The Star-Crossed Sisters of Tuscany(33)

“All at once, the bushes parted like a scene in a horror flick. Even though we knew it was coming, we screamed bloody murder and clung to each other. The afternoon sun practically blinded me. But then I saw it. My mom’s red-blotched mug staring down at us. And I’ll never forget. It wasn’t anger, exactly. It was more like panic. She grabbed my arm and yanked me to my feet.

“As she dragged me from the yard, I looked back at Giulia. She sat there in the bushes, still as a stick. ‘I’m sorry,’ she mouthed.

“‘Me, too,’ I mouthed back, though I wasn’t sure why.”

Lucy lifts her glass and takes a long drink.

“That night after my dad got home, he and my mom sat me on the couch. I could tell it was something serious because Dad made Carmella leave the room.

“‘Go on, tell her,’ my mom said, her voice flat.

“I remember thinking that someone must have died. Or that maybe my mom and dad were getting a divorce, like Francie Falcone’s parents.

“‘You have a curse,’ my dad told me, cutting through the bullshit.

“My mom freaked. ‘Vinnie! Be kind.’ She looked at me. ‘Your dad is right,’ she said. ‘But don’t worry, amore. You are going to break the curse.’

“My heart was seriously banging against my ribs. What kind of curse?

“My dad stood up then. He went to the hallway and took an old family picture from the wall, taken eons ago back in Italy. I’d seen the ratty-ass photo a thousand and two times, but I’d never really looked at it. He plopped down beside me.

“‘You see these women, Luciana?’ One by one, he pointed to his great-aunts and great-great-aunts, a dozen or so leather-faced ol’ bags I’d never met.

“‘Yes, Daddy.’

“‘Not one of them has married. Ever.’

“Well, no shit. Who’d want to hook up with these hairy-chinned biddies?” Lucy looks over at me. “’Course, I didn’t say this, but that’s exactly what I thought—more or less.” She looks down at the table and gives a sad little smile.

“My mom took over then. She placed her hands in mine, all serious-like. ‘In your dad’s family,’ she said, shooting him a look of superiority, ‘the second-born daughter does not marry. The women in this photo, these Fontana women, are all second-born daughters.’ She paused for a sec, probably hoping I’d pick up on the gist of her message. But I didn’t. I swear, I didn’t have a damn clue what she was getting at. Finally she said, ‘Just like you.’”

Lucy pinches the stem of her wineglass and shakes her head.

“I sat staring at the picture, taking in the ol’ nanny goats, with their lifeless faces and hollow eyes. ‘They don’t look very happy,’ I said.

“‘Oh, they’re not,’ my mom agreed. ‘They’re miserable. And eventually they become bitter and mean. They’ll never know the joy of children, or a house of their own with a warm kitchen to cook in, or a man to love them.’

“I seriously thought I was going to puke. This really was a fairy tale—a bad fairy tale where the cursed second daughter turns into a wicked old witch. I swallowed hard. ‘Am—am I going to be like them?’

“My mom smiled and smoothed my hair. ‘No, mia dolce. You are beautiful. You will break the curse, and spare all of the future second daughters from this horrible fate.’

“I nodded. O-kay. Right. Sure. I would be the princess who saved the village. But c’mon, Carol, let’s be real. How the hell could an eight-year-old kid possibly break the curse?

“‘How?’ I croaked.

“‘Listen to your mamma. I will teach you. First rule. No balls.’”





Chapter 18




Emilia

Another,” Lucy calls to the waiter, pointing to our nearly empty carafe. Her hand trembles when she pours the last drops into her glass. I don’t know what to say. My poor cousin has tried nearly her entire life to become someone she’s not, so she doesn’t turn into a wicked old witch—no, worse: a wicked old single witch.

Poppy’s words return to me. 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.

“I’m so sorry that happened to you.” I take hold of her hand. “But Poppy’s right. This Fontana curse is nothing more than a self-fulfilling prophecy, an old-world myth that’s been perpetuated for years, devaluing us single women, making us feel subordinate. And you’re just living up to your expectations.”

Lucy scowls and pulls her hand from mine. “I haven’t a fucking clue what you just said. All I know is that for generations, second daughters have been screwed.”

“Or have not been screwed, as the case may be.”

She grins. “Well, what do you know? The girl made a funny.”

The waiter arrives with our second liter. Lucy goes to fill my glass, and I cover the rim with my hand. She shoots me a look.

“C’mon, Em. Can you, like, try to be cool for one afternoon?”

Like a wimpy teen caving to peer pressure, I remove my hand, allowing her to fill my glass.

“I’m sorry I got your hopes up, Luce. It’s obvious Poppy only wants to talk about Rico.”