The Star-Crossed Sisters of Tuscany(90)

She touches my cheek. “It’s the sweet fruit that paints the field and wakes our senses. I’m not saying you must be on a constant quest for it, but please, if love comes to you, if you find it within your grasp, promise me you’ll pluck it from the vine and give it a good looking-over, won’t you?”

Her words wash over me as I try to reconcile the idea of Matt-my-pal becoming Matt-my-potential-love. Is it possible I haven’t given him a good enough “looking-over”?

As I begin to drift off, she grabs my hand, her grip stronger than I’d have expected.

“Your mother loved you very much.”

I freeze. I was only two when she died. Much of that time, she was ill. I’ve always wondered, was I the one who caused her illness? Did she resent me? Was I a bother to her?

“How do—?” I force the words over the knot in my throat. “How do you know for sure?”

“You were her angel. That’s what she called you.”

Tears slide past my temples. All my life, I’ve longed to hear these words. “But she never knew me, the person I am. I was just a baby.”

Poppy’s grip tightens. “A mother’s love isn’t measured in time, Emilia. It’s instantaneous and everlasting. And this, my dear, I know for certain.”





Chapter 47




Poppy

1961

Aboard the SS Cristoforo Colombo En Route to America Rosa got her way in the end, as she was accustomed to. But to be fair, I went willingly. It seemed my only option. The eight-day voyage from Napoli to New York was mercifully calm. The days brought warm breezes and only the occasional thunderstorm. But newly born Josephina had her days and nights confused. Each evening, after we’d tucked ourselves into our stuffy cabin, Josephina’s eyes grew wide and curious. The duties of motherhood exhausted Rosa, and I did everything I could to keep the baby quiet while she slept. Often, I’d bundle her up and sneak out onto the deck, where we’d stand facing eastward, looking back toward the land where my Rico lived. Together, we’d watch the following black sea rise and fall. I’d point out the constellations, and we’d talk about her future.

Though Rosa understood I was grieving, she was prickly when I was alone with Josie. She’d caught me, more than once, pretending to be a new mother en route to see her loving husband. The roles of wife and mother, she gently reminded me, belonged to her.

But Josephina and I shared a connection Rosa could not deny. She was a listener, my little vessel of joy. She’d study my face, wrinkle her little brow when I spoke of my Rico, the greatest man on earth. And when my eyes grew misty, she’d latch onto my finger, as if to reassure me that she understood my pain.

I called her my tiny miracle, and told her she was the reason I breathed. Because she was.





Chapter 48




Emilia

A long and lonely voyage, taking her farther and farther from her love and the infant she lost . . . nights spent with a new baby, with a name so similar to her own child’s. No wonder Poppy displaced her maternal longing and became overly attached to Josie.

“It all makes sense now,” I say, facing her. “You grew to love Josephina as your own. You were grieving. You meant no harm.”

She’s gripped with a wracking cough. I pat her back, a sense of foreboding coming over me. Poppy is dying. Earlier, she asked for forgiveness. I treated the request dismissively. But I realize now, she needs to hear it. Even if it’s not from her sister.

“I don’t blame you,” I say, my voice soft, “for what you did to my mother, for taking her.”

“Kidnapping,” she whispers. “That’s what they called it.”

“You weren’t yourself. Nonna should have understood.”

“I believe she did, deep in her heart. It was Alberto who insisted I leave. And of course Rosa agreed with her husband. I put her in a horrible position, having to choose. It is my biggest regret. Not a day has passed when I didn’t question my decision, or curse myself for acting so recklessly.”

“Shh,” I say. “That’s all behind you. You’ve created a beautiful life for yourself, filled with people who love you. You should feel proud.”

She turns to me, her eyes imploring. “When you see Rosa again, tell her I’m sorry. That I love her. That I’ve never stopped missing her.”

My heart shatters. And then a thought strikes. I study Poppy in the moonlight, my mind reeling. What if I were able to bring Nonna to Italy for a final sister reunion?



* * *





They say time heals all wounds. But in witnessing the simultaneous recoveries of my aunt and her beloved Rico, I can profess it’s not time but love that heals.

I insist on taking Poppy to the doctor first thing Wednesday morning. All along, Lucy and I assumed the advancing brain tumor was causing her decline. We’re surprised when the young physician treats her for a respiratory infection, giving her an intravenous cocktail of antibiotics and steroids and fluids. By Thursday afternoon, she’s champing at the bit, ready to get back to Rico’s side.

I rent a car—a sporty white convertible Poppy insisted we splurge on—and for the next week and a half, we rise at dawn and drive to Salerno. Even on cool mornings, she makes me put the top down. “That’s what heated seats are for,” she tells me. “Now, give it some gas. My goddess, Emilia, it’s a Maserati, not a minivan.”