The Star-Crossed Sisters of Tuscany(26)

When the tour ended, he slipped away, taking with him a sliver of my heart. That sounds trite, but it’s true. We hadn’t spoken a word, but something had passed between us. I felt it deep in my soul, the way one does when touched by magic.

The following day, I was back . . . and so was he, the gorgeous man from the day before. I couldn’t believe my luck. I’d been a bit flustered by him the previous day, distracted by his presence. I wanted so badly for this tour to go perfectly. But then he smiled, and a dimple appeared in his cheek, and those blue eyes twinkled. I couldn’t think straight.

Mercifully, the tour ended, and I answered a few last questions. I was anxious to get away, to find the yellow-haired man and properly introduce myself. But when I went to find him, he was gone, poof! Vanished, once again.

I was so angry with myself. The goddesses had given me a second chance, and I’d squandered it. We hadn’t spoken a word.

On the bus ride back to Fiesole that evening, I watched out the window. Each time we entered a village, I’d search the crowds, hoping to catch sight of the blue-eyed man. I do believe if I’d seen him, I would have charged from the bus.

Two days later, as my morning tour was about to begin, who did I see but Mister Blue Eyes. My heart nearly burst! He was in my group, waiting with the others for the tour to begin. This time I wouldn’t blow my chance. I made my way through the gaggle of tourists and stepped up to the man. Oh, how my heart thundered! Up close, I could see his fine cheekbones, his even white teeth. He was so tall, so powerful, but at the same time, gentle. To me, he was as exquisite as any statue in the gallery.

“Buongiorno,” I said to him. “Back for your third tour, I see. You must be a glutton for punishment.”

He looked at me, confused. “Non capisco. Es tut mir leid.”

His words were a concoction of both Italian and German.

“You’re German?” I said to him in English. “No wonder you were so quiet.” I pointed to the German guide. “You will want to be in Ingrid’s group.”

He smiled at me, and I will never forget the look on his face. Admiration, is what I call it. “Grazie,” he said to me in Italian. “But I am where I want to be.”

“So you do speak Italian.”

“I know how to ask for the bathroom,” he said, his eyes twinkling.

Together, we laughed at the memory.

“But twice you joined the Italian tour—and you paid money. Did you understand anything from these tours?”

“Not much,” he said. “But I enjoyed them very much.”

I felt suddenly hot. I looked around until I spotted Ingrid. “There,” I said, pointing across the lobby. “The German tour is about to begin.”

“I am where I want to be,” he said in his broken Italian. “Hearing your voice is enough. I do not need to understand the words.”



* * *





When my shift ended that day, the beautiful German with the yellow hair was waiting for me in the piazza with a cup of gelato. How could I say no to a man who had twice—no, three times—spent money on a tour he didn’t understand, just to be near me? It was the most romantic thing ever to happen to me, the second daughter.

We communicated using a medley of English and German and Italian, as well as hand gestures that made us both laugh. He was from Radebeul, a village in East Germany, outside of Dresden on the banks of the Elbe River. He’d left his home and family eighteen months earlier, desperate to escape the harsh rule of the Communists in the German Democratic Republic, or GDR. His name was Erich.

“Erich?” I asked, licking gelato from my spoon. “You must mean . . . Rico. You see, here in Italy, a man’s name must end with a vowel.”

His eyes crinkled at the edges. “Fine. To you, I will be Rico. And what shall I call you, Rosa?”

I’d almost forgotten. My name tag read Rosa. He heard me introduce myself as Rosa. If I told him I was pretending to be my sister, might he think badly of me? Might he report me to the Uffizi Gallery? I decided to take the chance.

“My name is Paolina. I—I only pretend to be Rosa at work.”

He studied me, the corners of his lips upturned. “You should have chosen a more fitting pseudonym. The rose is much too thorny. You are more like the beautiful Mohn, bold and radiant.”

He pronounced it like the English word “moon,” and I blanched. “Moon? I will not be called Moon. Who wants to be a ball of cheese in the sky?”

He laughed then, a sound so rich I wanted to marinate in it. “Not moon, Mohn, the vibrant orange flower. I believe here it is called the papavero.”

“I adore papaveri. But it is a dreadful nickname.” I thought for a moment. “How about you call me Poppy, the English word for the flower?”

“Poppy,” he repeated, and my name never sounded sweeter. “It suits you. Vibrant, colorful . . .” He leaned in and stroked my cheek, ever so gently. “And addictive.”

I knew then, with the touch of his finger on my skin, that I would never be the same. And I was right. Fifty-nine years later, I can still feel the touch of the only man I’ve ever truly and completely loved.





Chapter 14




Emilia

Everyone adores Poppy—everyone except Lucy, perhaps. I follow my aunt down the aisle of the plane, drawing back each time she calls out to our fellow passengers “Hello” and “Happy travels!” and “Off we go!” I sneak a peek at Lucy, behind me. Her jaw is clenched and she shakes her head.