The Star-Crossed Sisters of Tuscany(83)

“Yes,” I say, recognizing the rings on her fingers. “And again, I’m sorry for being so bold.”

“I spoke to my boyfriend. He said I should have allowed your friend to see the apartment.”

“My aunt,” I correct her. “Please thank him for me.”

“He is there now, if you would like to see it.”

I shake my head. “Thanks, but we’re leaving this morning. The driver’s probably waiting now. But thank you. You’re very kind.”



* * *





How nice to be recognized, twice in one morning, almost like I’m part of this small Ravello community, like I belong. I breeze into the hotel lobby and stop when I spot Lucy in a chair, engrossed in . . . No. No way. Not my notebook!

I march over, plop the coffees on the table, and snatch it from her hands. “What are you doing? I told you, that’s private.”

She shrugs. “Why? I mean, it’s not going to win any prizes or anything, but I’d read it.”

I blink several times, bracing myself for a cutting remark. But her eyes hold no malice. And she’s grabbing her coffee now. My jaw unclenches ever so slowly.

“You would read it? Seriously?”

She blows on her espresso. “Hell, I’d even buy it. This new story’s a hundred times better than the one you were working on in Venice. This one has soul.”

Joy breaks free and I laugh out loud. “Thank you!” I hug her neck and she pretends to choke.

“Jesus, kill me, why don’t you? Hey, let’s grab breakfast.”

“Breakfast? We don’t have time.”

“The driver called. Our flight’s delayed. He’s picking us up at noon.”

My heart quickens and my thoughts scurry. “Forget breakfast. I have a better idea.” I turn to Poppy and quickly explain that we’ve been invited to tour the apartment. “The owner is there now. Shall we go?”

Poppy’s ambivalence surprises me. I expected her to be excited. Instead, she drags her feet as we walk.

“You really think this is a good idea?” Lucy whispers to me. “I mean, it could totally bum her out.”

“She’s already bummed out,” I say.

We enter the shady courtyard. Poppy pans the space, then moves to an iron bench beneath the lemon tree.

“Need a minute before we go up?” I ask.

She doesn’t answer. Is she afraid of the memories hidden in this place where she last loved? Or worse, is she doubting Rico’s love, wondering if the man she devoted her heart to for the past fifty-nine years was a fraud?





Chapter 42




Poppy

1961

Ravello, Amalfi Coast

My body was thin to the point of gauntness. But even so, there was no denying the fullness of my breasts, the widening of my hips. No longer could I ignore the tenderness in my nipples, the nausea. Or the two cycles without one drop of blood.

The startling news, the effort of the bath, exhausted me. I had to lie down. Rosa helped me into a dress. Once I was on the sofa, she ran downstairs to beg the baker for three more days off work.

When she returned, I was sitting up. I had two lines written. My dear Rico, Our love has multiplied. You are going to be a father. The thought that terrified me only an hour before now thrilled me. I was carrying Rico’s child! We were going to be parents.

“What are you doing?” Rosa asked, coming up beside me.

I leaned my throbbing head against the sofa. “This changes everything. Rico will want to be with me and our baby. I will go to him. We will live in Germany with his parents and his sister. Even if it is a poor existence, we will be together.”

“In a place he calls prison? You think this is what he wants for his child? No, Paolina. You heard what he said in the letter. He wants you to go to America.”

“Maybe his father is not so ill,” I said, ignoring her, along with my every rational thought. “Maybe he will choose to escape, and he will come back to us.”

She planted her fists on her hips. “And get killed trying to cross the border? How could you live with yourself?”

A shudder rolled over me and my eyes grew heavy. “I know him. He will want to be with his child.”

Rosa perched at my side. Very gently, she took the pen from my hand.

“La mia sorella testarda. If you are certain this is what he would want, I will help.” She touched the pen to the paper. “You talk, I will write.”

It felt awkward, revealing my deepest thoughts to Rosa. I longed for a private conversation with Rico, an intimate penning of my joy, sharing the news of our child. But my sister was right. I hadn’t the strength to write.

By the time I finished dictating, I was spent. When Rosa held the pen in my fist and helped me sign my name, it was everything I could do to keep my eyes open.

When I woke, Rosa was coming through the door. “Rest easy,” she said, perching beside me and stroking my forehead. “The letter is in the mail.”

I closed my eyes, grateful for my sister’s help, and drifted off to sleep again. My news was on its way to Rico. Soon, we would be reunited.



* * *





Rosa was a godsend. I am certain I would have died had she not arrived. She stayed another week, nursing me back to health. While I slept, she negotiated a reduced rent with my landlord and begged my employers to keep me on. She helped me write three more letters to Rico. She shopped at the market each morning and filled my cupboards with fresh fruits and cheeses, hard rolls and meats. When I was able to keep food down, she cooked my favorite dishes.