The Star-Crossed Sisters of Tuscany(55)

“No.” I grin. “But I am today.”

“You must come back in the spring, when the fields are ablaze with red papaveri. It is spectacular to see them in the early morning, sprinkled with dew. And this field,” he says, pointing to our left. “In the summer it is a blur of smiling sunflowers. It is impossible to be moody when you see their happy faces gazing up at the sun.”

I smile, impressed with this masculine man’s poetic descriptions.

We ride in silence, making our way up and down and around the voluptuous hillside. “What are those mountains called?” I ask, pointing to the horizon.

Gabe’s eyes crinkle at the edges. “We call them hills.”

I groan and shake my head. “Right. Hills. I’m from Brooklyn. Every hill looks like a mountain to me.”

He nods. “I understand. Some people see the grandeur in ordinary things. I sense you are one of those people.”

I mull it over, wondering if I am, and whether that’s a good thing or a bad thing.

He reaches over a hand and pats my arm. “It is a wonderful trait,” he answers for me.

Soon, the vehicle veers down a long dirt driveway. A shaggy black dog greets us midway, barking and wagging its tail as it races alongside the car.

“Ciao, Moxie,” Gabe calls out the window.

We come to a stop in front of a charming two-story home built of irregular stones and occasional terra-cotta bricks.

“Here we are,” Gabe says.

“It’s beautiful,” I say, and twist in my seat. Poppy sleeps with her mouth agape, looking childlike and frail. Lucy gently pats her cheek.

“Poppy, we’re here.”

She doesn’t stir, and a surge of alarm goes through me. I watch, relieved when I see the soft rise and fall of her chest. “Maybe we should let her nap.”

Lucy nods, and together we stare at Poppy. I suspect we’re thinking the same thing. The traveling is too much for her. Our vibrant Poppy is fading.

Leaving the windows open, we quietly step from the car.

Terra-cotta roof tiles add a splash of color, and everywhere, bright flowers spill from clay pots. We wander down a path of cobblestones bordered with fragrant red roses. Above an old wooden door, a painted plaque announces Casa Fontana. I point to it.

“Fontana. That’s my family name.”

Gabe nods and opens the door. “Sì. This is Poppy’s childhood home.”

I stop short. “It is?”

“I did a complete renovation when I purchased it from her eight years ago.”

“Wait . . . Poppy owned this place?”

“She bought it almost forty years ago, when the landlord was raising the rent yet again, and her papà could no longer afford it.”

I rear back. “She bought it for her father?”

“That is right. She risked a great deal, taking a bank loan that size. If it had not been for Poppy, he and Signora Fontana would have had to live with relatives. She allowed them to stay in their home until they died.”

I blink. “So she made peace with him.”

Gabe nods. “She even paid for a nurse to live here during Signor Fontana’s final months.”

Do Rosa and Dolphie know that Poppy saved their parents from homelessness? I gaze out at the cascading fields, more thoughtfully this time. I imagine young Rosa bringing water to Alberto and Bruno as they tilled the soil. I take in the creeping red rosebushes, the same flowers my great-nonna Fontana may have tended decades ago. But this house harbors ugly memories, too, memories that would be impossible to forgive. This is the farmhouse where Poppy’s father forbade her from seeing Rico. Why would Poppy choose to return here now?



* * *





We enter through the kitchen, just as Rico did that fateful Sunday. The floors, probably the original stone, are polished to a glossy sheen. Cheery yellow and red tiles cover the walls, but double gas stoves, a Sub-Zero fridge, and chic new light fixtures give the room a modern, upscale feel. Even so, I can’t help but picture my great-grandmother at her old stove, warning Poppy and Rico they’re making a big mistake. A shudder goes through me.

“This way,” Gabe says.

We pass through an arched doorway into the living room. The high ceiling, supported with rough-sawn beams, gives the spacious room a rustic feel. A stone fireplace hunkers in the corner. Modern oil paintings cover one wall, and a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf another. Gabe’s weathered leather furniture and overlapping rugs create a coziness I’m guessing was absent in the 1950s. My eyes land on a chair near the fireplace, and I picture Poppy’s father rising from it, the Sunday when Rico came to call.

I turn when I hear footsteps, and gasp when Poppy creeps into the room. She looks like a caricature of the vibrant woman who appeared unannounced on my telephone two months ago. Her shoulders sag and blue-black circles hover beneath her eyes.

“Spettacolare!” She casts her gaze upon the room, taking in the modern art pieces alongside beautiful antiques. “The old place is looking meraviglioso, Gabriele.” She pats down her wig. “Which is more than I can say for myself at the moment.”

She laughs, but I can’t manage a smile. How can she be so cheerful, standing in the home that once betrayed her, clinging to a body that’s doing the same?

Poppy insists on climbing the stairs to her old attic bedroom, where Lucy and I will sleep the next three nights. The door squeaks when Gabe opens it, and all four of us manage to squeeze into the small space beneath the eaves. A tiny bathroom sits to the left, probably an addition. The polished wooden floors boast years of wear, but the colorful rugs brighten the place. Between a set of twin beds, an old casement window allows for much-needed sunlight and air. I imagine Poppy and Rosa staring out this very window, wishing on stars and sharing secrets.