The Star-Crossed Sisters of Tuscany(41)

Lucy has disappeared.



* * *





It’s two a.m. and I’m sitting on our balcony overlooking the Grand Canal. The water glistens in the moonlight, softly lapping against the docks. I gaze up at the blue-black sky dusted with stars. Here I am, in Italy, four thousand miles from home, against my family’s wishes. How could I possibly be cowardly?

I turn when the French door opens. Poppy steps out, wearing a polka-dot robe and pink kitten-heel slippers embroidered with gold fleur-de-lis. Who knew they made slippers with heels?

“I had a hunch I’d find you awake,” she says. “You’ve been upset all evening.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not used to being called cowardly.”

She braces her hands on the balcony and gazes out at the canal. “Luciana is threatening your beliefs. It’s not comfortable for you. She’s making you question whether perhaps, all these years, you’ve hidden behind the curse.”

I absently rub my scar. “Yeah, well, I guess there’s a bit of truth in that. For both of us. I mean, neither you nor I have tried to break the curse.”

Poppy turns to face me. “Dear, you and I are nothing alike in that respect. You see, I’ve embraced my sexuality. There was Rico, of course, and later Thomas. I celebrate my femininity. I wouldn’t dream of suppressing it. But Emilia, my child, I fear you have.”

I stare at her. “Because I don’t date? Because I’m not hell-bent on getting married?”

She flicks her wrist. “I don’t give a whit whether you marry. That’s entirely your choice. What I care about is you, being whole and authentic and fully feeling. And right now, you’re behaving like a lily-livered lion.”

“I’m just being myself.”

“That sounds like a cop-out. Why not strive to be better than yourself?” Before I can reply, she continues. “You neutralize yourself, Emilia. You dress and act in a way that’s deliberately unattractive. It’s as if you’ve stuffed your femininity into a cardigan sweater and buttoned it up to your chin. You are undeniably female, my girl, yet you refuse to own it. I suspect your sweet Matt would vouch for that.”

I cross my arms. “So I’m not a flirt. I’m not stylish. I don’t look glamorous. This is me. It’s who I am.”

She studies me with her head cocked. “Yes. This is who you’ve become. But Emilia, my dear, you don’t have to die as that woman.”



* * *





The bedside clock flips to 3:27. Where is Lucy? The hotel lounge closed at two. Is she okay? Why didn’t I join her?

I stare up at the ceiling, remembering Liam and what happens when second-born daughters dare to love. But still, the little voice screams, You’re a coward!

If only I could talk to Matt. He’d assure me that Lucy’s off base, that I’m perfectly fine, exactly how I am.

Or would he? Matt clearly wants more from me than friendship. Have I been a coward, keeping him at arm’s length? Could I have been the one in my family to break the curse and spare Lucy and Mimi? I love MC. Does it matter that I’m not “in love” with him?

I roll onto my side. Rather than easing my mind, Poppy only added to its clutter. What’s so wrong with who I am? I don’t want to be like Lucy—a woman who relies solely on her sexuality.

But Emilia, my dear, you don’t have to die as that woman.

Have I been hiding? Have I allowed the curse to brand me, to define who I am? Has the Fontana myth become my scapegoat?

Our hotel door jiggles. I grab my glasses to check the time: 4:07. The door opens and Lucy slips inside. Thank God! I click on the bedside lamp and she startles.

“Jesus! Way to give me a heart attack.”

Her hair is mussed and her clothes are rumpled. I’ve got a gazillion questions . . . and I don’t want the answers to any.

“Sorry,” I say. “I was getting worried about you.”

“I’m a big girl.” She tosses her clutch onto a chair and kicks off her heels.

“Right. Sorry.”

She drops onto the side of the bed and rubs her feet. She looks tired and lonely and defeated. I swallow hard and take a deep breath.

“I don’t want to be a coward, Lucy.”

She looks at me. She’s waiting for me to elaborate, to give her something more than an empty statement. Something that might actually help her.

“And I’m willing to change.”





Chapter 22




Emilia

Day Three

Venice

It’s eight thirty Wednesday morning, our final day in Venice before we head to Tuscany. Which means it’s our final night, too. In the wee hours of the morning, I promised to change. But can I? Will I?

The elegant hotel courtyard is set with cloth-covered tables topped with vases of sunflowers. Poppy and I sit alone eating a colazione of fruit, homemade yogurt, and exquisite pastries. I catch a glimpse of azure sky as I stir cream into my coffee.

“Looks like a great day for walking.”

Poppy fans her napkin onto her lap. “I suggest we take a vaporetto today.”

I turn to her, taking in the slight tinge of gray in her skin, the sharp cheekbones jutting from her thin face. Because she’s so agreeable, it’s easy to forget that Paolina Fontana is ill.