The Star-Crossed Sisters of Tuscany(6)
Nonna eyed me suspiciously. I nearly passed out when she came up beside me, peering down at the textbook. I continued sipping my cocoa, keeping my hand fixed on the cover, praying to the Blessed Mother that I wouldn’t be found out. But when I stood to leave, my sweater caught on the chair’s arm. The book jostled. As if in slow motion, the letter drifted from the pages like a paper airplane, descending gracefully onto the toe of Nonna’s Orthaheel slipper.
Needless to say, Nonna showed no mercy. Aside from the generic Christmas cards, the halfhearted thank-you notes, and the hit-or-miss birthday cards, I never reached out to my great-aunt again.
I turn to the window, an urban patchwork of rooftops and utility wires and ancient antennae, and absently rub the scar beneath my lip. What did Aunt Poppy think when my letters stopped coming? Was she hurt? Disappointed? Did she realize it was because of Nonna, not me? Or was it? Why hadn’t I pleaded my case, convinced my dad to let me continue my friendship? The answer comes easily. My dad would never defy his mother-in-law. He’s far too timid. And the shameful truth is, I’m not so different. When it comes to Nonna Rosa, the fierce little woman who signs our paychecks and holds the title to the apartments we rent, we’re both cowards.
My stomach clenches and I drop my head into my hands, trying to silence the question that’s calling to me. Do you have the courage now, almost two decades later, to redeem yourself?
Chapter 4
Emilia
I don an apron, determined to put all thoughts of Italy and poor Aunt Poppy out of my mind. With my favorite possession—my mom’s old cookbook—splayed on the Formica counter, I set to work.
In Italy, where Nonna and Uncle Dolphie and Aunt Poppy were raised, cake is called dolce pizza, or sweet pizza. I mix a teaspoon of soda into sugar and flour while Claws does circle eights around my ankles. My big sis, who has never learned to bake (and why would she, when she has a sister to do it for her?), has no idea that this sweet pizza, filled with a cinnamon–orange zest custard and Amarena Fabbri cherries, takes longer to make than the time we’ll spend at book club tonight.
Forty minutes later, my phone rings. I catch my sister’s name and punch the speaker button so I can stir while I talk. “Hey, Daria. I’m making the pizza di crema now.”
“Oh, good. Listen, Emmie, I just saw this Groupon—half off at Atlantic City’s Tropicana. It’d be a nice getaway for Donnie and me, right? If I get it, will you watch the girls for a weekend, maybe sometime this fall?”
I pour the batter into the cake pans, not bothering to scrape down the bowl. “Uh, yeah, sure.”
“Great. You’re the best, Emmie.”
I smile. “You’re better.”
Instead of our childhood ritual where she declares, “You’re the bestest,” she changes the subject. “So book club doesn’t start until seven, but I need you here ASAP.” She lets out a sigh. “Of course Donnie picks the first week of school to start an out-of-town job. You won’t believe all the homework Natalie has. And Mimi’s supposed to bring cupcakes tomorrow.” She raises her voice. “And someone forgot to tell me!”
Poor Mimi. She’s absentminded, like I was when I was seven. “I’m sliding the cake in the oven now. I’ll be there as soon as it’s done.”
“Awesome.”
She’s about to hang up when I blurt out my news. “I got a letter today. From Great-Aunt Poppy.”
“Oh, God. What did she want?”
I run my spatula down the bowl and stick it in my mouth, grateful we’re not on FaceTime. “She wants to take me on a holiday.” An unfamiliar sensation brews and a smile takes over my face. I go in for another scoop of batter. “To Italy.”
“Oh, well, you can’t go. Nonna will never allow it. She’ll have to take another niece. Carmella, maybe. Definitely not Lucy.” She laughs. “Nobody in her right mind would set that girl loose in a foreign country.”
I suck on the spatula. “That’s Poppy’s decision, not Nonna’s.”
“Nonna hates Poppy,” Daria says, ignoring my statement. “You know that.”
“But why, Dar? Poppy’s her sister.”
“She has her reasons. We need to respect that.”
“I’m going to talk to Nonna.”
“Don’t!”
“I have a chance to go to Italy, Dar. I’m not going to blow it just because Nonna has issues.”
“Issues?” My sister’s voice rises, and I brace myself, knowing what’s coming next. “Nonna may not be perfect, but she sacrificed her entire life for us, Emmie. She’s been like a mother to you.”
It’s her trump card, the one that always stops me cold. A heaviness takes hold of me and I hang up the phone. I plug the sink and turn on the faucet, rubbing my scar as I wait for the sink to fill. My sister has confirmed it. I can’t go to Italy. Doing so would be an unforgivable breach of loyalty to the woman who raised me. Poppy will need to find another travel companion, maybe someone on the other side of her family. But again, I’m reminded, my great-aunt has no other family. She never did. She never will. Like me, she’s single . . . and the second daughter.
I was seven when I first caught wind of the Fontana Second-Daughter Curse. We’d constructed family trees for social studies class, and I chose my mother’s side of the family—the Fontanas. After studying my lineage for all of three seconds, my teacher, Sister Regina, blurted out a fact I hadn’t seen—or perhaps hadn’t wanted to see. “Look at all the women on your family tree who never married.” She scowled and looked more closely. “That’s peculiar. They’re all second-born daughters.”