The Star-Crossed Sisters of Tuscany(53)

I removed the bow. Inside was the prettiest dress I’d ever seen, a gauzy white linen I knew we couldn’t afford.

He lay on the bed with his hands behind his head, smiling as he watched me change. The fabric was so soft, so fine. I felt like a princess. I couldn’t believe it. In all my life, I’d only worn hand-me-downs from Rosa, or an occasional dress stitched by my mother or me.

“I love it,” I said. “But it is too expensive.”

“Nothing is too grand for you, my beautiful Poppy.” He bounded from the bed and took me by the hand. “Come with me.”

“Where are we going?” I asked, laughing as Rico pulled me down the stairway and out the door.

The evening air was crisp, and Rico wrapped his arm around my bare shoulders. Above, a slice of the moon played peekaboo with the clouds, creating shadows on the streets. While the city prepared for sleep, he led me up the steps of the Ravello Cathedral.

“We’re a little early for church,” I joked. Rico silenced me with a kiss. When our lips finally parted, he bent down on one knee.

“Paolina Maria Fontana, will you marry me?”





Chapter 28




Emilia

Day Four

Firenze—Florence

The train glides to a stop at the Firenze Santa Maria Novella station. Poppy sits up and looks around, as if she’s forgotten where she is.

“So what happened?” Lucy asks, clutching Poppy’s arm. “Did you marry him? And break the curse?”

“Rico was not an Italian citizen,” Poppy says. “And I had no birth certificate. I’d left everything behind when I walked out of my papà’s house.”

Lucy groans. “So what does that mean? Did you break the curse or not?”

Poppy gives her a wistful look. “I shall continue the story later.”

Lucy drops her head on the tray in front of her and gently bangs it.

The station is swarming with tourists, and everywhere I see posters taped to the walls, encouraging fair wages for the train workers and announcing an upcoming sciopero, whatever that means. Poppy searches the platform for the driver she’s arranged to take us to Trespiano. Her face lights up and she waves her hand.

“Gabriele!” she cries, moving stiffly down the platform in her suede flats. She’s not running today, or even trotting. I watch as a tall Italian man wearing jeans and a white shirt lifts Poppy into the air. She plants kisses on his cheeks. I can’t help but smile. How has she managed to collect so many friends in this country, four thousand miles from home?

“Come,” she says, waving Lucy and me over. “Meet Gabriele, our driver. He is all ours for the next three days.”

Lucy does her usual dip and flip. First, she bends at the waist, so Gabriele can check beneath her hood. Then she flips her hair so that it covers one eye, something I’m sure is meant to convey sexiness but only makes me want to search my purse for a hair clip.

“Hey,” she says, her voice breathy. “I’m Lucy.”

To his credit, Gabriele looks directly into her eyes . . . or eye. “Pleasure to meet you, Lucy.” His deep voice is perfectly gilded with a sexy Italian accent. He turns to me, and for some reason, I startle. He laughs. “I do not mean to frighten you.”

I shake my head and lift a hand. “No. You don’t.” But my racing heart tells me a different story. He does scare me. Those dark eyes are too penetrating, that wry smile too seductive.

“I am Gabriele Vernasco,” he says, his warm hand pressing mine. “Please, call me Gabe.”

He leads us out of the station, our bags slung onto his back like a pack mule. Lucy trots alongside him, chatting. Poppy and I trail behind, both of us, I suspect, admiring his broad shoulders, his unruly dark waves, his tight round—

Poppy elbows me in the ribs, interrupting my thoughts. “He’s scrumptious, isn’t he?” She winks. My face heats and she laughs. “Perhaps you are coming to life, learning to be Emilia.”



* * *





When Poppy announced Gabriele was ours for the next three days, I assumed his duties were limited to travel. But apparently, he’s not only our driver—he’s also our tour guide and innkeeper.

He loads the bags into a black SUV and closes the trunk. “I thought we would have lunch in the city before going to the inn.”

Poppy claps her hands. “Marvelous!”

Together, we walk the streets of Firenze—Florence—the very town where Poppy gave tours and met Rico. This gorgeous medieval city, divided into two sections by the River Arno, has a different vibe from Venice, sacred yet cosmopolitan, hip while holding fast to its old-world charm. I catch whiffs of roasting meat and fresh bread, and my stomach growls.

“Ah, my favorite trippaio,” Gabriele says, coming to a stop at a street-side kiosk, where the awning reads Lampredotto. “Would you like to try our version of the American hot dog?” he asks me.

“Sure,” Lucy answers, elbowing her way to his side.

“It is a soft bread filled with meat.”

“I’m all about meat,” she says.

“Lampredotto is made from a cow’s fourth stomach,” Poppy says. “It’s named after the lamprey, which it resembles.”

Lucy gags. “How do you say W.T.F. in Italian?”