The Star-Crossed Sisters of Tuscany(8)

Laughter rises from the backyard. I round the corner and step up to the chain-link fence, where my nieces are practicing gymnastics in a yard not much bigger than a collapsed refrigerator box. Already they’re so different, Natalie and Mimi, the firstborn daughter and the second. Just as my great-great-great-great-great-great-aunt Filomena predicted when she cast the Fontana Second-Daughter Curse—not that I believe the old myth.

I watch as nine-year-old Natalie does a perfect handspring. She lifts her arms triumphantly, then brushes back loose strands of shiny brown hair from her angelic face. Today, my sister has styled it into a French braid, entwined with a pretty red ribbon. Her turquoise leggings show off her lean, muscular frame, and she’s wearing a T-shirt that says Future President, which might actually be true.

“And that’s the way you do a handspring,” she tells Mimi. Yup, the girl is as self-assured and borderline bossy as a young Hillary Clinton.

Seven-year-old Mimi gazes at her big sister with awe. As usual, Mimi looks a bit rumpled today. She’s wearing a wrinkled, hand-me-down dress that hangs from her bony frame. Her long legs are grass stained and her toenails, unlike her sister’s purple ones, are bare. Her dark hair is clipped short, slashing twenty minutes of bickering from their morning ritual, according to my sister.

“Auntie Em!” Mimi cries when she sees me. She runs full force to me, her arms outstretched. I place the cake on the lawn and squat down, pulling her into my arms.

“Hey, sweet pea!” I close my eyes and breathe in her slightly sour smell. “How are my girls?” I rise and open my arms to Natalie. “Nice handspring, kiddo.”

She gives me a quick hug. “Thanks.”

“Swing me!” Mimi says.

I smile and tousle her hair. “Just once. I’m helping your mom get ready for book club.”

I take her hands and turn in fast, tight circles. Mimi, airborne, screams with laughter. I’m laughing, too. Somewhere behind us, the back door opens.

“Em? What are you doing?”

I slow to a dizzying stop. “Hey, Dar.” I drop Mimi’s hands, trying to orient myself as the yard spins. “I’ll be right in.”

“Where’s the cake?”

I laugh and stagger backward, accidentally poking my cheek as I go to straighten my glasses. “Don’t worry, I’ve got it.”

“Auntie Em!” Mimi cries. “Watch out!”

My heel hits against something hard. I try to avoid it, but the earth is still spiraling. I’m stumbling now.

“Emmie!” Daria yells as I tumble backward.

My hip hits the ground. Hard. I hear the door slam shut. Instantly, Daria’s at my side.

“I’m okay,” I assure her, rubbing my side.

“Damn it!” she says, wedging the crushed box from beneath my feet. “The cake is ruined!”

She rushes off to the house. I push myself onto my elbows, the earlier excitement draining from me. “I’m so sorry,” I call to her.

“You’re in trouble,” Natalie tells me.

“I know.” I scramble to my feet and quickly kiss both their cheeks. “I better go see if I can salvage the cake before Nonna goes ballistic.”

It isn’t until I see their puzzled faces that I realize I misspoke.

Twenty minutes later, I’ve managed to prop the cake back up with the help of toothpicks and a second layer of icing. “Ta-da!” I say, holding it up for Daria.

She stands on a stool with her back to me, pulling wineglasses from her metal kitchen cupboard. She’s wearing a cute floral sundress that shows off her long, tanned legs.

I slide the cake onto her kitchen table, already filled with cheeses and crackers and tiny sandwiches. “Nobody will be the wiser,” I say.

She finally turns around. She zeros in on the cake. I wait, holding my breath.

“Good work, Emmie.”

I let out a breath. “Great. And, Dar, I really am sorry.”

She hops off the stool and I catch a whiff of her floral perfume. Her brown hair, highlighted with shades of gold and perfectly ironed, falls softly at her shoulders.

I pull my concealer stick from my pocket. “By the way,” I say, dabbing flesh-colored putty on the scar beneath my lip, “you look gorgeous.”

“Thanks. Hey, where’s Natalie? I told you, she needs help with her homework.”

“Oh.” I peek at my watch. “Right. I’ll get her.” I stop halfway to the door. It’s almost seven. A sinking feeling comes over me. “And those cupcakes Mimi has to take to school?”

“Thanks for remembering.” She tips her head toward a Duncan Hines cake mix sitting on the counter. “I owe you one, Emmie.”



* * *





I gaze out the rain-spattered kitchen window, my sister’s backyard shrouded in darkness now, and fill the sink. Daria’s voice drifts in from the living room, saying her good-byes to the last guest.

“Tell your sister her cake was amazing,” the woman says. “Invite her next month when I host. But warn her, I chose nonfiction. Probably too heavy for her.”

I scowl. What does that mean? I quickly dry my hands, ready to go defend myself, but Daria’s words pin me in place.

“Emmie’s got a degree in English lit. Trust me, she can handle it.” There’s no mistaking the edge in her voice.