The Star-Crossed Sisters of Tuscany(5)

I take the walnut stairs two at a time and throw open the unlocked door to my apartment. My tiny kitchen—basically a trio of cupboards and a small fridge covered in photos of my nieces—is dappled with afternoon sunlight. I dump the contents of my satchel onto the counter and snap up Aunt Poppy’s letter.

Savoring the anticipation, I study the purple envelope, trying to guess the occasion. It’s not my birthday. Christmas is four months away. My great-aunt Poppy—a woman I’ve met only once but who never misses a holiday—is getting older, after all, and must be confused.

Claws, my long-haired tuxedo cat, rounds the corner. I scoop him up and kiss his adorable grumpy face. “Shall we see what Aunt Poppy has to say? You must promise not to tell Nonna.”

I position him over my shoulder and slash a finger through the seal. My heart thrums as I remove a sheet of linen stationery the color of lime sorbet. I smile at Poppy’s purple ink, the whimsical sketches in the margin—a little girl wishing on a star . . . a bouquet of daisies . . . a map of Italy.

My dearest Emilia,

I’m writing this letter to ask a favor. No, not a favor, exactly. In fact, I will be doing you the favor. You see, what I’m proposing will change your life.

I drop into a kitchen chair and rub Claws’s ears while I continue reading.

I will return to my homeland of Italy this fall to celebrate my eightieth birthday. I want you to join me.

I gasp. Italy? Me? I barely know my great-aunt. Still, images of sprawling vineyards and fields of sunflowers fill my head.

What fun we will have! You do like to have fun, don’t you? I suspect your life may be lacking joy, working in that dreadful store with my sister and your father. No. I cannot imagine that is much fun at all.

I huff. My life is perfectly fine—fun. I get to work with my family and live here in Bensonhurst, the very town where I was raised. And though it’s less than an hour’s train ride from Manhattan, it has a small-town feel. We still hang laundry on clotheslines; we know our neighbors. I have Matt, a loyal, lifelong pal I see almost every day. How many people can say that? Paolina Fontana is way off base.

We’ll leave in mid-October—a mere six weeks from now. I presume you’ve maintained your Italian passport. We’ll arrive in Venice, cross the country via train to Florence, and end the trip on the Amalfi Coast, where I must be on the steps of the Ravello Cathedral on my eightieth birthday.

The Ravello Cathedral? What is she planning?

Please call so we can make final arrangements. Until then, wishing you bouquets of four-leaf clovers and double rainbows.

With love,

Aunt Poppy

My stomach flutters with excitement before I catch myself. I can’t afford a trip to Italy. Not on my meager salary. And even if I could, Nonna would forbid it. I lean my head against the back of the oak chair and groan. Aunt Poppy will have to find another travel companion, another family member, perhaps.

But no, Aunt Poppy has no relationship with anyone in our family.

So she’ll travel with friends. She must have friends.

Or does she?

An unexpected softness for the aunt I was never allowed to know comes over me. How lonely she seems to me now, the old woman who writes without fail each year on my birthday, who reaches out to me on every conceivable holiday, including Flag Day.

There was a time, when I was maybe nine or ten, that Poppy and I exchanged a handful of letters. It was thrilling to me, opening the mailbox and finding a letter from my great-aunt. She wanted to know which of my friends made me laugh hardest; whether I preferred laces or Velcro, dill pickles or sweet; which season of the year “made me bloom.” No grown-up had ever shown such interest in me. Until one Saturday afternoon when Nonna caught me pacing the foyer.

“What are you doing, wasting time when you should be cleaning your room?”

“I’m waiting for the mail,” I told her, anticipation bubbling anew. “I have a pen friend.” Aunt Poppy had used the phrase in one of her letters, and I loved the sound of it on my tongue.

Nonna frowned. “Pen friend? What is a pen friend?”

I grinned. “I’m writing to your sister, Great-Aunt Poppy!”

Without a word, she retreated to her apartment. Ten minutes later, just as our new mail carrier, Mr. Copetti, stepped into the foyer, Nonna emerged. She held out her hand for the day’s delivery.

“Here you go,” he said to Nonna. He winked at me. “Looks like a card today.”

I smiled and peered over Nonna’s shoulder. Mr. Copetti turned to leave, but Nonna lifted a hand. “Wait.” She quickly perused our mail until she landed on a tangerine-tinted envelope.

“That’s for me,” I said, reaching for it.

Nonna pulled a pen from behind her ear. She slashed a red line through the address and wrote, Return to Sender.

“Nonna!” I cried. “What are you doing?”

She thrust the letter at Mr. Copetti. “Go.”

His eyes bore the look of a milquetoast grasping for courage. Nonna took a step forward, aiming her finger at the door. “Out! Now!”

He practically charged from the house. I was grounded for a week, and all “frivolous” communication with Aunt Poppy was forbidden.

I waited a full ten days before secretly penning another letter to my great-aunt. I hid it inside my math book, planning to drop it in the mailbox on my way to school. My heart hammered as I sat down at Nonna’s breakfast table that morning. All the while I ate, I kept a protective hand on the book.