The Star-Crossed Sisters of Tuscany(51)

“Didn’t I just say you were smart?” Poppy’s laughter fades. “About your cousin,” she says. “Luciana is a different kind of lost. We must help her find herself. If we don’t, she just might disappear completely.”



* * *





L’ottico is busy Thursday morning. I sit in front of a mirror as the optician-slash-supermodel positions my new glasses on my face. She leans back and smiles.

“Bellissima!”

I catch sight of a man in a leather coat, watching us. “You will get used to the attention,” she whispers.

At ten o’clock, wearing my stylish new specs, we board the train at Venezia Santa Lucia station. I follow Poppy down the aisle. Her face looks almost ghostly this morning, in direct contrast to her flashy clothing. She’s sporting wide-legged yellow slacks and a white blouse imprinted with little bananas. A raspberry ascot is tucked into her collar. And despite this, people stare at me. How did I get talked into such conspicuous glasses? I want my comfy old wire-frames back, where nobody noticed me. I settle into my seat and reach into my purse for my beat-up glasses case.

Lucy’s hand seizes mine. “Don’t even think about it.”

I drop the case back into my purse. I have to admit, my vision’s great through these big lenses.

The train eases out of the station at 10:25 sharp. Aunt Poppy sits across from Lucy and me, her nose pressed to the window, waving good-bye to nobody in particular.

Soon, the islands of Venice draw out like a shadow behind us. I bid a silent farewell to the magical floating city with its endless canals and gilded sunsets, its maze of cobblestone streets and ancient bridges.

I plug my phone into the charger, but it doesn’t seem to be working. I turn to Lucy in the seat beside me. She’s massaging her forehead, looking stale as day-old bread. “How was your night?” I ask for at least the third time this morning.

She stretches and a slow smile makes its way to her face. “You saw him. He was hot, right?”

“Yes,” I say, trying to picture the guy. “And he was really into you, Luce.”

Her smile vanishes. “Of course now we’re leaving, and I’ll never see him again.”

“You can keep in touch. Did you get his email?”

She rolls her eyes. “Right, Em. The guy’s dying for a pen pal.”

Poppy turns to her. “Imagine the possibilities of actually getting to know someone.”

Lucy pulls a tube of lip gloss from her purse. “What’s that supposed to mean?” She offers me the tube. I hesitate briefly, then dab some onto my fingertip.

“True intimacy is a connection of the mind as well as the body,” Poppy says. “When you settle for only one of these two, the result is either emotionless sex or platonic friendship. Nothing more. Nothing less.”

Lucy huffs. “Gee, thanks, Dr. Phil.”

Lucy may not like the advice, but the words ring true to me. Could Matt and I have more than friendship if I tried harder?

“She’s only trying to help,” I whisper to Lucy, once Aunt Poppy’s attention returns to the window. “Seriously, I don’t understand, either. You’re putting yourself in danger, leaving with these guys. I mean, sure, you like sex. I get that. But—”

“What makes you think I like sex?”

She looks directly at me. The pain in her eyes renders me speechless. My cousin, who’s been AWOL two out of the last three nights, who gives herself so recklessly to any guy who shows interest, doesn’t even enjoy sex.

We ignore what our heart tells us when we think it could make someone love us.

The train glides past yellow fields and green hills, an occasional stone farmhouse, a pasture of sheep. Soon, I’m lost in my story, imagining my characters spending a clandestine weekend in this quaint setting. While I mentally sketch the scene, Lucy fiddles with my hair. I smile as she separates strands, mumbling to herself about which type of braid would be best for my oval face. Careful not to disturb her, I open my notebook. With my back to her, I lose myself in my writing.

Ten minutes later, I put my pen down. I pat my head, feeling a braid cascading down one side. I turn to find Lucy leaning over my shoulder . . . reading my story!

I flip the notebook shut.

“Hey!” she says. “I wasn’t finished.”

“How long have you been snooping?”

“Long enough to know you’re writing a book.” She grabs the notebook.

“Give me that.”

She holds it above her head and reads aloud, “He stroked her soft cheek, his touch sending shivers up her spine.”

“Stop!”

“She turned to him, her eyes filled with need.”

I finally yank the book from her.

“Don’t leave me hanging!” she says. “What happens next?”

I stuff the book into my bag and shake my head, choked with humiliation. “Just stop, Lucy. You’re not funny.”

She shrugs. “I wasn’t trying to be. I mean, isn’t that the point of writing, to have people read it? By the way, that braid looks awesome. Hey, Pops, check out the new do!”

Poppy’s ashen face brightens a shade. “Now there’s my girl! Well done, Luciana. Rico loved it when I wore a braid.”

Lucy positions the braid so that it spills over my shoulder. “Did you ever see Rico again? You know, after your dad basically cut off his balls?”