The Star-Crossed Sisters of Tuscany(50)

Chapter 26




Emilia

Day Four

Venice

I lie in bed, my notebook beside me, staring up at the ceiling, thinking of Giovanni and Daria and my cousin who’s still not home. In the wee hours of the morning, as dawn spins the room from charcoal to lilac, the door finally creaks open.

“Hey, Luce.” I prop myself onto my elbows.

“Shhh,” she says. Without bothering to change into her pajamas, she burrows beneath the covers and closes her eyes.

Where has she been all night? Is she okay? How did she get home?

I study her pale face in the feathered light of dawn. Her cheeks are puffy from too much alcohol and her hair is a tangled mess. But in sleep, with her lips slightly parted, I see a softness, a tender vulnerability she keeps hidden by day.

Did Lucy spend the night with the guy from Il Campo? I shudder, thinking of his friend Harry, groping me outside the bar. Is this the way it works, being single? Are we expected to hook up with strangers, without the slightest hint of affection? With no promise of tomorrow, no guise of love?

“Em?” Her sleepy voice cracks the silence.

“Yeah, Luce?”

“Do you think there’s any chance, any chance at all, that Poppy could actually break the curse?”

I look down at her. In the first blush of daybreak, her face glows with hope.

“I—I don’t know. I don’t really see how she could.”

She nods and drifts off to sleep.

I brush a lock of hair from Lucy’s face, a warrior in the treacherous minefield of Dating Land. Unlike me, this brave woman puts herself on the battlefield time and time again. Tears sting my eyes. Poor, poor Lucy. And cowardly me.

If there really is a curse, at this moment I swear I would do anything, anything, to break it.



* * *





An hour later I give up on sleep. I tiptoe across the wooden floor and quietly open the French doors. The sun mops the sky with pinks and purples. I step onto the balcony. The canal is quiet now, save for the gentle stroking of water against the concrete dock.

“Buongiorno.”

I startle. Aunt Poppy sits on a chaise, sipping coffee in her robe and bare feet. She smiles and beckons me with her open arms.

“Good morning,” I say, leaning down to give her a hug. “You’re up early.”

“I’ve never been one to waste a sunrise.” She pats the chaise and I ease in beside her. “Tell me about your evening,” she says, wrapping her arms around me. “Did you and Luciana have a good time?”

I gaze out at the pink horizon. “It was pretty much a disaster, with a few lighter moments of disgust and humiliation. Oh, and a bit of terror thrown in for good measure.”

“It’s always tricky when you pretend to be someone you’re not,” Poppy says.

“What do you mean?”

“Last night you were disguised as Lucy.”

I turn to face her. “But you encouraged me.”

She wipes a smudge of mascara from beneath my eye. “Sometimes we must try on several personas before we find one that fits. You see, until you decide who you are not, you will never know who you are.” Her eyes twinkle. “Now go on. Continue with the evening.”

I groan. “The bar was so crowded I couldn’t find Lucy. I got lost. I had no idea how to get back to the hotel. Every street, every bridge, every square looked the same.” The panic from last night rekindles, and my breath quickens. I sit up straight. “It was dark, and I was . . .” I try to ignore the sly smile on Poppy’s lips. “I was hoping someone would help. But people passed me by. They just kept walking and . . .” I scowl at her upturned lips. “Why are you smiling? I could have been killed.”

She lifts her shoulders. “Yes, and I trust you won’t find yourself alone on the streets after a night of drinking ever again. It could have ended in disaster. But luckily, you kept your wits about you. You are a smart, capable woman who had an adventure.”

“An adventure? I was terrified.”

“You’ve learned a valuable lesson, one that will serve you well when you finally decide to be true to yourself.” She whispers now, as if she’s imparting some very wise and weighty advice. “Being lost is where the beauty lies. Lost in a book. Lost in someone’s eyes. Lost in a symphony so sweet it brings you to tears.” She smiles. “Lost in a beautiful floating city on a starry night. This is magical, yes? It’s being found that’s the disappointment.”

I was alone in Venice, justifiably petrified and panic-stricken. But could Aunt Poppy be right, too? I danced with some cool women. I stood up to a lecherous man. I made my way home safely. And aside from the fact that Giovanni was married, it was a magical night, sitting beside him on the gondola. I have a memory now, a story to tell, perhaps a scene to re-create in a novel one day.

I gaze out at the rippling Laguna Veneta, dappled in rose and coral, and a sense of pride comes over me. For a moment, I allow myself to believe I really am capable, that when I’m back in Bensonhurst, in my safe little neighborhood surrounded by family and friends, I might seek to get lost once in a while. Because now I know that’s where the beauty lies.

“Next time I decide to get lost,” I say, “I’m doing it stone-cold sober. With my glasses!”