The Star-Crossed Sisters of Tuscany(98)

My stomach flutters with joy. I’m desperate to call her “Nonna,” to blurt out the truth and claim her as my grandmother. But I’ll wait for her to tell me, once we’re together again in Ravello.

“Hello, my sunshine!” Poppy’s face finally appears on the screen. She’s not on the rooftop. She’s sitting inside, on the sofa next to a lamp. Rather than her wig, her head is covered in a pink knitted cap with kitten ears. Did she really bring that hat to Italy? My smile fades. Something is wrong. She’s wearing her robe, and her lips aren’t painted.

“Are you okay?”

“Dandy,” she says, for my benefit, I’m certain. She tips her head. “Aren’t you supposed to be at work?”

I huddle beside Lucy so she can see both of us. “Lucy and I are coming back to Ravello.” I glance at Lucy. “Right?”

Lucy cranes her neck toward the kitchen, as if hoping her mom hears. “Damn right!”

Poppy claps her hands. “You’ve already found someone to take over your lease, Emilia?”

I lower myself onto the arm of the sofa. “Yes, and I’m ready to be out of here.”

She gives me a sympathetic smile. “Oh, dear. I had a hunch things might go awry once you found your voice.”

From behind her, Rico—my opa—steps into the room, balancing a cup of tea on a saucer. Where’s her wine? Or even coffee? Italians drink tea when they’re ill.

He bends down. “Guten Tag, Emilia.” His face is too close to the screen, and I can’t help but laugh.

“Guten Morgen—it’s still morning here, Rico. How are you?”

“I am fine,” he says in his gravelly German accent. “It is this one I am worried about. She woke with a migraine.”

I jump to my feet. “Lucy and I will be on the next flight.”

Poppy’s face returns to the screen. “My sister.” She looks me in the eyes, her voice urgent now. “Have you talked to her?”

My heart breaks. Poppy is still hoping for absolution from the one person who refuses to give it. Her clouded eyes plead with me, waiting, hoping to hear of her sister’s love.

I want nothing more than to tell her the truth. That she doesn’t need her sister’s love, that her sister is evil and manipulative and will never, ever make peace with her. Instead, I force a smile.

“Yes,” I say. “She wants me to tell you . . .” I try to steady my quivering voice. “She regrets what happened with the two of you.”

“She forgives me?”

I nod, barely able to produce the words that she longs to hear. “All is forgiven,” I whisper.

She squeezes shut her eyes, and a soft moan escapes her.

“Your sister loves you,” I say.

She lowers her head and a tear spills from the tip of her nose. Rico comes up beside her. “What did I tell you?” he says, dabbing her cheek. “You are loved. You are forgiven.” He looks at me through the screen. “Thank you, Emilia. Finally, she can rest.”

Maybe I shouldn’t have lied, but I like to think that somewhere inside Rosa’s rusty heart, she would want her dying sister to hear the words she’s too terrified to voice.



* * *





My open suitcase hunkers on my bedroom floor. I add one more sweater before snapping it shut. I’m pulling cat treats from the cabinet when I hear a knock at my door.

“It’s no use, Dad,” I call, dropping fish-shaped kibbles onto the window seat. “I don’t care what you say. I’m finished at the store. I’m going back to Italy, where I belong.”

“Emmie, it’s me. Open the door.”

Daria? I turn. What’s she doing here? I throw open the door and step back, my arms crossed over my chest. “You’re here for your gloves, I presume?”

My sister, who never cries, puts a hand over her mouth. I step forward.

“Dar? Are you okay?”

She closes her eyes and shakes her head.

All my anger vanishes. I take her by the arms. “Come in,” I say, leading her to my kitchen table. “Sit down. Can I get you something? Water? Coffee?”

“No. Stop. Just . . . listen to me.” Her voice is choked. “I am a bitch, Emmie. That’s . . . what I came to tell you.”

The old me would have protested. I would have spent thirty minutes reassuring my sister that she is a doll, an angel, a ray of sunlight.

“Yes,” the new me says. “You have been a bitch. For about ten years, if you want to quantify it.”

“More like eleven.”

She’s right. “You changed when I went off to college. You resented me. And you lied to me all those years. You actually believed in the curse.”

“No, Emmie.”

“My entire childhood, you claimed you didn’t believe, but you really did.”

“That’s not true.”

“You were feeding me a line of bullshit. You’ve been lying to me since—”

“I wasn’t lying! I didn’t believe the curse!” Her voice bellows, and the little vein in her forehead bulges. She takes a deep breath. “Not back then. Not when we were girls.”

“So what changed?”

“Nothing.” Her eyes dart to the wall.