The Star-Crossed Sisters of Tuscany(43)

“No,” I say, reaching for them. “I can’t be without my glasses. And besides, they’re just fine.”

“With all due respect,” the gorgeous optician says, “they are hideous.”

Lucy bursts out laughing. I lift my shoulders. “But I can see perfectly. Seriously. What difference does it make?”

Poppy pats my hand. “How about we find out?”



* * *





The sun fades and I stand beside Lucy at the bathroom vanity, tying back my hair while she applies her makeup. Everything is slightly blurry. Thankfully, she hasn’t mentioned going out tonight. Still, my aunt’s words echo in my mind. Emilia, my dear, you don’t have to die as that woman.

I take a breath and work a bit of enthusiasm into my voice. “So where should we go tonight?”

Her eyes find mine in the mirror. “Seriously? You really want to go clubbing?”

My stomach tightens into a knot. “Uh, sure.”

She crosses her arms and surveys me. I’m dressed in black slacks again, this time with a gray sweater. “Well, for sure you can’t wear that.” She sets down her compact and disappears. A moment later, she’s back, clutching a black skirt that looks like it would fit my niece Mimi.

“Try this.”

I stare at the tiny band of spandex. The last time I wore a short skirt was on New Year’s Eve with Liam, eleven years ago. And that ended in disaster. But Lucy’s face is so hopeful I can’t bear to disappoint her. I slip off my slacks and pull the skirt over my hips. The stretchy fabric hugs my every curve so tightly I can barely breathe. “It’s too small,” I say, ready to yank it down.

“It’s perfect,” Lucy counters. She drags me from the bathroom, over to her closet, and pulls a see-through blouse from its hanger. “Put this on.”

“Lucy, I can’t possibly—”

“Try it.”

Luckily, I’m wearing my white sports bra, because even without glasses, I can see straight through this flimsy fabric. I cross my arms. “It’s way too revealing.”

She scoffs. “That sports bra defeats the whole purpose. Don’t you have something lacy? No,” she answers for me. “Dumb question.” She shrugs. “I guess it’ll have to do.”

She pulls me into the bathroom and yanks the scrunchie from my ponytail. My hair erupts like Medusa’s and I cover my head. “What are you doing?”

She grabs a bottle from the vanity and squeezes a dollop of goop onto her palms. “I’ve always loved messing with hair. My first client was Lindsey—Carmella’s American Girl doll.” She rubs the product into my hair. “Carmella went ape-shit crazy, but the faux-hawk actually looked cute on Lindsey.”

Rather than taming the waves, like I’ve tried to do my entire life, Lucy scrunches my locks, forming loose curls.

“It won’t last,” I say. “It’ll turn to frizz the minute I step outside.”

“Hold still.” She grabs her compact. Before I can object, she’s stroking a brush across my cheeks. My nose itches and I go to rub it with my shoulder. “Close your eyes.” She shadows my lids with various powders, stopping long enough to pluck a few hairs.

“Ouch!”

“Addio, unibrow.” Next, she sweeps an eyeliner pencil into a bold cat eye, followed by several coats of mascara on my lashes. “Voilà!”

She pivots me toward the mirror. I blink until the reflection comes into focus. I take in the sultry woman with the see-through blouse and smoky eyes and I gasp.

“I can’t go out like this!”

“Why not? You look hot!”

Poppy appears at the open door and literally jumps when she sees me. “Emilia?” She starts to laugh. “You are trying to change!” She grabs a pot of Lucy’s gloss and starts to dab my lips.

“No,” I say, stepping back and lifting a finger to my scar. “Absolutely not.”

“She hates her lips,” Lucy explains.

Poppy studies me, curious. “This tiny scar wields such power over you. From what I gather, it is your only source of vanity. Now, would someone please tell me its history?”

We move to the balcony, where the last rays of sun turn the lagoon cotton-candy pink. Lucy combs her wet hair and begins to tell the story she’s heard a dozen times.

“You were, what—ten when it happened?”

“Eleven.”

“Her dad and Uncle Bruno were out fishing on Coney Island. She and Daria tagged along.”

I nod. “We begged them to let us come. The amusement park was our favorite place. But by noon, Daria and I had used up our tickets for the rides. We walked back to the pier where my dad and Uncle Bruno fished.”

Lucy interjects. “Of course they got bored and started goofing around.”

I smile. “That’s right. We were rifling through their tackle boxes, exploring the lures and bobbers, probably making a mess of things. To distract us, my dad offered to teach us how to cast the fishing pole.”

“Daria had to go first, of course,” Lucy says.

“Uh-huh. I stood behind her, waiting my turn, listening to my dad explain how to point the rod at the target.” I touch my finger to my scar, the image coming back to me with striking sharpness. “Daria lifted her arm and swung the pole back. But not in the gentle way my father instructed. It was more of a jerky whip.”