The Star-Crossed Sisters of Tuscany(62)

He smiles as he fastens my helmet, then settles himself in front of me. My thighs press against his; my arms clutch his waist. He turns his head.

“You have ridden on the back of a motorcycle in the US, yes?”

A surge of terror and excitement shimmies up my spine. “No. Never.”

He tips his head and laughs. God, even his nostrils are sexy. “Benissimo! I am honored to give you your first ride. I promise, it will be thrilling. You will be hooked for life.”



* * *





Thrilling doesn’t adequately describe my day with Gabe. I try to sketch each moment into my memory, so that one day I can call upon this myriad of emotions when I’m writing a beautiful scene about a pair of young lovers.

He handles the motorcycle with great skill, but still it unnerves me every time we come to a hairpin curve, or when he overtakes a rumbling motor coach a mile long. Every now and then he leans back and calls to me. “Everything okay back there?” Or, “How is my girl holding up?”

I can’t keep the smile from my face. We pass groves of olive trees, fields of lavender. The wind grazes my skin, and I’ve never felt so alive, so free.

We stop for lunch at a hilltop vineyard. Gabe parks the bike beneath a tree and helps me off. From the stone building beyond the house, a giant man appears. His long black hair is snarled and he walks with a limp.

“Gabriele!” he calls.

“Giuseppe Natoli!” Gabe rushes to greet him and pulls the big guy into a hug. “Meet my beautiful friend Emilia. She is here from New York.”

Giuseppe takes my hand and kisses it. “Benvenuta a casa mia. Welcome to my home.”

Giuseppe leads us to an intimate patio overlooking terraced hills of twisted grapevines. Soft music plays in the background. A single table sits in the middle of the stone patio, topped with a red linen cloth and a vase of sunflowers. It is set for two. Gabe pulls the chair out for me.

“Just as you had hoped?” Giuseppe asks.

“Perfetto,” Gabe tells him.

I freeze. Gabe arranged this . . . for me?

He squeezes my shoulder as he moves to his chair, and my entire body tingles.

He’s right, I think to myself. This is perfection.

“Wine is a family tradition here in Tuscany,” he tells me over lunch. “This vineyard has been in the Natoli family for four generations. We are drinking their Chianti Classico.”

“It’s delicious,” I say, embarrassed by my unsophisticated descriptor.

With his thumb, he swipes a drop of wine from my lip, then places it in his mouth. “Sì. Delizioso.”

Another flutter lets loose in me.

After lunch, we continue our trek through the countryside, stopping every now and then to explore a neighboring village or visit another of his friends’ vineyards. Always, Gabe is welcomed like family.

The sky is tinged with violet when the motorcycle makes its way toward home. I knew the day would end, but still, my spirits dip. Eventually the country fields become dotted with houses, and the horizon reveals the outline of buildings; I’m puzzled when Gabe slows the bike on the outskirts of Florence and finds a parking spot on the street. He pulls off his helmet.

“No reason to stop when we are having such fun, do you agree?”

“One hundred percent!”

He takes my hand, and together we stroll through streets narrow as bike paths, lined with boutique shops and shoe stores, gelato counters and restaurants. Smells of roast lamb and garlic spill onto the streets, softly lit by streetlights. We stop at a leather shop and I splurge on a pair of gloves for Daria. The beautiful woman behind the counter eyes Gabe as she rings up my purchase. A surge of pride wells in me. Is this really me, Emilia Josephina Fontana Lucchesi Antonelli? Yes, I think it is.



* * *





It’s dark when we finish our dinner, a feast prepared by Gabe’s friend Claudio, in a tiny restaurant hidden in the basement of an old art gallery. The evening air is cooler when we step outside, and Gabe drapes an arm around my shoulders. We wander through Piazza della Signoria, just as my beautiful aunt and her yellow-haired love once did. A throng of teenagers laugh and chatter as they dart past us. Perfectly coiffed old women, dressed in dark coats and flat shoes, promenade arm in arm, the evening ritual of lifelong friends, I suspect.

We stop in front of the statue of David. I study the naked shepherd boy as he must have appeared when sizing up his opponent, the giant Goliath. His face is stamped with determination, his body exquisite. The genius is staggering. I choke up unexpectedly, awed by the talent of Michelangelo, my fellow human.

“This is a replica,” Gabe tells me, taking hold of my hand. “For protection, the real statue was moved to the Accademia Gallery in 1873. I will take you tomorrow if you’d like to see it.”

I shake my head. “We’re leaving in the morning.”

“Ah. Yes. We will save it for your next visit.” He squeezes my hand. A bubble of joy rises, so immense it threatens to lift me off my feet.

We move on. Young people hustle past, speaking languages I don’t know. Their gazes seem to linger on us, as if we—Gabe and I—project some sort of energy.

A voice in the distance catches my attention. A note here. A chord there. Gabe hears it, too. Without a word, we quicken our pace, the melancholy drawl of a violin luring us nearer. Ahead, people have gathered in front of the Loggia dei Lanzi, a covered open-air space on the piazza filled with statues and marble inscriptions. Gabe pulls me through the crowd. Beneath one of three wide arches, a young man in a T-shirt and jeans glides his bow across his violin strings.