The Star-Crossed Sisters of Tuscany(36)

“Just so you know,” Lucy says, “laid-back girls rarely get laid back.” She grabs a pot of lip gloss and hands it to me. “Do yourself a favor.”

I step back, my finger moving instinctively to my scar. “No, thanks.”

Lucy shakes her head. I turn when Poppy appears at my side, a bright floral scarf in her hand.

“May I?”

I hesitate for a split second before I bend down. My aunt’s citrus perfume fills my nostrils as she wraps the soft fabric around my neck and knots it. I close my eyes, imagining it’s my mother helping me get ready. She stands back with her head cocked, assessing me. “Better,” she says, and she gives the scarf one last fluff.

“Not bad, Pops,” Lucy says. She turns to me. “You know you’ve hit a low point, Em, when your fashion guru is eighty years old.”



* * *





With Poppy in her orange dress, me with my bright scarf, and Lucy in a slinky silver bandage dress, we set out for dinner. Shadows fall and streetlights glow. I lock arms with Poppy as we get into the elevator. When she steps out, Lucy clasps her hand and walks her through the lobby. Together, we help her navigate the cobblestone calle. A block from the hotel, she throws her hands up. “Would you please stop treating me like a dying old woman? If I wanted pampering, I’d have gone to a spa.”

Without waiting for an answer, she pivots and trots down the lane and over a bridge. Lucy and I work to keep up with her. We turn down a wide calle. A woman waves to us as she leans out her window to gather her laundry. We pass houses, lit from within. The aroma of roasted herbs wafts into the street, and I imagine a family sitting down for their cena. I capture the sights and smells in my memory, hoping one day I can re-create the scene in a novel.

Poppy turns down a narrow alley, stopping just long enough to pluck a coin from the cobblestone walk and drop it into a ziplock bag. It’s cooler here, and nearly dark. I suspect we’re lost, but then she lets out a whoop. The sign appears for a restaurant called Carlucci, a tiny place tucked at the end of Calle Pezzana. She throws open the door and strides in as if she’s the guest of honor.

A dozen candlelit tables fill the dusky room. My stomach growls from the aroma of fresh bread and garlic. From behind the bar, a short elderly gentleman with a winding mustache looks up. He catches sight of Poppy and his face erupts. He claps his hands and rushes to her.

“Paolina! Benvenuta, amore mio!” He captures Poppy into a bear hug and lifts her off her feet. She laughs like a schoolgirl as he spins her in circles.

“Luigi!” she says. She steps back, her gaze traveling from his unnaturally black hair to his wingtip shoes. “Arrest this man!” she cries. “He is stealing my breath.”

Luigi blushes. “I have missed you, my flower.” He holds her at arm’s length. “You never age. What is your secret?”

“White teeth and dark hair.” She leans in and cups her hand around her mouth. “Most people our age have the opposite.” Luigi throws his head back and laughs. They stand gazing at each other until finally, Luigi remembers his role.

“Your favorite table awaits.”

He leads us to a spot by the window, settling us into our chairs and fanning napkins onto our laps. Poppy introduces Lucy first. He bows and shakes her hand. “Benvenuta. Welcome.”

“And this is Emilia.”

I smile. “Hello, Luigi.”

He looks into my eyes. “Bellissima.” He takes my hand and kisses it. “Come tua nonna.”

Beautiful. Like your grandmother. I smile at the compliment, and don’t bother correcting him.

For two hours, Luigi showers us with attention. Each course is accompanied by a special wine, selected by Luigi himself. I’m stuffed and a wee bit drunk when he brings a dessert of zabaglione—a light custard made with egg and sweet wine, served with fresh raspberries. It’s more tart than mine, and better. Next time I make it, I’ll use less sugar.

Luigi arrives with a tray of liqueurs and a trio of tiny glasses. “Fernet? Frangelico? Limoncello?”

I’m not the least bit thirsty, but according to Lucy, that’s beside the point.

Lucy lifts her dainty glass of Frangelico and settles back in her chair. “Are you scared to die, Aunt Poppy?”

I choke on my Fernet. “Lucy!”

“I am, a bit,” Poppy says, seemingly unfazed. “Yet I can’t wait to solve the mystery of what lies beyond.”

It feels odd having this conversation with my dying aunt, who, admittedly, seems quite comfortable with the subject. “Do you believe in God?” I ask softly.

“Oh, heavens yes! Though not in the conventional way I was taught. To me, spirituality is less about Sunday mass than it is about love. It’s that simple. When you treat others with love, consistently and fully, you honor your god or goddess. Some of the holiest people I know have never stepped foot in a church. And I’ve met many churchgoing, self-righteous born-again Christians that God himself probably wishes had never been born the first time.”

Lucy bursts out laughing. “Amen to that.”

Poppy sips her Limoncello. “I’m most excited to see the film. Ah, what a joy that was to produce.”

My aunt was a movie producer? “What film?” I ask.

“The one we’re told will flash before us when we die. I must say, I get goose bumps when I think about it. You see, my film will be part drama, part mystery, a bit of a thriller, with romantic comedy scenes tossed in for good measure.” Her dark eyes dance. “You, my dears, are still in the production stage of your movie. Make it riveting! Make every scene sizzle! When it comes time to watch the movie of your life, may tears run down your face, may you scream with laughter and cringe with embarrassment. But for Goddess’s sake, do not let your life story be one that’s so dull you fall asleep during the viewing.”