The Star-Crossed Sisters of Tuscany(97)

“No. I’m leaving, Carmella.” I grab my phone from beneath the counter. “I’m not coming back.”

A slow smile blooms on her face. “It’s about time.”

“Know anyone who’d want to sublet Emville? Someone who’d be willing to cover the utility bills?”

Her eyes go wide and she nods. “Is Claws included in the deal?”

“Only until I figure out how to get him to Italy.” I pull Drake Van Buren the Third’s business card from my pocket and toss it in the trash.

“Wait!” Carmella cries. “What are you doing?” She rushes over and plucks the card from the trash bin. “Call him, Em. He wants to have lunch. You never know what might—”

“Not my type.” I take the card and tear it in two. “But it felt good, all the same.”

I trot down the back hallway. As I pass the cement-block break room, I catch sight of the souvenirs I bought for Daria and the kids, on the table where I placed them this morning. Daria’s box is open, the gloves splayed on the table.

I step into the room and lift the gloves, breathing in their rich leathery scent. My sister didn’t tell me she’d opened her gift. Or that she liked it. Or even say thank you. I slide my hands into the gloves. They feel heavenly. I turn from the room and nearly collide with Rosa.

“Such a disrespectful girl,” she says, her arms akimbo. “You go away, and return thinking you are better than us?”

I study her, my mind whirling. This angry woman who has belittled me since I was a child, this bitter, broken caricature of a grandmother . . . and a sister.

“You break my heart, Emilia,” she continues. She lifts her apron to dab her dry eyes, the same dramatic stunt she’s used my entire life. “A disappointment, that is what you are.”

What kind of a grandmother would say such things? What kind of a grandmother would treat her granddaughter . . . ? Rico’s words call to me. Meine sch?ne Enkelin. My beautiful granddaughter. Goose bumps rise on my arms. Am I off base? Might my hunch be wrong?

I step forward. My heart thunders. Without warning, I yank the apron from her face. “Enough, Rosa.”

Her head snaps to attention. Her scowl deepens.

“That’s right. Rosa.” I look her straight in the eyes, my chest heaving. “You are not my nonna. You never were.”

Her mouth goes slack. The color drains from her face. My premonition is confirmed, as clearly as if she’d confessed the words aloud. Her eyes narrow and fill with venom. I force myself to hold their gaze, knowing, without a doubt, I’ve uncovered the truth.

It was Rosa who stole my mother from Poppy, not the other way around.





Chapter 52




Emilia

I told my family there was no curse. But that’s not entirely true. The Fontana second-daughter myth was very much alive. But it was never about being single. Like all stereotypes, the real curse was the sense of hopelessness the myth created, the erosion of self-confidence, the failure to believe in one’s dreams . . . and oneself.

I race up the cement stoop and pound on the screen door. “Lucy! Open up. It’s me. I’m going back to Italy.”

The door swings open and I take a step back. My perky aunt Carol slumps against the doorframe. Her face is barren of makeup, her eyes red rimmed. My heart sinks. Lucy has told her family. And I wasn’t there for moral support.

“Aunt Carol,” I say, inching closer. “Are you okay?”

“No,” she says, pinching her nose. “I am not okay.”

I place a hand on her arm. “Please, Aunt Carol, try to—”

“For twenty-one years I have prayed,” she says, interrupting me. “But the curse is too strong. Luciana will never find love.” She gives me a sad little smile. “Nor will you.”

“Oh, hell,” I mumble aloud. “Why quit when I’m on a roll?” I plant my fists on my hips. “Lucy is not cursed. I swear. She’s found herself at last. I know, because I witnessed it firsthand. This might not be the relationship you envisioned. It might take a bit of getting used to. But your daughter is happy. She’s met someone special, someone she cares for. It’s beautiful, and it’s real, and it’s pure. And nobody—not you or Uncle Vinnie or that damn curse—can deny her of that.”

She begins to weep. I soften my voice. “The way I see it, you have two choices. You can be a super-cool mom and accept your wonderful daughter as is. Or—”

She finishes the sentence for me. “Or be a narrow-minded, miserable homophobe, as Lucy says, and lose her forever.”

I give a weak smile. “Yeah. That’s pretty much it.”

She drops her face into her hands. “She’s asking too much. I’m afraid it’s im—”

“Possible,” I say, interrupting. I sling an arm around her shoulders. “You’ll find life is much more interesting when you learn to say ‘It’s possible.’”

From behind my aunt, Lucy appears, a new phone in her hand. Aunt Carol scurries away, as if she cannot bear to be near her daughter. Lucy rolls her eyes and waves me inside. “Hey, Pops,” she says into the phone. “Guess who’s here?” She points the phone at me.

I smile into a bright yellow screen, imagining my nonna and nonno on their rooftop deck, not realizing that their phone is aimed at the afternoon sun. “Hello, Aunt Poppy.”