The Star-Crossed Sisters of Tuscany(81)

I round the corner and arrive at a shaded courtyard crowded with potted plants and wandering vines and a perfectly proportioned lemon tree. A shiver runs through me as I climb the staircase to the second floor, imagining my aunt, collapsed on these very same stairs, fifty-nine years ago.

I reach the apartment door, take a deep breath, and knock. Immediately, doubts surface. Am I being rude, asking this favor? Does my aunt even want to see this place again?

Before I have time to turn away, the door opens and a pretty twenty-something woman appears. She’s wearing a pair of jeans and a T-shirt.

“Posso aiutarLa?” she asks, leaning to look behind me. Can I help you?

“Sì,” I say. “I’m sorry to be so bold, but my aunt lived in this apartment years ago. We’re leaving Italy tomorrow. I wondered if perhaps you’d allow her to take a quick tour. It would mean a lot to her.”

The woman fidgets with her necklace, and I count at least four rings on her long fingers. “Uh, now is not a good time.”

“I understand. I just had to ask. You see, this is her last trip to Italy.”

“I am sorry. It is my boyfriend’s place, not mine. He is not here, and it is not up to me to allow it.”

“Of course.”

I return to the steps of the cathedral. I don’t tell Poppy about my attempt to arrange a tour of the apartment. The last thing she needs is another disappointment.



* * *





It’s midafternoon, but the gunmetal sky makes it feel later, colder, lonelier. I sit beside my aunt, holding her chilled hand. She coughs, a deep, chest-rattling cough. She should be in bed. This isn’t good for her.

Below, Lucy sits on a bench in the square, using my phone to talk to Sofie. The wind stirs and I tuck the purple scarf around Poppy’s neck.

“How about you take a break? I’ll walk you back to the hotel, then come right back to watch for Ri—”

“Absolutely not,” she says, her face set in granite.

“Let’s step into the cathedral,” I say. “Just for a minute.”

This time, she acquiesces.

I hold open the massive wooden door, assailed by the smell of damp concrete and candle wax. It’s not much warmer in the drafty interior of the church than it was outside. Poppy crosses herself with holy water and pauses a moment to catch her breath.

She grips my arm and leads me toward the far side of the cream-colored cathedral, stopping when we reach a statue mounted on the wall. The Blessed Virgin smiles down at us. Poppy clings to the wooden kneeler and slowly drops to her knees. While she prays, I light a candle.

Moments later, she crosses herself and I help her to her feet. She turns toward the nave, looking from one side of the aisle to the other. The cavernous cathedral is empty except for one woman near the front, kneeling in a side pew.

I turn to leave, but Poppy freezes. I follow her gaze. Beside the kneeling woman, almost hidden in the shadows, sits a wheelchair, its back to us. I make out the black collar of an overcoat and the back of someone’s head, covered with a spattering of gray fuzz.

“Rico?” Poppy whispers, at once a question and a call and a plea. The hairs on my arms rise.

She charges forward at a snail’s pace, grabbing hold of each pew as she moves down the aisle, closer to the man, closer to her dream.

“Rico?” she calls again, her voice a mist of air.

My heart quickens. Please, God, I pray.

She moves with urgency, as quickly as her diseased body will carry her. Finally, she’s only feet from his chair.

“Rico?” she croaks. The man doesn’t move. “Is . . . is it you, Rico?”

The woman pivots in the pew. She smiles kindly. “Mio padre,” she whispers. “Salvatore.”

But Poppy doesn’t trust her. She grips the metal handle and makes her way around to the other side of the wheelchair. She peers down at the man. Her face falls and her hand goes to her mouth. “Mi dispiace,” she says, her voice hoarse. “So sorry.”

I don’t look at Poppy as we walk back down the aisle. It’s a journey for her, one she’s waited nearly six decades for. And it’s coming to a bitter end.



* * *





It’s six o’clock and the piazza lights flicker on. Our raincoats are soaked, and Poppy’s voice is raspy.

“You are thinking there was no Rico.”

“That’s not true,” I say.

“We know Rico was real,” Lucy says. “But for whatever reason, he can’t be here today.”

Poppy looks from Lucy to me, and back again. “You think he never loved me? That he forgot about me?”

I do believe there was a Rico. And it’s entirely possible he loved my aunt fifty-nine years ago. But he may not even be alive anymore. Or maybe his love wasn’t as powerful, as lifelong and unwavering as hers. But I don’t voice my doubts. Instead, I wrap my arm around her shoulders, hoping to cushion the blow.

“For nearly sixty years,” Poppy continues, her raspy voice surprisingly forceful now, “I have held fast to the belief that I was loved. This is what got me through the darkness.” She turns her head and gazes up at the cathedral, as if it were an angel. “And now, when the curtains of my life are closing, I don’t have to stop believing, not if I don’t want to.”