The Star-Crossed Sisters of Tuscany(79)

I gasped, and Rosa stroked my cheek. “Listen to him,” she said. “Rico is right. He wants what is best for you. We all do.”

“No,” I said. “I will never leave Italy. Not until mein Ehemann returns.”

A flicker of alarm lit Rosa’s face. “Please, Paolina, do not be foolish. I know it hurts, but he is not coming back, la mia sorella testarda.”

I looked away. Finally, she returned to the letter.

The place where I grew up, the beautiful town of Radebeul, has grown dark and cold. Armed guards keep watch at the borders between East and West twenty-four hours a day, making it increasingly dangerous to escape. But the truth is, amore mio, I cannot leave. Each day, it feels as if the door to freedom is closing for me. I am my family’s only hope for maintaining ownership of our father’s business, of eking out a meager existence that is just a notch above starvation. And worse, I believe it would kill my mother now if I were to disappear again.

Once, you spoke of coming here, so we would be together. I forbade it then, and I forbid it even more today. I live in a prison. I would never allow you to enter such madness.

So go, please, mio unico amore. Go to America, land of the free, and blossom. I want you to marry again. Yes, take the man’s hand—your brother-in-law’s uncle—if he pleases you. It will bring me peace, knowing that you are safe and happy and cared for, that I have not ruined your life with my silly dream. But know, please, always, that I love you, and I will continue to love you until my last breath.

One day, we will meet again. I get through each day, dreaming of your eightieth birthday, our fifty-ninth anniversary, and the joy of holding you again at the Ravello Cathedral. Until then, I will guard you—your memory, our love.

Eternally yours,

Rico

I took the letter from Rosa and reread every word three times. “He is gone,” I murmured. Panic rose, stealing my breath. I tried to sit up. “My husband is not coming for me.”

Rosa held my hand. “Husband? Wife? Why are you using these words?”

I explained the private ceremony at the Ravello Cathedral, the mysterious young priest who blessed our marriage. “We are married,” I said. “And I miss him so much.”

Rosa’s face clouded with tears. “I had to bid good-bye to my Alberto four weeks ago. On the twelfth of January, he and Bruno finally left for America.”

I took her hand, shamed by my selfishness. My poor sister was without her love, too, and all I could think about was myself. “Oh, Rosa, I am so sorry. You are in pain as well.”

She nodded and dabbed a handkerchief at her nose.

“I understand how you are feeling,” I told her. “I realize the power of love now, how it is all-consuming, how you swear you will die if you cannot hold Alberto in your arms. Just like me, without your husband, you feel like a leaf, fluttering in the wind with no direction.”

“Sì. That is right.” She looked down at her hands. “I only wish my Alberto felt this same way.”

“Of course he does. What do you hear from him? Are he and Bruno happy in their new home? Alberto must be so anxious for you to arrive. He sends you letters, yes?”

Tears filled her eyes. “One. One single letter from my husband, while Bruno has sent a half dozen to Mamma. He tells Mamma of the pub next to the store, the modern American women he meets. Surely Alberto is meeting these same women.”

“Rosa, stop. He loves you very much.”

But as I spoke the words, I knew in my heart this was not true. Now that I knew love, I recognized its absence. Never had I witnessed Alberto gazing at my sister with tender eyes. I’d never once seen him brush a stray hair from her face, or knead the back of her neck, or stroke her cheek with his thumb. And at night in the attic, on the other side of the partition, I never once heard the sounds of love that Rico and I found impossible to silence.

“He still wants me to come to America as quickly as possible. He still wants to start a family. I must get there before he changes his mind.”

“He will not change his mind,” I said. “You have much to look forward to.”

She smiled, but her face was etched with anxiety. I quickly calculated how long she and Alberto had been married. Seventeen months. And still, no baby.

“Papà says in six more months we will have saved enough to purchase our tickets.”

As she spoke, smells from the bakery drifted up through the vent, as they often did. Sweat broke through my skin. I swallowed back a wave of nausea. “But, Rosa, I told you, I will never marry Ignacio. You must understand. I will not leave without Rico.”

My eyes landed on the letter. “I must write to him. I must tell him I will wait for him. Surely his father will get better.”

“Lie back,” she said, and she kissed my forehead. “Tomorrow you will write to Rico. Tonight, you must sleep.”



* * *





I woke the next morning, alone on the sofa, a tattered blanket covering me. I struggled to rise, my limbs stiff and cramped. The pink of dawn painted the room, like the inside of a seashell. What time was it? The bakery. The bakery! I had to get downstairs to the bakery.

I managed to crawl from beneath the blanket. I stood still, one hand on the sofa, waiting until my legs felt trustworthy. I crossed the room, barefoot, grabbing hold of the walls as I made my way to the bathroom. As I passed our bedroom, I saw my sleeping sister. My heart cried out and I put a hand over my mouth. The small bed where Rico and I slept, the coral-colored quilt beneath which we alone mingled, the one that still smelled of him, no longer felt sacred.