The Star-Crossed Sisters of Tuscany(89)

From the car stereo, a sonorous ballad plays. The melancholy notes make my nose sting. Lucy shapes her sweater into a pillow, and soon she’s propped against the door, softly snoring. Poppy sighs when I reach for her, almost a purr. She’s a small child in my arms, in need of comfort tonight. Her breathing slows. Her body falls limp against mine. My arm goes numb and begins to tingle. I don’t move. I breathe in the sweet scent of my aunt, feel the faint rise and fall of her breath, hoping that years from now, I can close my eyes and retrieve this very moment.

“I should have tried harder to connect with you,” she whispers. “Please forgive me.”

I stroke her downy head. “There is nothing to forgive. You tried. But I allowed Nonna . . .” My words trail off. I’m an adult now. It’s not fair to blame Nonna.

“Next time you speak to Rosa, please tell her I’m sorry. That I love her.”

Uncle Dolphie was right. Reconciliation would give Poppy peace—and probably my nonna, too. “Why not tell her yourself? We can call her tomorrow.”

She shakes her head. “I phoned Dolphie just before leaving the States. We had a lovely conversation. But Rosa . . . she will not speak to me.”

I clench my jaw, anger burning in me. “She’s stubborn,” I say, “like my sister.”

“Yes. I’ve tried many times to reach out to Daria.”

I look down at her. “Really? She never told me.”

“You and I are together. That’s enough.”

“Thank God,” I whisper, and I kiss her head. “And thank you.”

“I love you, Emilia.”

“I love you, too, Nonna.”

I catch my mistake, but for some reason, I don’t correct myself. Neither does my aunt.



* * *





Jan drops us off at Rico’s old apartment above the bakery. “It is yours for as long as you need it,” he says, handing Poppy an old-fashioned brass key. “I will stay down the hill at Elene’s.”

Lucy helps Poppy into her nightgown before retreating to the living room sofa. I dampen a cloth and wash Poppy’s soft cheeks.

“I always dreamed I’d sleep in this room again,” Poppy says, staring up at the wall above the door. “He carved our initials. They are still there, somewhere.”

“I know,” I say. “He loved you very much.”

“He still does,” she reminds me, and I’m ashamed that I referred to him in the past tense.

The sheets are crisp when I pull them down, and Poppy burrows into them like a little kitten. I climb in beside her and turn off the lamp. Amber light from the piazza stripes the room.

“Did you get in touch with Brody?” Poppy asks.

“I did.” I say a silent thanks to Brody, Poppy’s helper back home. “He’s happy to continue watching over the farm until we return. He wants you to know he’s riding Higgins every day, keeping him exercised.”

Poppy nods. “Brody refuses to accept a raise, though God knows he could use the money. Did I tell you he lost his leg in Vietnam? Never utters a complaint. The man is a peach, just like his father was.”

It seems strange now, to think that Poppy had a whole other life without Rico, that she had a relationship with Brody’s father, her “man companion.” As my beautiful aunt’s life comes to a close, I can’t help but wonder, does she have regrets?

“Did you ever want to get married again? Have children?”

“No,” she says without hesitation. “Though I did love Thomas.”

“Brody’s dad? He wasn’t just a . . . consolation prize?”

She turns to me. “You’ll find the older you get, the less stingy you become with the word ‘love.’ Thomas taught me to laugh again. And I believe I was a comfort to him, after his wife died. We were wonderful comrades, Thomas and I.” She smiles, as if recalling a sweet memory.

A breeze rustles the sheer curtain. “Does it bother you that Rico married Karin?”

“I’d be sad if he hadn’t. You see, Emilia, not every love requires passion, nor does all passion require love.”

The air seems to still. A vision of Matt’s sweet smile comes to me. I prop myself onto my elbow and search her shadowed face. “Do you honestly believe that, Aunt Poppy? Do you really think it’s possible to be with someone—maybe even marry someone—if you don’t feel passion?”

“I believe it happens all the time.”

A shiver blankets me. I feel as if I’m speaking to a wise sage who holds the answer to the question I’ve pondered for years. And everything hinges on her reply.

“But is that fair? Is that enough? Or should I—should everyone—hold out for the kind of love that sets your skin aflame?”

She smiles. “That, my dear, is a question we can answer only for ourselves. All I can tell you is that, after eighty years, I realize that love plays many roles. Paramour. Comforter. Protector. Mate. Though Rico is my heart’s only true passion, there’s much to be said for a love that provides deep friendship, or simply companionship, in a world that can sometimes feel like a fisted glove.”

Her eyes glisten in the night’s glow. “In the end, life is a simple equation. Each time you love—be it a man or a child, a cat or a horse—you add color to this world. When you fail to love, you erase color.” She smiles. “Love, in any of its forms, is what takes this journey from a bleak black-and-white pencil sketch to a magnificent oil painting.”