The Star-Crossed Sisters of Tuscany(56)

Poppy studies the place but says nothing. Finally, she turns and makes her way back down the stairs. We drop our bags and follow.

Gabe holds Poppy’s hand, leading her down the first-floor hallway to a bright orange bedroom he calls “the Poppy Suite.” Fresh wildflowers adorn the bedside table. The tile floor is covered with a sisal rug, and a white down comforter hosts a flock of colorful pillows. A perfect room for my colorful aunt.

Poppy takes Gabe’s face in her hands and kisses his cheeks. “Grazie,” she says, then lowers herself onto the side of the bed. She lets out an exhausted sigh.

“Dinner will be at eight,” Gabe says. “Is there anything I can get you? A cup of tea?”

She looks at Lucy, at Gabriele, at me. “I’ve got all I need.”

I wait until Lucy’s and Gabe’s voices disappear down the hallway. “Aunt Poppy,” I say, helping her off with her shoes. “I don’t understand. You bought this home for your father? The same man who tried to ruin your life?”

She removes her wig and takes a bottle of water from the bedside table. “That’s what families do—we take care of one another.” She points to her purse. “My pills. They’re in the side pocket.”

I remove an orange vial, catching sight of the warning label. Do not drive or operate machinery while taking this medication. I shudder and shake a red capsule onto my palm, then hand it to Poppy.

“Did your papà ever apologize? Did your mother?”

“It wasn’t necessary. I had forgiven them years ago.” She swallows down the pill, and I help her settle against the pillow. “Love. Forgive. Love again. Forgive again. That, my dear girl, is the circle of love.”

I’m stunned at her grace. “Did they ever try to come to America?”

“That was their plan. But you see, my father’s sister, your great-great-aunt Blanca, died unexpectedly from a burst appendix.”

I lift a blanket from the foot of the bed and cover her. “Still, their children were in America. Why did his sister’s death change their plans?”

“Papà’s mother—my nonna Fontana—was still alive. Aunt Blanca was expected to care for her.”

“But Blanca died suddenly,” I say. “So your papà had to care for his mother?”

“Sì. And their dream of America vanished. It never once occurred to them that Blanca wouldn’t be around. She had a budding relationship with a widowed farmer, but nobody thought much of it. She was healthy and six years younger than my father. They assumed she had nothing else to do besides care for her mother. After all, she was the single second daughter.”





Chapter 29




Emilia

Fading sunlight dapples our tiny room, and Lucy softly snores on the bed beside mine. Smells from the kitchen drift up the old staircase. I lower my notebook, grab my phone from the charger, and rise.

I find Gabe at the kitchen island, his shirtsleeves rolled up as he chops tomatoes. It’s probably my imagination, but his face seems to brighten when he sees me.

“There you are.” His full lips part, and I’d bet my life he was voted “best smile” in his senior class. He lifts a glass filled with a pretty red liquid. “Can I interest you in an aperitif?”

A cocktail now? Didn’t we just have wine with lunch? “I’d love one!” I say.

“I shall make you our famous Negroni, created right here in Tuscany by Count Camillo Negroni, one hundred years ago.”

“Perfect.” I perch on a barstool and try not to stare at his tanned forearms, with just the perfect smattering of dark hair, as he mixes gin and Campari.

“Did you enjoy a little siesta?” he asks, adding a jigger of sweet vermouth.

“I’m not much of a napper.”

“Nor am I. It used to frustrate my nanny.”

“You had a nanny?”

He lowers his gaze while he slices an orange, and an errant lock of dark hair spills onto his forehead. “My father was a successful jeweler. He and my mother traveled a great deal. My sister and I were left at home with any number of nannies. I describe my childhood as calm, cool, and neglected.” He gives a sardonic laugh. “I often wondered why they even had children.”

Despite his effort to sound lighthearted, there’s an aching undercurrent in his tone. At once, I feel a certain kinship with this man who grew up without his mother, like me.

“I’m sorry. You must have been lonely.”

He carries the drinks to my side of the counter and takes the stool beside mine. “You should not feel sorry for me. Look around. I am living in paradise. I could not have bought this inn without my inheritance.” He raises his glass. “Salute.”

I sip my drink and mentally bombard him with questions. Are you married? Do you have children? How do your lips taste? “Delicious,” I say—and quickly point to my Negroni.

“How about you, Emilia? You had a happy childhood, sì?”

“Yes,” I say, reflexively. But today, I take a moment to examine it. “My mother died when I was two. I have a recurring memory of her.” I look out the kitchen window, where the setting sun ignites the fields in orange and gold. “She was at the stove, stirring something. I remember her eyes, gazing down on me with pure kindness. She set down the spoon and scooped me into her arms and hugged me so tightly I could feel her heart beating against mine, as if we were one person, not two.” I look up and shake my head. “Of course it’s probably not a real memory at all.”