The Star-Crossed Sisters of Tuscany(29)

“Apple stock,” Poppy says.

“What?”

“That’s how I made my money.”

“Oh,” I say, feeling heat rise to my cheeks. Is this equestrian-teacher-yogi also a mind reader?

She lifts her chin, her dark eyes dancing. “Invested ten thousand dollars in that little-known tech company the day it went public in 1980. Twenty-two dollars a share. By the time I sold it, it had gained over twenty-nine thousand percent. Can you imagine? And that doesn’t include dividends.” She tips her head back and laughs.

“Oh, hell yes!” Lucy says and holds out her fist for a bump.

“Well, thanks for being so generous,” I say.

“Money is a tool, not a treasure.” She opens a set of double doors, and we enter an equally pretty, completely separate bedroom.

“Nice,” I say. “Your own private suite.”

“You and Lucy don’t mind sharing the other, do you?”

Behind me, Lucy lets out a screech. I shake my head.

“Oh, c’mon, Luce. It’s only three nights.”

“My phone!”

I rush to her side and help rummage through her bags. But she already knows, and so do I. Her phone is on Delta Flight 474 in her seat pocket, right where Poppy placed it. “I have to go back to the airport,” she says, gathering her purse.

Poppy takes her by the arm. “It’s too late. Surely they’ve cleared the plane. Let it go.”

Lucy wriggles away. “Are you insane? I need my phone.”

“I’ll contact the airline.” She takes Lucy’s face in her wrinkled hands and stares directly into her eyes, like a female Svengali. “But in the meantime, let it go,” she repeats, this time very slowly and with a gentle firmness. Lucy finally steps back, shaking her head.

“You owe me a new phone,” she says.

“When we return, I’ll buy you the very latest.” Poppy pats her arm. “I’m sorry I was so careless, Luciana. But trust me, you’ll find freedom from its absence, I promise.”

Lucy continues to grouse, but she’ll be okay, I can tell. I’m guessing Poppy’s right. It can’t be easy waiting for a lover’s message that never comes, or being grilled by a mother who’s been promised a miracle.

I cross the room and pull back sheer white curtains. Sunlight spills in. I step onto a balcony staged with a pair of chaise lounges and urns of red geraniums. I lean against the concrete balustrade, inhaling the salty sea air that tickles my nostrils. Three stories below, people mill about along the Grand Canal, taking photos and eating gelato. The water is rough today, and spray from the water taxis mists the air. I gather my sweater across my chest. Aunt Poppy comes up beside me and tucks her hand into the crook of my arm.

“My country,” she says. “The land where I met my Rico.”

I give a wan smile. “Maybe, just maybe, we really can find your old friend. What’s his last name? I’ll Google him. If he’s on Facebook or Twitter, we’ll send him a message and remind him—”

“Nonsense,” she says, cutting me off. She plants both hands on the balcony ledge and closes her eyes. “Rico has not forgotten.”

Poppy suggests a costume change before we set out to explore the “splendiferous sights of Venezia.” I throw on a pair of jeans and a cotton sweater. Lucy wriggles into a short suede skirt and ankle boots. Poppy flaunts a red and purple knit cardigan, belted at the waist, and a giant firefly brooch nearly hidden beneath a necklace with turquoise beads the size of my fist. Up and down her arms she wears colorful bangles. They look like they’re made of plastic, but I can’t be sure. She catches me staring.

“You wear one, and they look cheap. You wear a dozen, and it’s a style.” She grabs a pair of gigantic red sunglasses and plants them on her tiny face. “We’re off!”

On the street, Poppy doesn’t seem to notice the conservatively clad Europeans staring at her flamboyant garb. She laughs and waves and calls out, “Buongiorno!” to puzzled passersby. I link arms with her. Back home, I might be embarrassed. But here in Italy, I’m strangely proud of this woman who displays her style—and her heart—so fearlessly.

Poppy darts into the first bakery she sees, Pasticceria Rizzardini. We each order a baba, an individual cake soaked in rum, filled with pastry cream.

“Here, we call it fiamma, or flame,” the man behind the counter tells us, “because it is so richly drenched in alcohol.”

I plunge a plastic forkful into my mouth. The cake’s buttery sweetness collides with the sharp tang of alcohol. “Mmm,” I murmur, wondering why my baba doesn’t taste this good. Butter, I decide. Their butter is different here . . . fresher.

We nibble on our cake as we meander through Venice. The green waters of the canal follow alongside us, and we stroll the narrow streets—or calli, as they’re called here in Venice. The entire city, it seems, is in a breathtaking state of opulent decay. Stucco peels from the sides of homes and buildings, revealing gaping chunks of exposed brick, a look urban designers at home try desperately to duplicate. We reach a spot where the street is so narrow I can almost touch the buildings on each side. Sunlight disappears, dropping the temperature ten degrees. For a moment, I feel claustrophobic. Ahead, I hear voices, laughter. The street widens, and light spills over us again.