The Star-Crossed Sisters of Tuscany(27)

“What the hell have you gotten me into? The woman is effing nuts.”

I lift my shoulders as if to say, “It’s too late now.”

We settle into our seats—an upgrade, thanks to Aunt Poppy’s new BFF at the check-in counter. Lucy insists on the aisle seat. Poppy slides into the window seat, leaving me in the middle of their growing tension.

“Spill it,” Lucy says, yanking on her seat belt. “Did you and Herr Yellow-Hair hook up, or what?”

Poppy’s dark eyes are soft and dreamy. “We did.” She pats Lucy’s cheek, seeming not to notice Lucy flinch. “Rico is the man I will meet on the steps of the Ravello Cathedral.”

Lucy’s eyes go wide. “You mean it’s not some random dude you’re hoping to meet? It’s someone you actually know?”

“Of course I know him. I am not that na?ve, Luciana.”

I let out a sigh of relief. “So you fell in love with Rico. And the two of you have kept in touch all this time?”

She turns to me, her brows knitted. “Oh, no, dear. We haven’t spoken in nearly sixty years.”

Lucy groans. “For fuck’s sake, tell me you’re joking.” She leans over me, getting as close to Poppy as she can. “You might have told us this little detail before we committed to the trip.”

Poppy smiles sweetly. “What little detail, dear?”

Lucy’s nostrils flare. “What makes you think a man you haven’t spoken to in decades will suddenly appear at the Ravello Cathedral?”

She lifts her chin. “He promised.”

Lucy closes her eyes. “Right,” she mumbles. “Just like they all do.”

As the plane prepares for takeoff, Poppy presses her face to the window, looking so childlike I half expect her to blow steam and draw stick figures. I lean in beside her. Below, the flight workers direct the plane from the tarmac, using arm signals.

“Look!” Poppy says. “He’s waving at me!” She waves her hand furiously, as if the man might see her.

I can’t tell if my aunt, who’s smart and sophisticated and well traveled, is being funny or serious. Or maybe she really is crazy. I look over at Lucy, but she’s busy texting. Jack’s name shows on the header.

“You’re still seeing Jack?” I squint at her screen, hoping to find something akin to I regret ever hooking up with your sorry ass.

She shields her phone from my view. “It’s all good,” she says, whatever that means.

Poppy leans in. “Better say good-bye now.” She nabs Lucy’s phone, turns it off, and stuffs it into the seat pocket.

Lucy’s mouth falls open. “I wasn’t finished!”

Poppy smiles. “Imagine how perplexed he’ll be, wondering what in heavens happened to you.”

Lucy starts to reach for her phone, stops, seems to digest the comment, then pulls her hand back. Score one for Aunt Poppy. It strikes me that my aunt and my cousin aren’t really so different. Both are hoping against hope that one day, love will keep its promise.

The plane speeds down the runway and lifts. My stomach does a flip-flop. Poppy claps. “Isn’t flight glorious?”

“Simmer down, Pops,” Lucy says. But thankfully, her voice has lost its edge. She looks at me and shakes her head, like a secretly amused mother whose child said a bad word.

Once we’re airborne and our meal has been served, Lucy swallows a pill. Minutes later, she’s leaning on my shoulder, softly snoring. It’s sweet having her snuggled beside me, like she’s my little cousin again.

On my other side, Poppy’s ears are covered with her headset, and she’s laughing out loud at some Amy Poehler movie on the screen. I close my notebook and savor her laughter. I’m a bit miffed with her for manipulating us into traveling with her. But more than anything, I’m sad for her.

I silently study my aunt, the woman who couldn’t let go after her child died, the woman who grew too attached to my mother and tried to take her as her own. Is she suffering from some sort of attachment disorder? I’d asked Poppy to tell me of my mother, like she promised. Once again, she spent nearly an hour talking about her young life in Florence. A shiver comes over me. Did Aunt Poppy even know my mother? Or was that just another ruse she concocted to get us to Italy?



* * *





The cabin lights flicker on. The intercom crackles and the captain announces our descent into Venice, the floating city. One by one, passengers lift their window shades. Sunlight bursts into the plane. I rub my eyes and turn to Poppy. She’s perched upright in her seat, her lips and cheeks freshly painted, smelling of Chanel perfume.

“Did you sleep?”

She bats a hand at me. “Not a wink. I’m much too excited.”

The plane tilts, providing a panoramic view from Poppy’s window. Brilliant sunlight reflects off the green waters. And there, in the middle of the sparkling Adriatic Sea, sit two perfect puzzle pieces, separated by the graceful curve of the Grand Canal.

“Look!” Poppy cries. “The new Port of Venice! And there’s Piazza San Marco!”

Beside me, Lucy comes alive. She stretches toward the window. Poppy grabs each of our hands and she raises them to her face. “Thank you,” she says, her eyes bright.

Her voice breaks, and so does my heart. There’s no turning back now. No excuses to be made, no rationalizing to take the sting out of it. We’re here now, in Italy, the place where, in eight short days, Poppy’s heart will be either filled with joy or completely pulverized.