The Star-Crossed Sisters of Tuscany(52)

Poppy shakes her head. “It was the longest night of my life, that April day when Papà sent Rico away. I did not dream. I did not sleep. I could no longer breathe. Instead, I prayed.

“By the next morning, my head had cleared. I made a promise to myself. I would never again allow someone else to make decisions for me.” She turns to the train window. “If only I had kept that promise.”





Chapter 27




Poppy

1960

From Florence to Amalfi Coast, Italy

I was the first one off the bus at Piazza della Signoria. I ran all the way to Rico’s flat. I couldn’t wait to see him, to tell him my news. I had chosen him. I was breathless when I quietly let myself in.

“Rico?” I whispered, my eyes adjusting to the dim lighting. I blinked once. Twice. The room was empty. Every piece of him—his razor, his hair comb, his violin case—was gone. My heart sank. The only man I ever loved had vanished.

The door behind me creaked open. I spun around, expecting to find Rico. Instead, a woman barged into the room carrying a bucket and a mop. I rushed to her.

“I’m Poppy, Rico’s—Erich’s—friend. Do you know where he is?”

She reached into the pocket of her smock and removed an envelope. Poppy was written across the front. I tore it open.

Mio unico amore,

By the time you read this, I will be on the train to Naples, a broken man whose heart is bleeding. I must move on, and so must you. There is a place called Amalfi, wedged into the cliffs, cascading down the hillside to the Gulf of Salerno. I hear the crowds there are large, even bigger than in Firenze, filled with wealthy tourists waiting to be entertained. I will start fresh, a new life in Amalfi, just me and a beautiful coast where I can live in sunshine and freedom. This is what I came for. But now that I have tasted you, I realize I will always be missing the most important thing in life. Love.

Please honor your father’s wishes, and know that I understand and respect this. No person should have to choose between blood and water. Do not look back in sadness, but only in love, a reminder of a sweet time when two souls collided in song.

I wish you the best in your journey to America. Your life will be prosperous and easy, and for that I am grateful. I will pray for you every night of my life, asking for your safety and happiness. I have faith someone will hear my prayers. Of one thing I am certain: I will continue to love you until my dying breath—something I both cherish and fear. I am the luckiest unlucky man in the world.

I will love you a million times over, my beautiful papavero.

Rico

I didn’t hesitate. Not even for an instant. I dashed from Rico’s flat and made my way to the train station. I left Firenze two hours later. When the train stopped, I boarded a bus. It was dusk when the bus finally arrived in the seaside town of Amalfi. I asked the first person I saw for directions to the main square.

And there he was, new to Amalfi but already surrounded by a small crowd in the Piazza del Duomo. They cheered and cried for the German violinist. He had been practicing our favorite song, an international hit by Doris Day called “Que Será, Será.” Now he was performing it in public for the first time. I whispered the words as he played. “Que será, será. Whatever will be, will be. The future’s not ours to see.”

His bow slid up and down the strings, at once tenacious and tender. I stood clutching my hands, my heart soaring. And then he saw me. His bow fell to his side. He ran to me.

“Mio unico amore!”

He lifted me into his arms. I couldn’t see through my tears. The crowd cheered, and I knew, right then and there, I was home.

We rented a room above a bakery, in a small town called Ravello, three kilometers up the cliff from Amalfi. I was soon hired in the little bakery downstairs. Rico played his violin every afternoon and evening. Just as he was told, the crowds on the Amalfi Coast were larger, wealthier. Even so, we did not have much money. But we felt rich as royalty. Our palace was the tiny room where, from the rooftop each evening, we would sip wine, catching a sliver of sun as it set over the Tyrrhenian Sea.

Summer merged into fall. October arrived and the nights grew cooler. We had no heat, and we’d huddle beneath the covers in the mornings, our breath steaming the air. Soon, I would turn twenty-one. Every day, Rico would ask me what I wanted for my birthday. I think he feared I was lonely, that I missed my family and regretted my decision to follow him. Each time, my answer was the same. “You.”

That year, October twenty-second landed on a glorious Saturday. The bakery owner had given me the day off work. Rico and I spent the entire day together, drifting in and out of stores, stopping for a cappuccino, later a glass of wine. As the sun set, I sat in the piazza watching him perform, thanking the goddesses for my beautiful, talented music man. It was the best birthday I’d ever had.

I returned to our flat at half past eight to prepare dinner. An hour later, Rico waltzed up the stairs, clutching a mysterious box with a bright purple ribbon. He lifted me off my feet, kissing me with all of his passion.

I vowed I would always remember that moment—the smell of garlic sautéing on the stove, the comfort of his strong arms around my waist, the golden flecks in his blue eyes.

When he finally set me down, he brushed past me and clicked off the stove. Then he handed me the box. “For you,” he said, his eyes mischievous.