The Star-Crossed Sisters of Tuscany(4)

His dark eyes twinkle. “This is wonderful news, your sister inviting you into her club. I remember when the two of you were inseparable.”

Without warning, I choke up. Horrified, I open a cupboard and pretend to search for a towel. “Well, I’m not a permanent member yet,” I say, blinking furiously. “But I’m hoping that if her friends like me—or at least the pizza di crema—she’ll ask me to join.”

“Pizza di crema?” Uncle Dolphie gives a sidelong glance. “Do not let her take advantage of you.”

“It’s not that complicated. Besides, I love helping her.” He raises his brows skeptically, and I pretend not to notice.

He checks his watch and scowls. “Luciana said she would be in for a trim at two. And I hear nothing. Not a word. I fear that one is too big for her britches.”

I picture my cousin Lucy, with her curvy size 12 booty squeezed into size 8 jeans, and wonder if her grandpa is being literal or figurative.

“She’s just a kid,” I say. “She’ll be fine.”

He harrumphs. “A kid? Since when is twenty-one a kid?” He lowers his voice, as if the empty shop might hear. “Have you heard? Luciana has a new boyfriend—someone she met at that new job of hers. Ethel thinks this may be the one.” He wiggles his wiry brows.

“Huh,” I say. “Didn’t Aunt Ethel say the same thing about Derek . . . and that drummer named Nick . . . and that other guy—what was his name—the one with the cobra tattoo?” I shrug my shoulders. “Lucy’s young. She’s got her whole life in front of her. What’s the rush?”

He gives me a look, silently reminding me that Lucy is a second-born daughter, like me.

“Boyfriend or not,” I say, wiping down the counter, “Luce seems to like her new job.”

“Waiting tables in that slinky getup?” He shakes his head. “Tell me, Emilia, why would a smart girl like Luciana choose to work at this place—Rudy’s?”

“Rulli’s,” I say. “It’s the hottest bar in town.”

“Something wrong with Homestretch? Irene and Matilde have worked there for years—wearing respectable blouses and sensible shoes, mind you.”

My great-uncle, who emigrated from Italy a year after my nonna and great-aunt Poppy, is a traditionalist. The Homestretch was already two decades old when Dolphie arrived in Bensonhurst at the age of twenty-one. Fifty-seven years later, he’s still loyal to the old pub.

“Uncle Dolphie,” I say, “sometimes new is good.”

He lifts his chin. “New cheese? No. New wine? No. New art? No.” He takes my face in his hands. “Dolce nipotina mia, new is not good. Old is good. And you, of all people, should understand.” He lifts my thick ponytail. “We have kept this same haircut for what? Twenty years now? And these glasses, they are the same spectacles you wore in your senior photograph, sì?”

“I wish,” I say. “My prescription has changed three times.” I whip off my small wire-rimmed glasses and bend them backward. “But luckily, these frames are pretty much indestructible, just like the optician claimed.”

“Good for you, cara mia,” my uncle says. “Why change the tires if they are still rolling, sì?”

“Exactly.” I plant my glasses on my face and kiss his cheek. “See you tomorrow with another pastry delivery.”

“Grazie,” he says. He shuffles over to the cash register. “Do not forget la posta.” As he lifts my mail, a purple envelope spills from the bundle, one I somehow missed earlier. He captures it beneath his suede Hush Puppy.

“A letter,” he says, staring down at it. “The real kind.”

I squat down to retrieve the mysterious envelope, but my uncle’s foot doesn’t budge. He bends down for a closer inspection. His eyes narrow. Then they widen. Finally, they cloud. He lifts his trembling fingers to his lips.

The hand-addressed envelope stares up at us, postmarked Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. My smile vanishes and I freeze. In flamboyant script, her name and address are splashed in the upper left corner. Poppy Fontana. Nonna and Uncle Dolphie’s estranged sister, Paolina. The enigmatic great-aunt who has always fascinated me from afar. The curious woman Nonna insists is un problema—trouble. The only living relative I’m forbidden to see.





Chapter 3




Emilia

I clutch my satchel protectively, as if it holds a concealed weapon rather than a simple letter, and force myself to slow down when I reach the sidewalk. Nonna Rosa stands at her bay window, peering past the heavy damask curtains. Though her eyes are small, Nonna boasts of 20/20 vision, something that comes in handy for a woman who, I’m convinced, can see around corners. I wave, hoping to appear nonchalant. With her typical flush of annoyance, she turns away. It’s horrible for me to say, but I often wish she were the one who lived in the cozy space beneath the eaves. Or even in my dad’s apartment on the second floor. That way she wouldn’t hear my steps each time I cross the porch; she wouldn’t be able to peek from the bay window and keep tabs on me, a woman of twenty-nine. But I’m not giving her enough credit. My nonna would naturally find a different window from which to spy.

I step through the beveled glass door and cross the terrazzo-tiled foyer, peeking into my satchel to make sure it’s still there. A rebellious thrill shimmies up my spine.