The Star-Crossed Sisters of Tuscany(95)

The shop is in complete disarray. Four cardboard boxes line the floor, partially filled with old hair dryers and half-empty shampoo bottles. For a moment, I think he’s been robbed. But then it strikes me: he’s cleaning the shop, already preparing for his granddaughter Lucy.

From the back room, a note rings out, clear and powerful. Then another. I stand still. Soon, the shop erupts in an aria that’s at once fierce and tender and heartbreaking. I don’t recognize this one. I put a hand to my chest and close my eyes, swaying as the melody slowly rolls over me.

I’m disappointed when the gorgeous piece finally ends, and I open my eyes. Uncle Dolphie stands watching me from the other side of the room. His hands are folded, his face a mixture of curiosity and apprehension.

“You like?” he asks softly.

I put a hand to my quivering chin. “It’s your aria,” I say, a statement, not a question.

“I rented a studio,” he says sheepishly. “We recorded it in 1979.”

“And the voice?” I ask, already knowing the answer.

He nods. “La mia.”

I rush over and wrap my arms around him.

“It’s so beautiful,” I say, my voice cracking. “Find a producer, Uncle Dolphie. Sell it. It’s not too late.”

He holds me at arm’s length. “This”—he swipes my wet cheek with his thumb—“is enough. I have touched someone’s emotions. It is all I ever wanted.”

I open my mouth to protest, to argue all the reasons why he must market this gorgeous piece of music. But he’s already turned away, tossing old brushes into a box.

“Soon, Lucy will be joining me here,” he says. “I will leave my business to the next generation.” He shakes a comb at me. “Never underestimate the blueprint for a dream, Emilia.”



* * *





Nonna and I bustle around the kitchen, me rolling dough and cooking cherry filling, she boiling pasta and roasting peppers. She never mentions my trip. Never welcomes me back. Never asks about Poppy. I look over at her again, wondering how, exactly, to broach the subject of a reunion. Her face is pinched, and the ever-present scowl between her brows is more pronounced than ever. I try to imagine her as the loving sister she once was, the young woman who nursed Poppy back to health and traveled across Italy to help deliver baby Johanna. But I can’t.

At ten o’clock, my sweet cousin Carmella—Matt’s new girlfriend—flies into the back kitchen, wearing torn jeans and Converse sneakers.

“Emmie!” she cries, planting a kiss on my cheek. “God, you look amazing. Love the new glasses!”

I grab Carmella into my arms and spin her in a circle, trying to ignore Nonna’s glowering stare. “I am so, so happy for you!”

She raises her head to the ceiling and sucks in a huge breath. “I can’t believe it, Emmie! Matt’s a doll. How did I not know this? I owe you, big-time. If you hadn’t let me stay at your place, if Matt hadn’t come over to get his hoodie, we never would have—”

I shake my head, interrupting her. “Yes, you would have. It was just a matter of time.”

She dons a hairnet and snags an apron from the bin. “Enough about me. I want a blow-by-blow of your trip. How was Italy? Were the men gorgeous? Was the food awesome? How weird was Poppy?”

“The trip was . . . life changing,” I say. “Poppy is the most amazing—”

“Silenzio!” Nonna snaps from the other side of the counter, her chest wheezing. “I do not wish to hear about that woman.”

“Nonna, stop,” I say. “She’s the same sister you once adored—loving and kind and wise and fun. You should reach out to her, before it’s too late. Please. Despite everything the two of you have been through, she loves you.”

Nonna’s eyes narrow. “What have we been through? What did she tell you?”

“Everything. She told us all about Trespiano, and how she ran away with Rico. How you nursed her back to life after finding her on the apartment steps. How you brought her to America. Even her deepest regret,” I add. “Taking Josephina.”

She lifts her head and studies me, as if trying to decide if I’m being truthful.

“Come back with me to Ravello,” I say, my voice soft now, pleading. Every word matters. Somehow, someway, I must convince her of the urgency. “Your sister has brain cancer. And she’s sorry for what she did. She wants to make peace with you. Go see her, Nonna. Please. Before it’s too late.”

Her nostrils flare when she draws in a breath. “That woman is dead to me. Get back to work.” She turns away and slides the peppers into a stainless steel pan. “You are not on holiday.”

I clench my fists. “You stubborn—”

She whirls around. “You have something to say to me?”

My heart bangs against my rib cage. I force myself to look her straight in the eyes, and speak the same words she once said to my father, when he wanted to have my lip examined. “Perché preoccuparsi?” Why bother?

She glares at me for a full ten seconds. Finally, she marches from the kitchen, the double doors snapping behind her.

Carmella looks on, her hand over her mouth. Without a word, I pivot toward the counter and crack an egg against a bowl, cursing as I pluck broken shells from the goo. My hands are still shaking when the store bell chimes. I look out the back-kitchen window. Mrs. Fortino waltzes in for her Tuesday morning visit. She checks herself in the mirror. My father sucks in his gut. Nonna hisses. A fog settles in my chest.