenze. Once I stepped off the bus, I would proudly pin my name tag to my uniform—Rosa Fontana Lucchesi.

It was December. I had been working at Florence’s famous gallery for a month, pretending to be Rosa. I adored my job, though I detested the plain brown suit we guides were expected to wear. To brighten the drab uniform, I wore cheap jewelry I’d accumulated since I was a child—a strand of plastic beads one day, a feathered peacock pin the next. Each day, I wound a brightly colored scarf around my head. Every guide held a stick so we could be easily identified in the crowds. I tied a bright orange ribbon to the end of mine.

It was chilly that morning, and I shivered as I stood outside the entrance to the gallery, waiting for my tour group to gather. Soon, Italian tourists from around the country began swarming around me. And there, standing alone in the back, was a yellow-haired man. He looked to be in his twenties, with a fine chiseled face and piercing blue eyes. He was so tall and broad I assumed he was American, or maybe an Aussie.

I introduced myself to the group and flashed my broadest smile. “The collection is vast,” I announced. “I am here to answer any questions you may have. Any questions whatsoever.”

A middle-aged woman raised her hand.

I lifted my chin and straightened, grateful for the opportunity to demonstrate my knowledge. “Sì?”

“Dove sono i gabinetti?”

Where are the toilets? The yellow-haired man burst out laughing, and despite my embarrassment, I did, too.

For the next ninety minutes, I led the group through the exhibits. The dashing yellow-haired man never spoke. But all the while, I was aware of his presence, as if he radiated some secret energy only I could feel. I studied his strong jawline, the long lashes that fanned over his clear blue eyes. More than once, when he was pretending to admire the paintings, I caught him watching me, too.