The Star-Crossed Sisters of Tuscany(65)

Lucy rears back. “What are you talking about?”

“Shut the hell up! The old Em is gone.” I jump to my feet and lean over her bed, so that I’m inches from her face. “I am nobody’s doormat. Do you hear me? You will not sleep with the one person I finally . . .” My voice cracks and I steel myself from tears. “. . . finally opened my heart to, and expect me to say it’s okay, all is forgiven. No! I am sick of being nice. I have a right to happiness, too!”

My hands tremble and I turn away. I hear her bed creak. Then her warm arms enfold me. I bite my cheek, hoping to keep the tears at bay as she gently rocks me.

“I wasn’t with Gabe,” she whispers. She draws back and pivots me, so that we’re standing face-to-face. Her lashes are spiked with tears, and when she smiles, her chin trembles.

“I was with Sofie.”



* * *





The smell of baking bread wafts up the stairs, into our tiny room beneath the eaves. Lucy and I race downstairs like a couple of kids on Christmas morning. I stop when I see him, and my heart overflows. He’s pouring cream into a pitcher, smiling as he yaks into his cell phone.

“Va bene. Sì.” He raises his head and smiles when he sees me. “Ciao, amico mio.” He plants the phone in his pocket. “Buongiorno!” He wipes his hands on his jeans as he crosses the room to come kiss my cheek. “Did you sleep well, carissima?”

“Sì.” I rise on my toes and kiss him again, and then boldly whisper, “Next time, I want to wake up beside you.”

He tips his head. “You are here another day?”

I laugh. “No. I mean next time I see you. Whenever that might be.”

“Ah, yes. That would be a treat for me.” He squeezes my hand and turns to a fancy coffee machine. “Cappuccino?”

Sofia enters the kitchen and lights up when she sees me. “Emilia! We missed you yesterday. I hope my brother showed you a good time?”

“The best,” I say. “How about you?”

“We had great fun. Lucy taught Franco how to play soccer. You should have seen them.”

I’m smiling when Lucy bounces in with Dante on her hip and Franco riding on her back.

“Morning,” she says to Gabe and lowers Franco to the floor.

“No!” Franco cries. “I want to play Horsey.”

“Later,” Sofia says and gives him a stern look. “Uncle Gabe has breakfast waiting.”

Lucy bends down and cups Franco’s rosy face in her hands. “After we eat, little man, we’ll show Emmie how you can score a goal.”

“Yay!” he cries. Lucy laughs and kisses his nose.

I can’t keep the smile from my face. My cousin looks positively effervescent.

“Where’s Poppy?” I ask.

“She was down earlier for coffee,” Gabe says. “She’s skipping breakfast this morning.”

Alarm shoots through me, followed by a wave of guilt. I barely saw her yesterday. While Lucy and I were exploring and laughing and falling in love, Poppy was withering.

“I’ll go check on her.”

“Let her sleep awhile longer,” Gabe says, his eyes infused with worry and warning.



* * *





After breakfast, Sofia, Gabe, and I stand in the damp grass, watching Franco clumsily kick the ball Lucy tries to steal. “Stay focused,” Lucy tells him. “That’s it.”

“Your cousin is a very patient coach,” Sofia says, shielding her eyes from the morning sun. “Franco adores her.”

“I see that.”

She turns to me. “What is New York weather like in November?”

“Gray, cloudy, wet.” I cock my head. “Why?”

She stuffs her hands into the pockets of her billowy pants and shrugs. “I was wondering if Franco would be able to play soccer when we visit.”

“You’re visiting? Next month?”

She squeezes shut her eyes and nods, her entire face scrunched with excitement. “Sì! This is the plan.”

I throw my arms around her. “That’s awesome.” I turn to Gabe. “Did you hear that? Sofia’s coming to visit. Come with her! It’s beautiful in November.”

He smiles, his eyes on his nephew. “Beautiful? You just said it was gray.”

“But it would be beautiful if you were there.”

He claps when Franco scores a goal. “I am afraid that is not possible. I have a business to run.”

“Close the inn,” I say, unable to contain myself. “It’s the off-season. Come to New York.”

I’m moving too quickly. I’m being clingy. I hate the neediness in my voice. But I can’t stop myself. Sofia must see it, too, the desperate woman inside me who’s lost all subtlety. She moves away, giving us our privacy.

“Please, Gabriele, say you’ll come. If not in November, then for Christmas. I’ll show you the city. The storefronts will be decorated and—”

He silences me with a finger. “Ah, Emilia. I knew when I met you, you are one who sees the grandeur in the ordinary. I am but a hill. I am afraid you have mistaken me for a mountain.”



* * *