The Star-Crossed Sisters of Tuscany(38)

“Rosa,” I said. “Meet my friend, Rico—Erich. More than a friend, actually.” I giggled nervously and stuffed my hands into my pockets. “I love him, Rosa.”

Rosa offered him a hand. “Pleasure to meet you, Rico. It must be difficult, knowing Paolina is engaged to marry a man in America, a handsome shop owner.”

I gasped. Rico turned to me, his eyes shrouded in bewilderment and pain.

“No,” I said. “I—I have changed my mind.”

“We will be gone within a year,” Rosa continued, as if I hadn’t spoken. “You know this, sì?”

My heart shattered. I closed my eyes, unable to look at either of them. Then I felt his hand in mine.

“I am sorry, Rosa,” he said calmly but firmly, “but that will not happen. You see, your sister and I are in love.”

Rosa looked him up and down, taking in the patched sleeve on his pressed cotton shirt, the worn toes of his polished boots. “You are a good man, Rico, I am certain. And my sister is very fond of you, that is obvious. But you do not understand. You are jeopardizing Paolina’s entire future. You see, my sister is the second daughter, and doomed to be alone forever. Ignacio is her only hope of breaking the curse. Please,” she said, clutching her hands as she gazed up at him. “I am begging you, do not ruin her one chance.”

My sister, my biggest protector, thought she was doing me a favor. Though she was crazy for Alberto, I don’t believe she had ever experienced true passion. How could I expect her to understand our love?

“She will have a good life in America,” Rosa continued, as if my fate were already decided. “What can you give her? Tell me. Do you have a plan? A business? A skill?”

“He can play the violin,” I said.

The sympathy seemed to drain from my sister’s eyes. “He plays the fiddle?” She turned to Rico, a mocking smile on her lips. “Can you tap-dance, too?”

Her desperation had unleashed a cruelty I had never seen in her. “Rosa, stop. Rico is smart and strong and talented. And I love him with my entire heart. I cannot go to America.”

She stared at me for the longest time, until finally, her shoulders slumped in defeat. She shook her head. “La mia sorella testarda. How can I go without you?”

My heart burst with love. “You will be fine. I will visit, Rosa. Rico and I, we will come see you in America.”

She studied Rico and bit her lip. “Rico, if you make my sister happy, you have my blessing.”

Rico hugged her. “Danke sch?n—er, grazie mille.” They shared a laugh. “I hope all of Pop—er, Paolina’s family will be as welcoming as you, Rosa.”

“Of course they will be,” I said, without thinking. “You must come to our house in Trespiano. It is time you met my parents and brothers.”

Rosa took a step back. “So soon, Paolina?” She was signaling me with her eyes, trying not to be rude to Rico.

I turned to Rico, ignoring her covert warning. “Please. Come to our house for dinner on Sunday. My family will adore you.”

But I saw the fear in Rosa’s eyes. My parents would never accept Rico, a penniless foreigner who threatened to upend their daughter’s future in America. And Rosa knew it.





Chapter 21




Emilia

Day Two

Venice

We’re in full tourist mode Tuesday. We visit the market in Campo San Giacometto, an ancient square hosting the oldest church in Venice. Poppy gushes at a display of perfectly proportioned sfogliatelle—flaky pastries shaped like lobsters—and buys one for each of us. I tear the edge from the crust and nod toward the church’s tower. “Check out that old clock,” I say.

“Don’t set your watch to it,” Poppy says, dabbing her lips with her napkin. She turns to Lucy. “Like many things in life, it’s attractive and flashy, but notoriously unreliable.”

Lucy lobs her napkin into a trash bin, seemingly unaware of our aunt’s not-so-subtle advice.

“I take it you and Rico broke up,” I say gently, wrapping my scarf around my shoulders as we stroll. Since sharing her story last night, Poppy hasn’t mentioned Rico. I don’t want to push, but I’m dying to hear what happened next.

She looks at me quizzically.

“You know,” I say, “when you realized he’d never be accepted by your family.”

Poppy stops at a bridge and leans against its iron rail. Below, a gondolier steers his boat, seemingly oblivious to the young lovers snuggled on the bench behind him. “Rico and I never broke up. We’re still together, in our hearts.”

Lucy looks at me and rolls her eyes. “Mm-hmm. Of course you are. Now, about the curse.” She slings an arm around our aunt. “When do we get to that part?”

“Perhaps in the next chapter.”

We continue on to the Galleria dell’Accademia, then to Teatro La Fenice. “In the history of Italian theater, this is the most famous landmark,” Poppy tells us.

“Bo-ring,” Lucy says, playing some sort of game on my phone.

Poppy tsks. “Bored people bore people.”

It’s late afternoon, and we’re sitting outside Caffè Florian, the world’s oldest coffeehouse, enjoying aperitivo—the Italian version of happy hour on steroids. Pigeons fly overhead and I’m dreaming up stories set in this bustling old piazza. We sip our Aperol spritzes—Aperol, Prosecco, and a splash of soda, garnished with an orange wedge. A chubby man with an accordion winds his way through the tables playing the “Tarantella Napoletana.” Poppy taps her foot to the music.