The Star-Crossed Sisters of Tuscany(32)

Chapter 17




Emilia

I clutch Poppy’s hand. “Oh, Aunt Poppy, I’m so sorry. Rico married someone else?”

She pats my knee. “I’ll continue the story later.”

“So we really are cursed,” Lucy says. “But you’re going to break it, right? Aside from your plan to meet this two-timing turd, you have some other way, right?”

“Curse?” Poppy says. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

I keep my gaze on her, hoping—willing—her to say something, something to ease Lucy’s anxiety. Her thin face is drawn, and dark circles hollow out her eyes. Break the curse, damn it.

Poppy calls to the gondolier, “We’re ready to get off now.” The gondolier slows the boat, steering it toward a bridge. “It’s time for me to lie down,” she says. “Tonight at dinner, I will tell you more about Rico.”

“No!” Lucy’s voice is angry now, and I can’t blame her. “We’ve heard enough of your sorry-ass story.” She crosses her arms over her chest. “If you think your Rico is going to show up after all these years and marry you, you’re as batshit crazy as everybody says.”

“Lucy!” I say, but Poppy only shakes her head.

“It seems you take pleasure in painting storm clouds, Luciana.”

“You promised you’d break the curse,” I remind Poppy, emotion rising in my voice. “Lucy believed you. She’s counting on you.”

“Hello?” Lucy says. “It’s the only reason I’m here!”

Aunt Poppy bats a hand. “Pfft! All this time you’ve been told what to believe. Imagine the power in deciding what it is you hold to be true.”

“Easy for you to say,” Lucy says, as the boat slows to a stop. “You’re older than the pyramids. What about me? I’ve got a lifetime ahead of me being cursed.”

Poppy places a hand on Lucy’s cheek. “It’s fascinating, isn’t it, how, when someone tells us something about ourselves—good or bad—we try so desperately to prove them right.”



* * *





Lucy drags me into the first trattoria along the calle. A group of old men sit at a table drinking Peroni beer, their eyes glued to a flat-screen television, where they cheer for the soccer players dressed in orange and black. “Leoni Alati!” they shout, declaring their loyalty for Venezia’s Winged Lions.

We settle in at a table and my cousin orders a liter of wine. From our spot by the window, we watch Poppy’s slim figure disappear down the cobblestone street. My good angel tells me I should get up, walk her back to the hotel, and tuck her into bed. This city is impossible to navigate and she may get lost. But my bad angel is too angry. She’s been here before. She can manage.

“What the hell?” Lucy says. She plants her elbows on the table and rakes her fingers through her hair.

“I know,” I say, shaking my head. “She’s trying to weasel out of this deal. I’m losing faith, big-time. She just wants to relive old memories.”

“Poppy has no pride. That little prick was engaged, and still she pines for him.”

The waiter arrives with the wine. While he fills our glasses, I share the story Uncle Dolphie told me, about Poppy and the baby she lost and her mental breakdown.

“Jesus,” she says, lifting her glass. “And she claims we’re not cursed?”

I wait until Lucy takes a long drink before I ask, “When did you first start believing in it?”

Her eyes lock on the television behind the bar, where the Winged Lions have fallen behind. “I was eight,” she says. The little muscle in her jaw twitches. “Eight fucking years old when my parents told me I was cursed.” She shakes her head, still focused on the television. “The only curses I knew were in fairy tales, when some sorry-ass victim was sentenced to years of sleep, or death, or made to live as a beast. So that’s what I thought—that I’d be forever ruined if I didn’t marry.” Finally, she turns and meets my eyes.

“I was down the block, playing in the street, kicking a soccer ball around with Giulia, my bestie.” She smiles. “I pretended not to hear my mom when she called from the door, ‘Lu-cy! Lu-cy!’

“Even as an eight-year-old, I found that humiliating. I wasn’t a goddamn cocker spaniel, was I? So I ignored her. And the longer I ignored her, the more pissed off she got.

“‘Luciana Maria Fontana, you get home now!’

“I figured she wanted me to come practice my piano, or the dance steps she was making me memorize. She hated it when I played ball with Giulia. But I couldn’t give it up. I loved soccer.

“I whispered to Giulia to help me hide. She grabbed my sweaty hand and we ran behind her house.

“We giggled like, well, like little girls.” She grins. “We found a kick-ass hiding place, in the shrubs by her back shed. We burrowed side by side, a couple of toads trying to blend into the green space.

“Sure enough, ol’ Carol appeared in her floral skirt and pink pumps, searching for me. Giulia covered my mouth with her dirty hand to keep me from bursting into hysterics. We sat huddled together, trying not to laugh, watching my mother wander the yard, calling, ‘Luciana? Lu-cy?’