The Star-Crossed Sisters of Tuscany(77)

I lay on the hard wooden stairs, my breathing ragged, trying to garner the strength to climb six more steps.

That’s when I heard it—the creak at the top of the stairs. A door opened. Not any door, our door! I lifted my head. I blinked several times, trying to make sense of the face I saw before me. For the first time in two months, my heart rose. And then everything turned black.





Chapter 38




Emilia

Day Eight—Poppy’s Birthday

Ravello

Sounds of running water wake me. The hotel room is still cloaked in darkness, but beneath the bathroom door, light seeps. Poppy is already up. Her day has arrived.

Last night Lucy and I bombarded her with questions. Who was on the staircase? Was it Rico? Did he come back for her? But she’d gone silent, as if the lonely memory had left her spent.

I grab my glasses and my phone. At least I know his last name now. I type Krause Autoreparatur, Radebeul into my phone’s search bar. Damn. Not one entry. Next I try Erich Krause. Over three hundred thousand links appear.

“What are you doing?” Lucy asks, her voice groggy. She flips on the bedside lamp and curls onto her side.

“Trying to find Rico.” I hold out my phone. “Check out all these entries. Most of them are written in German. I’ll start with the marriage licenses and death certificates, so we can rule those out.”

“That’ll take forever.” She gently peels the phone from my hand and sets it on the table. “How about we let fate take over from here, and give Poppy her day?”

I’m taken aback by my cousin’s sensitivity. Just a week ago, she was ready to bolt, to run back to the States and forget about Poppy’s dream. But she’s different now, more generous, no longer bitter. Whether or not she believes the curse is lifted, I can’t say. But I do know she has hope. And that makes all the difference.

“May fate be kind to Poppy,” I say.

“I have a good feeling,” Lucy says, with a sparkle in her eye.

I turn away. When did my cousin start believing in miracles?

And when did I stop?



* * *





The morning air is cool, and puffy clouds at the horizon shed a lavender haze over the town. People mill about in the piazza, some clutching newspapers and coffee cups, others with maps and umbrellas. Poppy leads the way to the cathedral. Her gait is still slow, but she’s peppier than I’ve seen her in days. I linger behind, carrying our raincoats, and marvel at her. She’s dressed in a white frock. It’s yellowed and wrinkled, and two sizes too big for her, but she’s belted it with a strip of red leather. Around her neck she’s donned a bright purple scarf and her turquoise beads. As always, an array of bangles garnishes her arm.

“It’s a pretty morning for your birthday,” I say, trying to ignore the menacing clouds gathering over the sea.

She looks back at me. “I knew it would be. I’ve waited fifty-nine years to celebrate eighty. I even wore my wedding dress.”

“That’s your wedding dress?” I trot up beside her and study the aged white linen more closely. “The one Rico bought you?”

“No. The one from George Clooney.” Laugh lines crease her cheeks, then quickly fade. She’s stopped now, and gazing at a pink stucco building with a faded sign beneath an awning that reads Piacenti’s Bakery.

“That’s where you worked,” Lucy says.

But Poppy’s not looking at the first-floor bakery. Her head is raised, focused on the light in the second-floor window.

“Your old apartment,” I say, peering up at it.

“Rico’s, too.” She stares up at the building as if it’s her lost love himself. Finally, she crosses herself and continues toward her destination.

Morning mass has just let out, and a half dozen people amble down the Ravello Cathedral’s concrete stairs. Poppy studies each face, her hand at her throat. When the last person descends, she plants a foot on the first step. She peers up at the dozen remaining steps in front of her. It may as well be Mount Everest.

Lucy and I scamper to her side, but she waves us off. She straightens her shoulders and grabs hold of the concrete parapet. It takes her six minutes to reach the top, but she does it, with grace. She’s holding her chest when I come up beside her.

“Brava,” I say, and kiss her cheek.

“Rico may be watching. I wouldn’t want him to think I couldn’t climb a single flight of stairs.”

I gaze out at the piazza below. But of course Rico isn’t watching.



* * *





The first hour is hope filled. I open the door to the cathedral and Poppy steps inside. She does a quick perusal of the church’s interior, in case Rico forgot that they were to meet on the steps. When she doesn’t find him inside, she laughs.

“It’s only eight o’clock. The man always loved his sleep.”



* * *





Above us, the church bells clang nine times. All traces of the sun have vanished, and mist falls from the sky like holy water. Poppy stands beneath the eaves at the cathedral’s entrance, surveying the piazza like a queen overlooking her kingdom. But this queen is searching for one person, and one person only. And he’s nowhere to be found.