The Star-Crossed Sisters of Tuscany(35)

She rears back. “What? You think a doctor’s order would stop me?”

My eyes sting and I give a wobbly smile. “Of course not,” Lucy and I say at the same time.

Sure, she conned us, but still, I can’t help but admire my feisty aunt. She wanted one final trip with her family, and settled for two nieces she barely knows.

She gives us a brief account of her illness. “Ependymoma—a tumor in the brain, in that little passageway where cerebrospinal fluid is stored. Mine is slow growing, but it’s catching up to me now, the little stinker.” She smiles, as if her deadly tumor were nothing more than a pesky bug.

I blink back tears. “What can we do for you?”

“Yeah,” Lucy says. “Whatever you need. Say the word.”

She gathers us to her sides. “This”—she kisses each of our foreheads—“is all I want. To be with my girls when I finally see my love.”

I steal a glance at Lucy.

“Now go,” Poppy says, flapping her hands to shoo us away. “I still need to catch a wink of sleep. I’ll be fresh as a flamingo by evening, just you wait.”



* * *





Lucy and I wander aimlessly alongside a narrow stretch of the canal, both lost in thought. We visit little shops, stop for a cup of gelato, step into cool cathedrals. But nothing feels right. Our aunt is dying.

“We have to make this trip special for her,” Lucy says as we meander down Rio della Sensa.

“I know.” A speedboat chugs as it makes its way past us. “Rico’s not going to be in Ravello. You know that, right?”

“Yup.” She gazes out at the canal as she walks. “I think the crazy old fool actually expected to marry the guy.”

“No. She’s not that unrealistic.”

“I’m serious. Why else would she insist on meeting him at the cathedral?”

I stop and turn to her. “Oh, God. You might be right. What if she’s thinking he’ll show up after all this time, fall in love, and marry her?”

“And break the curse and fulfill her promise, all in one swell floop.”

She means “fell swoop,” but I don’t correct her. “Oh, Lucy,” I say, and rub my forehead. “I am so sorry. I should have pinned her down with details before I dragged you into this. I knew it was a long shot, but I was hoping she might actually have some way of helping you with this supposed curse.”

She looks away. “It was stupid to believe. I should know that by now.”

I think of little Lucy, being told she must give up her soccer ball. “You don’t deserve this,” I say.

“Neither do you.”

We walk in silence. Couples pass, holding hands. A woman in sneakers talks on her phone, her child in a front-pack. Two rosy-cheeked kids shriek as they race past on scooters. Lucy gazes longingly, as if she wishes she could be riding alongside them.

“Luce,” I say. “How come you listened to your mother?”

For the longest time, she doesn’t answer. Finally, she shrugs. “Same reason you listen to Nonna, I guess. We ignore what our heart tells us when we think it could make someone love us.”

I don’t reply. Lucy wouldn’t want my sympathy. I think of bossy Aunt Carol and of Nonna, and how I bow to her every need, squelching my own desires to please her, just as Matt said. Is it possible Lucy’s right? Have she and I both sold our souls, hoping against hope that we might one day win the affection of someone whose love we can never fully trust?



* * *





It’s six thirty when we return to the hotel, and the sun has edged west, gilding the city in liquid gold. True to her word, Aunt Poppy is raring to go after her afternoon siesta. She’s freshly showered, dressed in a silky orange dress with purple pumps and a half dozen colorful strands of beads around her neck. She blots her coral lips with a piece of tissue and adjusts her wig. “Losing my hair was the worst part of this whole ordeal,” she says, peering into the mirror. “Rico loved my hair.”

Lucy shoots me a look as she rounds the corner to the bathroom, her arms loaded with shampoo bottles and cosmetics.

“You’re welcome to use my bathroom, Emilia,” Poppy says. “You’ll want to get all dolled up for our first evening in Venice.”

“Dolled up? Aunt Poppy, I’m exhausted.”

She places a hand on mine. “Tired people tire people,” she says. “Now shoo! Go get ready. And put a bit of effort into it, won’t you?”

Twenty minutes later, I emerge from Poppy’s steamy bathroom, admittedly revived. My wet hair is pulled into a sleek ponytail, my glasses are smudge free, my scar is covered, and I’m good to go.

“Luce?” I call, catching sight of Aunt Poppy on the balcony as I return to our suite.

The bathroom door swings open, and a cloud of steam rises. “In here.”

Lucy stands in front of a foggy bathroom mirror wearing the hotel robe, her head wrapped in a towel. A myriad of Avon cosmetics stretches along the vanity. I groan.

“You’re not ready.”

She gives me a once-over. “Unless you’re waiting tables at the Olive Garden, neither are you.”

I look down at my black slacks and red blouse and laugh. “What can I say? I’m a laid-back kind of girl.”