The Star-Crossed Sisters of Tuscany(37)

Lucy grins. “I think she’s talking to you, Em.”

Poppy stares down at her glass. “But with every life, there’s tragedy, too.”

Luigi arrives at our table, interrupting Poppy. “What else can I get you, amore mio?”

It sounds odd to hear Poppy’s flirty friend call her his love. I imagine she reserves that endearing term for Rico. But Poppy hasn’t seen her German love in decades. She’s had other companions, like Thomas, and perhaps even this man.

She reaches into her purse and retrieves her bag of coins. “Nothing more, grazie. The meal was fantastico. And seeing you has made me so very happy.”

“The pleasure is always mine.” Luigi smiles, and his eyes never leave hers.

She takes his hand and presses a coin into his palm. “For luck.”

“I will add it to my collection.” He winks. “When will I see you again, Paolina?”

She rises from the chair and kisses his cheek. “Sooner than either of us can imagine,” she says, a bittersweet gleam in her eyes.

But there will be no next time. She knows this. How agonizing and overwhelming and oddly fortunate it must feel, bidding a final farewell to those you love.

The velvet sky is peppered with stars, and we three walk back to the hotel. Poppy drapes an arm around each of us.

“Now, where did I leave off? Ah, yes, Rico had just started playing his violin.”

“No,” Lucy says. “I’m sorry, Pops, but he was playing you. He had a fiancée, remember? Rehashing your tragic love story isn’t going to make it easier. I know guys like him. He’s going to be a no-show at the cathedral. You haven’t talked to him in over fifty years. He’s probably dead by now.”

I gasp. “Lucy, please!”

Poppy stops. She takes Lucy’s cheeks in her hands and stares into her eyes. “Tell me, Luciana, do you want me to break the curse or not?”





Chapter 20




Poppy

1960

Trespiano

Rico and I continued to meet in the square every Monday through Saturday. I refused to let the idea of a fiancée bother me. After all, I had a supposed fiancé, too, waiting for me in America. Rico loved me, I was certain. We would talk and walk and share a gelato or a pastry, hold hands, and sneak kisses. But I was growing frustrated. I wanted more of him.

It was a rainy Monday, the eighth day of February, a day I shall always remember. I hurried from the museum when my shift ended. Rico was waiting in the square, as always. He stood beneath an umbrella, a stem of orange freesia in his hand.

“I could not find papaveri this time of year.” He kissed my cheek. “Would you like a coffee?”

My hands trembled when I took the freesia from him. I looked into his eyes, mustering all my courage. “I would rather go to your flat,” I said, swallowing hard. “If you will have me.”

I’d never felt more vulnerable. My heart thundered so fiercely I was certain he could see it pulsing beneath my blouse. After what seemed like ages, he cupped my cheek and smiled down at me. “Is this really what you want, amore mio?”

I nodded, unable to speak. He tapped my forehead with a kiss and led me down the street.

He rented a small room above a tailor’s shop, four plaster walls that held a wooden bureau and a single bed, everything in the world we needed. The room was tidy and warm, a palace to me.

He kissed my neck, my lips, my cheeks as he slowly unbuttoned my blouse. I stood before him naked, the soft gray light seeping through the window. His eyes shone with tenderness. “Exquisite,” he whispered. It was the first time I ever felt completely safe.

The rain tapped against the windowpane, and he laid me on the bed. Soon, the rhythm of the rain matched our bodies, followed by a crash of thunder that shook me to the core. Moments later, I lay in his arms, both of us moved to tears.

Neither of us spoke. There are no words when one has witnessed magic.



* * *





Il mio unico amore, he called me from that day on. I never asked about Karin, his fiancée. He called me his only love. That was all the assurance I needed.

For two months we shared a secret bliss, a life of two, unencumbered by friends or families, or even a future. Nobody knew of our afternoon trysts, where we’d walk and talk and make sweet love. It was a time suspended between past and future. We had no claim on tomorrow, so we cherished today, drinking in every bit of joy and laughter from each moment together, oblivious to the threat that loomed just beyond the horizon.

It was an extraordinary, ordinary Monday in April, and Rico and I were strolling through the piazza hand in hand. The papaveri were in bloom, and Rico stopped to buy me a bouquet. We continued on, pausing in front of the Palazzo Vecchio, where Rico told me about the first time he held his rail pass in his hands, allowing him to travel to Western Europe. “I will never forget the feeling,” he said, his eyes bright. “Standing in another man’s country, feeling so light, so completely untethered. It was overwhelming, this feeling of freedom, after what my people had been through.”

I was dabbing tears from my cheek when, from out of nowhere, Rosa appeared.

“Paolina?” Her eyes shifted from me to Rico and back again. “What are you doing?”

I couldn’t speak. My sister had caught me. For weeks I’d been tempted to tell her of Rico, how I’d fallen hopelessly in love, but I wasn’t ready to divulge my secret. Not even to my most trusted confidant.