The Star-Crossed Sisters of Tuscany(73)
The sun dips behind the Tyrrhenian Sea, bathing the pristine town in watercolor pastels. Hedges of magenta bougainvilleas create lush pops of color, and everywhere I see urns of red geraniums and baskets of purple hollyhock and yellow snapdragons.
“Home!” Poppy cries. She rolls down her window, letting in a fragrant breeze of roses and sea salt. “At last!”
Beyond the cliff’s edge, the Mediterranean hums a soothing lullaby. The day’s stress seems to vanish in this quiet village of fewer than three thousand residents, but there’s an energy, too. Hikers with walking sticks climb the winding sidewalks; cyclists wave as they zip past.
I slow to a stop in front of an elegant boutique hotel in the heart of Ravello’s Piazza del Duomo, taking in the gorgeous fountain through the open courtyard. My hand aches when I pull the key from the ignition. I let out a sigh. “Thank you, God.”
Lucy smiles. “You did it, Em. You drove. You were friggin’ awesome.”
Poppy squeals and goes to lift her door handle, but Lucy turns to her in the backseat.
“Not so fast, Pops. All this time you’ve been married? Why didn’t you tell us?”
I twist around, anxious to hear Poppy’s response. She gazes out the window.
“We had no witnesses, no papers. We’d been living in sin. Looking back, we should have tried harder. It never occurred to us to marry outside the Catholic faith. The truth is, we didn’t know then that time was running out.”
Lucy looks from Poppy to me, then back to Poppy. “Still. That means the curse is broken, right? All this time, there never was a curse!”
“Rico and I believed that God, our God, had blessed our marriage. We bought silver bands at the jewelry store, cheap as bottles of milk. We returned to the cathedral, time and again, asking to see the young priest who’d appeared that night. But Father Pietro, whose hair was white as ash, insisted he was the only priest in the parish. We waited after Sunday mass and asked the church members. Nobody knew of the dark-haired priest with the long, thin nose.”
“So what does that mean?” Lucy says. “Are you legally married or not?”
Poppy lifts her hands. “Was it legal? Was it moral? Will others believe me? Criticize me? Abandon me?” She clamps a hand on Lucy’s shoulder, and I know she’s talking about Sofie now, not Rico. “Perhaps they will. But when you come from a place of love, of truth, you will be confident in your answers. And more often than not, the answer is, ‘So what if they do?’”
* * *
Our room at the Michelangelo is even grander than the one in Venice, with Wedgwood blue walls topped with ornate moldings, splashy oil paintings, a sitting room, and two king-size beds. Lucy and I unpack, but Poppy stands aside, staring out the second-floor window. I tuck my suitcase in the closet and go to her.
Across the cobblestone piazza, a pretty white church faces us, its pyramidal spire topped with a simple cross. Twin arched windows, like a pair of eyebrows, hover over a set of green double doors.
“There,” she says, pointing her finger, “is where I will meet Rico tomorrow.”
Her voice is heartbreakingly hopeful. I open my mouth to caution her. But then I close it again. What’s the harm in letting this ferociously positive old woman believe it’s possible for one more day?
* * *
The church bells chime seven times, and well-dressed couples set out for dinner. The mild evening calls for sandals and skirts, but Poppy opts for a pink faux-fur vest. She suggests we stop at Villa Rufolo on our way to the restaurant. “A wealthy merchant built the ancient villa in the thirteenth century. Rico and I adored its gardens.”
Most of the tourists are gone now, and it’s quiet when we enter what looks like an ancient watchtower. Stepping through an arched opening, we continue down a path lined with lime and cypress trees.
Poppy stops. “Close your eyes.”
When I open them again, my jaw drops. It’s as if we’ve been transported into a fairy-tale Italian courtyard. A circular fountain sits in the center, surrounded by geometric borders hosting lush tropical plants and roses of every variety and color. I’m drawn to the edge of the terrace. As if perfectly staged, an umbrella tree rises from the flora. Three hundred feet below, the Gulf of Salerno sparkles against a sky bruised with purples and golds.
“They call this the Garden of the Soul,” Poppy says, coming up beside me. “Rico played his violin in this garden from time to time.” She turns and slowly pans the perimeter. It takes a moment before I realize: she’s looking for him.
“Anyone hungry?” Lucy says, forcing us back to the present.
We make our way to L’Antica Cartiera, an intimate seafood restaurant perched on the rocks, overlooking the coast. Poppy orders a bottle of Greco de Tufo, a crisp white wine from Campania that puckers my tongue. Waves crash against the cliffs, and we feast on fresh tuna tartare, chunks of lobster the color of coral, and seafood soufflé with wild fennel and fresh tomatoes. Every few minutes, Poppy pats her wig, making sure it’s in place. Each time someone steps onto the terrace, her head pops up. And each time, my heart sinks.
The waiter refills our wineglasses. “To my beautiful girls,” Poppy says and lifts her glass. “Luciana, you finally realized you didn’t need that fancy purse.”