The Star-Crossed Sisters of Tuscany(80)

I turned to the bathroom and filled the tub, the rush of the water drowning my tears. I cursed my selfishness. Rosa traveled all the way here to bring news from Rico. Surely she deserved to sleep in the bed. I only wished I’d had one last moment to press my face into the frayed patchwork, to breathe in the scent of my husband’s skin, before saying good-bye.

I was standing in the tub, drying myself, when Rosa entered. She took one look at me and let out a strangled cry. She backed up a step, as if I were a hideous creature she was frightened of.

My sister and I had shared a bedroom for all of my life. We didn’t knock before entering a room. We didn’t hide our bodies from each other. But so much had changed in the past year. I was no longer a girl. I clutched the flimsy towel, trying to cover my nakedness.

She took one tentative step closer to me, then another. With one swift pull, she yanked the towel from my clutches.

“No!” she cried.

I cringed with embarrassment, lowering my eyes. Surely I looked too thin—“skeletal,” my full-figured sister might say.

“Incinta,” she said, her mouth agape.

The hairs on my arms rose.

She took me by the shoulders and pointed me toward the mirror. “My god, Paolina, you are pregnant.”





Chapter 40




Emilia

Lucy and I wrap our arms around Aunt Poppy, trying to shield her from the painful memories. The pregnancy didn’t end well. Uncle Dolphie told me.

“I worried Rosa might resent my pregnancy,” Poppy says. “But she never appeared to. Not once.”

“She was pregnant, too, right?” Lucy says. “That took the sting out of it.”

“She was not yet aware. But yes. Once she knew she was going to be a mother, my sister seemed . . . reborn.”

“And more sure of Nonno’s love?” I ask.

“Yes. Parenthood bonded them.”

Two pregnant sisters, but only one with her parents’ support, and a husband, and, eventually, a healthy child. I gaze past the square, beyond the pretty little town of Ravello. The terraced hillsides host pergolas of chestnut poles draped with grapevines. An idyllic scene that looks—and feels—forlorn on this misty day. What was it like, living in this magical village while your heart was being torn from your chest? Did she find comfort, listening to the purr of the gulf, gazing out at the frothy Tyrrhenian Sea beyond? Or did the infinite horizon fill her with despair? How long did she stay? Did she continue working at Piacenti’s Bakery, living in the upstairs flat? The flat . . .

I rise. “I’ll be back.”

I dart across the piazza, my idea gaining momentum. What if Poppy could step inside her old apartment, revisit the place she and Rico once shared? Might it comfort her?

The rich aroma of bread and fresh coffee intensifies as I near the old bakery. Up close, I can see that the pretty stucco building is in need of a coat of paint. The door opens, and a tall Italian man steps out, casually dressed in a black Henley shirt and a relaxed knit beanie. With a novel in one hand and a to-go cup in the other, he holds the door with his elbow. An elderly woman shuffles in.

“Grazie, Nico,” she says. “You will be taking your grandfather to mass Sunday?”

He grins. “We would not miss it, Signora Cappello.”

“You are a good boy.” She pats his cheek as she passes.

His eyes are still smiling when he spots me. “Please,” he says, his elbow remaining on the door.

“Grazie,” I say. “But I’m not going in.”

He steps out and the door swings shut behind him. “Okay, but do not wait too long. Signor Piacenti makes the best espresso in all of Ravello, and he just informed me he is closing his bakery at the end of the year.” He gazes into the cloudy shop window. “If I had nine lives, I would take over this lease.”

“You’re a baker?” I ask.

“I can open a tin of biscotti.”

I laugh. “That’s a start.”

“No,” he continues, “I have a different plan for this place.”

“It looks like you’ve got your opportunity.”

He gives me a wan smile. “It must remain a dream. You see, I am un avvocato.”

I scowl. “You are an avocado?”

He tips his head back and laughs, a rich, full-throated melody that warms me. I bat my head, immediately recognizing my mistake.

“You’re a lawyer,” I say. “Sorry. That’s not a word I use often in Brooklyn.”

“Yes, my adorable American friend, I am an attorney. Just like my father, and his father. But if you prefer to think of me as a Mexican fruit, you may.”

I laugh. “Okay. Avocado it is.”

We stand, facing each other, smiling. Moments pass before I realize I’m staring at this perfect stranger—emphasis on perfect—while I’m supposed to be on a mission. “Oh, well, I better go.”

“Please, join me for a pastry.”

“I’m sorry, but I can’t.” I hold out my hand. “Good luck to you, Avocado.”

He grips my hand and gives me the most genuine smile, one that reaches all the way to his dark eyes. “And to you, American girl. Until we meet again, ciao.”

I look back only once as I make my way toward the back courtyard. He’s still watching me, with that beautiful smile on his face. I lift a hand and grin, then turn away, another step closer to the woman I want to be.