The Star-Crossed Sisters of Tuscany(84)

“You must eat. The baby needs nutrition.”

I put a hand to my stomach, loving the feel of the tiny bulge in my belly, the beautiful oval shape of our child.

I cried when we had to say good-bye. “You saved my life,” I told my sister at the train station. “You saved my child’s life. I shall never, ever forget it.”

She hugged me tightly. “I am happy I could help. And now you will do me a favor.” She patted my belly. “Promise to take care of my niece . . . or nephew.”

My sister, who was hoping for a child of her own, could not have been more gracious.

“I will make an excuse to come back in six months, before you deliver.” She cupped my cheek. “I would come more often, but you know we do not have the extra money.”

“It is okay,” I assured her. “Rico will be back before the baby comes.”

Her eyes clouded, and she nodded. “In case he is not, I will be here.”

A wave of anxiety rolled over me. The idea of being alone during labor made me shudder. I clutched Rosa’s hands, struck with homesickness I’d not expected. “Will you tell Mamma?”

She shook her head. “I think it would kill her.”

I reared back. “But I am married.”

“Not according to Mamma’s rules, and God’s. Your marriage is not legal, Paolina. You have nothing from the church that says you are man and wife. I think it is better to keep this our secret, sì?”



* * *





The following week I woke without nausea. It was as if a switch had been flipped, and I was healthy again. No, not healthy . . . radiant! I had a newfound energy, more ambition than ever before. I found a small bassinet at a junk shop and spent a day painting it white. The following afternoon, I added red and blue and green polka dots. That weekend, I splurged on a ball of yarn and knitting needles. When I wasn’t working, I was preparing for our child. I chose names—Erich if it was a boy, and Johanna for a girl, after Rico’s mother and sister. The future would be kind to our little family of three, I was certain.





Chapter 43




Emilia

A leaf falls from the lemon tree, landing on Poppy’s lap. She looks up, her eyes bright. I wrap her in a hug. “You don’t need to tell the rest. I know what happens. And I am so very sorry.”

She pulls back and looks at me quizzically.

“Uncle Dolphie told me you lost the baby. I’m so sorry. I know how hard that was for you.”

“I went full term.” Her voice is shaky and she looks down at her hands. “I delivered Johanna. I held her. She even suckled my breast.” She puts a hand to her mouth. “I loved her instantly. It was a magical time. I never dreamed it could end so abruptly.”

I’m rubbing Poppy’s back, the three of us in tears, when the woman with the rings on her fingers rounds the corner.

“Buongiorno!” she says, her voice bright. Her gaze travels from my weepy aunt to Lucy’s red nose. She freezes.

I stand up and swipe my cheeks. “Sorry. We’re . . . reminiscing.”

“You have time to take the tour?”

I turn to Poppy. “Shall we do this?”

She covers her chin and nods.

We introduce ourselves while climbing the steep staircase. “I’m Elene,” the woman says. She holds the apartment door open with her hip and waits until Lucy and I finally reach the landing, Poppy wedged between us.

The space is bright and cheerful, with large windows and whitewashed wooden floors. Though it’s small, the high ceilings create an airy feel. Poppy lifts her chin, taking in the place. The walls are painted a soft shade of gray and covered with bold colorful paintings.

Poppy gasps. I follow her gaze to a large painting hanging above the sofa—a giant bouquet of orange poppies. “Papaveri,” she says. My body erupts in gooseflesh. What are the odds?

Footsteps fall, and a handsome young man with a striking face enters the living area. His hair is thick and blond.

Poppy gasps. “Mein Ehemann,” she whispers. Ever so slowly, she steps forward and extends her arms. “Mein Ehemann!”

The man—a twenty-something who obviously is not Rico—looks at her, his brow knit. I can barely stand to watch. He crosses the hardwood floor and gives her an awkward hug. “Hello. I am Jan.”

His accent is unmistakably German. I rub the chill from my arms.

“This is my aunt Poppy—Paolina Fontana,” I say. “She once lived here . . . with a man named Rico.”

He gives Poppy a sympathetic smile. “I am sorry. There is no Rico here.”

Poppy shakes her head. “But you look . . .”

“This place belonged to my grandfather Erich.”

“Erich?” She clutches her chest, her eyes imploring. “Erich Krause?”



* * *





We sit on a modern cream-colored sofa across from Jan, while Elene retreats to the kitchen to make coffee. Jan explains how his grandfather purchased this pied-à-terre the year his wife died.

“Last March, he gave up his home in Germany and came here permanently, to this tiny place, to live out the last of his life.”

I swallow hard. They missed each other by only a few months. “Oh, Aunt Poppy,” I whisper. “He wanted to be here.”