The Star-Crossed Sisters of Tuscany(39)

“La vita bella,” she says and lifts her drink. “The beautiful life.”

I raise my glass. “Best part of the day.” I break off a piece of taleggio cheese from a plate heaped with Italian olives, pancetta-wrapped figs, and mini sandwiches filled with sun-dried tomatoes and marinated goat cheese.

“This café is where Casanova is rumored to have stopped for coffee when he escaped from prison,” Poppy tells us.

“How cool,” I say, taking in the array of arched stone windows adorned with white balloon curtains; the cream-colored awnings; the handsome waiters in their white jackets and black bow ties, balancing trays on their broad shoulders.

“Yes,” Poppy says. “Caffè Florian was the only coffee shop in eighteenth-century Venezia that allowed women patrons. I suspect that influenced Casanova’s decision.”

“Typical guy,” Lucy says, “hoping to hit it and quit it.”

A young Italian couple sit at the table beside us, so close that it’s impossible not to hear their entire conversation. The man—a good-looking thirty-something wearing too much cologne—talks nonstop about his job, the money he’s raking in, the Mercedes he plans to buy. His date finally excuses herself to the ladies’ room.

Poppy waits until the woman is out of earshot, then turns to the man. “Your first date?” she asks in her native language.

He nods. “That obvious?”

“Does she prefer a sunrise or sunset?” He scowls, but she continues. “If given the option, would she choose an extra month’s vacation or an extra month’s salary? What is her earliest memory of joy? If she could possess only one book, what would it be?”

He gives a mocking laugh. “Easy, lady. I told you, it’s a first date.”

“And if you’d like another,” she says, “I’d suggest more this”—she points to her ear—“and less this”—she mimics a moving mouth with her hand.

I look on, horrified and embarrassed and undeniably awed. The man’s smile fades. He rises and stalks off.

Lucy cracks up. “Way to shut down that pompous gasbag!” She lifts her hand and slaps Poppy a high five. “So how about doling out some of that wisdom for me—us. I know you’re sick and everything, so I’m not making demands. But . . .”

Poppy tilts her head. “But what, dear?”

Lucy takes a deep breath, and I can tell she’s trying to keep her temper in check. “You promised you’d break the curse. Was that complete bullshit?”

Poppy leans in and pats Lucy’s cheek. “We second daughters have nothing to fear. I promise you.”

Lucy’s nostrils flare. Poppy may have good intentions, but her statement is as helpful as telling a man in a wheelchair that his legs are perfectly fine. I grab Lucy’s hand.

“Poppy’s trying to tell you that you don’t have to worry about the curse. It was unfair of Aunt Carol to put so much pressure on you.”

She frowns. “Was it? Because you know what? My mom taught me to believe that I can break this damn curse. And I will.”

“Forget what your mom says,” I say, keeping my voice low. “It doesn’t matter. If you never break the curse, if you’re single forever, you’ll be just fine, Luce, I promise. No, you’ll be better than fine. You’ll be great.”

She plucks the orange garnish from her Aperol spritz and sucks it. “I’m going to be married one day.”

“Okay. Sure. Maybe you will be. But, Luce, you’re giving marriage way too much power. It’s one part of a person’s life—or not. You can still have a full and happy life without a ring on your finger, believe me.”

“Believe you? If you want to know the truth, you’re my incentive, Em. You inspire me.”

I smile and push up my glasses. “I do?”

“Yup. You’re the person I think of each time I put myself out there.” She tosses the orange peel onto her napkin. “Because I refuse to end up with a sorry-ass life like yours.”

The breath is knocked from me. I turn to Poppy for help, but she pins me with her gaze, waiting for my reply.

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“Your life sucks, Em.”

I try to laugh, but it strikes the wrong note. “My life is great. I have a cute apartment, a sweet cat, no debts.” I absently rub my scar. “I get to cook whatever I want, whenever I want, or not at all. At night, the TV’s all mine.” I’m on a roll now, and the talking points come effortlessly. “I can binge on Netflix for ten hours straight, in my pajamas. I come and go as I please. I don’t have to worry about impressing anyone.”

“And you’ve never had your heart broken, have you?”

For the briefest moment, Liam’s sweet face appears, swollen beyond recognition. I block it out, as I’ve done for the past decade, and square my shoulders. “No.”

“You’ve never been disappointed by some dickwad who promised to call but never did.”

“See, there you go! No dickwad disappointment for me.”

Poppy chimes in. “You’ve never watched the world turn to Technicolor when you’ve spotted your love in the crowd.”

I laugh. “Aunt Poppy, that’s a little dramatic, even for you.”