The Star-Crossed Sisters of Tuscany(54)

Gabriele smiles. “I take it that is a no?”

“It’s a hell no,” Lucy says.

He laughs. “How about pizza?”

We enter the heart of Florence, the lively Piazza della Signoria. Young men sell selfie sticks and trinkets. Tourists mill about with their cell phones poised, snapping photos of the replica statue of David and the Palazzo Vecchio—once the old palace, now the town hall. I turn in a circle, slowly panning the L-shaped square, barely able to believe I’m here, in the cradle of the Renaissance, surrounded by historical relics I’ve only read about and masterpieces by geniuses from Michelangelo to Michelozzo.

“Look,” I say, pointing to a sign with an arrow. “The Uffizi must be that way. That’s where you worked, right, Aunt Poppy?”

“Yes,” she says. But she’s staring in the opposite direction. I follow her gaze to the Fountain of Neptune, the place where her Rico performed. The octagonal fountain hosts a marble statue of Neptune, surrounded by laughing satyrs and bronze river gods and marble sea horses rising from the water. How strange it must feel, coming back to a city that seems impervious to change, a place that looked the same back in the sixteenth century as when she strolled the piazza, hand in hand with her Rico. Every statue, every fountain, in this town must remind her of her love.

Gabriele points us to a small café and we settle into a table beneath a giant red umbrella. As we drink wine and devour an amazing pizza topped with fresh mozzarella and basil, he tells us about his first job, selling high-end automobiles at a private dealership off Via Valfonda.

“There is no sexier vehicle than the Lamborghini Diablo. But soon I tired of the job. I was making good money, selling luxury items to wealthy people. But it was corrupting my soul.”

I nod, appreciating his honesty, admiring his integrity and, I admit, his muscular forearms. I think of my own job. I’m not getting rich selling pastries, and my clientele certainly isn’t wealthy. So why is it that today, it feels as if the little kitchen at Lucchesi’s Bakery and Deli is corrupting my soul?

“Did anyone famous ever come into the store?” Lucy asks, completely missing the point.

Gabe laughs good-naturedly, as if he’s humoring a young child. “Several. I once sold a Ferrari to Sting.” He returns his focus to me. “I found my true calling when I stumbled upon the inn. Of course it wasn’t an inn at the time. It was a dilapidated farmhouse that had been vacant for two years. But still, I saw the potential.”

His eyes twinkle as they penetrate mine, and it feels like he’s sending me a cryptic message, telling me he sees the potential in me. I should probably warn him, I tried to find my potential last night and ended up puking on a guy.

“I knew that with the right love and care, the crumbling old house could become a jewel.”

He smiles and Poppy’s words return to me: You don’t have to die as that woman. For the first time ever, I realize how much I want to find that woman I just might be.



* * *





It’s four in the afternoon when we return to the SUV. Gabe opens the back door and Poppy steps forward.

“No, Aunt Poppy,” I say. “You sit up front.”

“Nonsense.” She climbs into the backseat. “I’ve seen this land before.”

Gabe helps buckle her seat belt, then opens the front passenger door.

“Shotgun!” Lucy calls.

Gabriele’s eyes grow wide, as if he’s expecting to find an actual shotgun on one of us American tourists.

“It’s a figure of speech,” Lucy says. “It means I’m going to sit—”

“Emilia?” he says, interrupting her. He makes a sweeping gesture with his arm.

“Me? Up front?”

“Please.”

I avoid Lucy’s eyes as I climb into the passenger seat. I’m sure she’s annoyed, but what am I supposed to do? I fasten my seat belt and turn to the backseat, offering her an apologetic smile. She rolls her eyes.

Soon, the city falls quiet. Traffic slows and the congested street morphs into a country road. Gabe slows the SUV each time we come to a hairpin turn.

“I say this road has more curves than Aphrodite.”

I smile. “I was thinking Beyoncé.”

He laughs and I puff with pride.

I gush at the landscape, a bucolic scene that makes me long to run through the fields. We pass hills and terraced vineyards, fields dotted with spools of hay, and, every now and then, a pasture with grazing cows or sheep. Tiny stone farmhouses spew smoke from their chimneys, and I conjure up a fictitious family, enjoying a meal at a long wooden table.

We come upon a quartet of cyclists. I roll down my window and wave, breathing in the fresh scent of straw and lavender. Gabe grins and lowers his window, too.

“I love the smell of this land, the feel of the breeze on my face.”

I spy a band of horses, lazily grazing on clover. I turn to the backseat to tell Poppy, but her eyes are closed. She looks so vulnerable with her chin against her chest and her wig slightly askew.

“You are a—?” Gabriele’s voice startles me, and once again I jump. He chuckles and reaches out a hand to me. “Please, Emilia, I am not dangerous.”

I laugh. “I know! I’m sorry. What were you asking?”

“I wonder if you are a country girl.”