Uncle Dolphie raises his brows. “Last night she saw her sister. She’s always happy when she sees Adriana.” He chuckles and dabs his mouth with his napkin. “If only I could get that woman to appear more often.”
My aunt Ethel and uncle Dolphie live above the barbershop in a two-bedroom apartment my aunt has always believed is haunted. Sweet Ethel claims she sees the ghosts of her relatives from the old country, which, I suspect, is one of the reasons my uncle continues to keep regular hours at the empty barbershop. Everyone needs an escape, I suppose. I used to ask my aunt if she ever saw my mother. She always said no. A few years ago, I finally stopped asking.
Uncle Dolphie drops one last bite into his mouth and brushes the crumbs from his hands. “Delizioso,” he says and shuffles over to his barber station. He returns with the pages I gave him yesterday.
“I am liking this story, la mia nipote talentata.”
My talented niece? I bite my lip to hide my glee. “Grazie.”
“You are building momentum. I sense conflict coming.”
“You’re right,” I say, remembering the plotline I imagined today at work. I pull last night’s pages from my satchel and hand them to him. “I’ll bring the next installment on Thursday.”
He scowls. “Nothing tomorrow?”
I can’t help but smile. It’s our secret, my little writing hobby. “Never underestimate the blueprint for a dream,” he likes to say. Uncle Dolphie once told me he had a dream of writing an opera when he was young, though he refuses to share his notes with me, or even his ideas. “Silliness,” he always says, and he turns fifty shades of red. But I love that he once had the blueprint for a dream. I only wish he hadn’t underestimated it.
“Sorry,” I say. “No time to write tonight. Daria is hosting her book club. She invited me to come.” My tone is nonchalant, as if being invited to hang out with my sister and her friends were an everyday event for me. “She asked me to bring dolce pizza.” I peek at the clock—half past three—and make my way to the sink.
“According to Dar,” I say, rinsing my cup, “the book club’s main objective is eating, followed by drinking and talking. If they find time, they discuss the book.”
His dark eyes twinkle. “This is wonderful news, your sister inviting you into her club. I remember when the two of you were inseparable.”
Without warning, I choke up. Horrified, I open a cupboard and pretend to search for a towel. “Well, I’m not a permanent member yet,” I say, blinking furiously. “But I’m hoping that if her friends like me—or at least the pizza di crema—she’ll ask me to join.”
“Pizza di crema?” Uncle Dolphie gives a sidelong glance. “Do not let her take advantage of you.”
“It’s not that complicated. Besides, I love helping her.” He raises his brows skeptically, and I pretend not to notice.
He checks his watch and scowls. “Luciana said she would be in for a trim at two. And I hear nothing. Not a word. I fear that one is too big for her britches.”
I picture my cousin Lucy, with her curvy size 12 booty squeezed into size 8 jeans, and wonder if her grandpa is being literal or figurative.
“She’s just a kid,” I say. “She’ll be fine.”
He harrumphs. “A kid? Since when is twenty-one a kid?” He lowers his voice, as if the empty shop might hear. “Have you heard? Luciana has a new boyfriend—someone she met at that new job of hers. Ethel thinks this may be the one.” He wiggles his wiry brows.
“Huh,” I say. “Didn’t Aunt Ethel say the same thing about Derek … and that drummer named Nick … and that other guy—what was his name—the one with the cobra tattoo?” I shrug my shoulders. “Lucy’s young. She’s got her whole life in front of her. What’s the rush?”
He gives me a look, silently reminding me that Lucy is a secondborn daughter, like me.
“Boyfriend or not,” I say, wiping down the counter, “Luce seems to like her new job.”
“Waiting tables in that slinky getup?” He shakes his head. “Tell me, Emilia, why would a smart girl like Luciana choose to work at this place—Rudy’s?”
“Rulli’s,” I say. “It’s the hottest bar in town.”
“Something wrong with Homestretch? Irene and Matilde have worked there for years—wearing respectable blouses and sensible shoes, mind you.”
My great-uncle, who emigrated from Italy a year after my nonna and great-aunt Poppy, is a traditionalist. The Homestretch was already two decades old when Dolphie arrived in Bensonhurst at the age of twenty-one. Fifty-seven years later, he’s still loyal to the old pub.
“Uncle Dolphie,” I say, “sometimes new is good.”
He lifts his chin. “New cheese? No. New wine? No. New art? No.” He takes my face in his hands. “Dolce nipotina mia, new is not good. Old is good. And you, of all people, should understand.” He lifts my thick ponytail. “We have kept this same haircut for what? Twenty years now? And these glasses, they are the same spectacles you wore in your senior photograph, sì?”
“I wish,” I say. “My prescription has changed three times.” I whip off my small wire-rimmed glasses and bend them backward. “But luckily, these frames are pretty much indestructible, just like the optician claimed.”
“Good for you, cara mia,” my uncle says. “Why change the tires if they are still rolling, sì?”
“Exactly.” I plant my glasses on my face and kiss his cheek. “See you tomorrow with another pastry delivery.”
“Grazie,” he says. He shuffles over to the cash register. “Do not forget la posta.” As he lifts my mail, a purple envelope spills from the bundle, one I somehow missed earlier. He captures it beneath his suede Hush Puppy.
“A letter,” he says, staring down at it. “The real kind.”
I squat down to retrieve the mysterious envelope, but my uncle’s foot doesn’t budge. He bends down for a closer inspection. His eyes narrow. Then they widen. Finally, they cloud. He lifts his trembling fingers to his lips.
The hand-addressed envelope stares up at us, postmarked Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. My smile vanishes and I freeze. In flamboyant script, her name and address are splashed in the upper left corner. Poppy Fontana. Nonna and Uncle Dolphie’s estranged sister, Paolina. The enigmatic great-aunt who has always fascinated me from afar. The curious woman Nonna insists is un problema—trouble. The only living relative I’m forbidden to see.
Chapter 3
Emilia
I clutch my satchel protectively, as if it holds a concealed weapon rather than a simple letter, and force myself to slow down when I reach the sidewalk. Nonna Rosa stands at her bay window, peering past the heavy damask curtains. Though her eyes are small, Nonna boasts of 20/20 vision, something that comes in handy for a woman who, I’m convinced, can see around corners. I wave, hoping to appear nonchalant. With her typical flush of annoyance, she turns away. It’s horrible for me to say, but I often wish she were the one who lived in the cozy space beneath the eaves. Or even in my dad’s apartment on the second floor. That way she wouldn’t hear my steps each time I cross the porch; she wouldn’t be able to peek from the bay window and keep tabs on me, a woman of twenty-nine. But I’m not giving her enough credit. My nonna would naturally find a different window from which to spy.
I step through the beveled glass door and cross the terrazzo-tiled foyer, peeking into my satchel to make sure it’s still there. A rebellious thrill shimmies up my spine.
I take the walnut stairs two at a time and throw open the unlocked door to my apartment. My tiny kitchen—basically a trio of cupboards and a small fridge covered in photos of my nieces—is dappled with afternoon sunlight. I dump the contents of my satchel onto the counter and snap up Aunt Poppy’s letter.
Savoring the anticipation, I study the purple envelope, trying to guess the occasion. It’s not my birthday. Christmas is four months away. My great-aunt Poppy—a woman I’ve met only once but who never misses a holiday—is getting older, after all, and must be confused.
Claws, my long-haired tuxedo c
at, rounds the corner. I scoop him up and kiss his adorable grumpy face. “Shall we see what Aunt Poppy has to say? You must promise not to tell Nonna.”
I position him over my shoulder and slash a finger through the seal. My heart thrums as I remove a sheet of linen stationery the color of lime sorbet. I smile at Poppy’s purple ink, the whimsical sketches in the margin—a little girl wishing on a star … a bouquet of daisies … a map of Italy.
My dearest Emilia,
I’m writing this letter to ask a favor. No, not a favor, exactly. In fact, I will be doing you the favor. You see, what I’m proposing will change your life.
I drop into a kitchen chair and rub Claws’s ears while I continue reading.
I will return to my homeland of Italy this fall to celebrate my eightieth birthday. I want you to join me.
I gasp. Italy? Me? I barely know my great-aunt. Still, images of sprawling vineyards and fields of sunflowers fill my head.
What fun we will have! You do like to have fun, don’t you? I suspect your life may be lacking joy, working in that dreadful store with my sister and your father. No. I cannot imagine that is much fun at all.
I huff. My life is perfectly fine—fun. I get to work with my family and live here in Bensonhurst, the very town where I was raised. And though it’s less than an hour’s train ride from Manhattan, it has a small-town feel. We still hang laundry on clotheslines; we know our neighbors. I have Matt, a loyal, lifelong pal I see almost every day. How many people can say that? Paolina Fontana is way off base.
We’ll leave in mid-October—a mere six weeks from now. I presume you’ve maintained your Italian passport. We’ll arrive in Venice, cross the country via train to Florence, and end the trip on the Amalfi Coast, where I must be on the steps of the Ravello Cathedral on my eightieth birthday.
The Ravello Cathedral? What is she planning?
Please call so we can make final arrangements. Until then, wishing you bouquets of four-leaf clovers and double rainbows.
With love,
Aunt Poppy
My stomach flutters with excitement before I catch myself. I can’t afford a trip to Italy. Not on my meager salary. And even if I could, Nonna would forbid it. I lean my head against the back of the oak chair and groan. Aunt Poppy will have to find another travel companion, another family member, perhaps.
But no, Aunt Poppy has no relationship with anyone in our family.
So she’ll travel with friends. She must have friends.
Or does she?
An unexpected softness for the aunt I was never allowed to know comes over me. How lonely she seems to me now, the old woman who writes without fail each year on my birthday, who reaches out to me on every conceivable holiday, including Flag Day.
There was a time, when I was maybe nine or ten, that Poppy and I exchanged a handful of letters. It was thrilling to me, opening the mailbox and finding a letter from my great-aunt. She wanted to know which of my friends made me laugh hardest; whether I preferred laces or Velcro, dill pickles or sweet; which season of the year “made me bloom.” No grown-up had ever shown such interest in me. Until one Saturday afternoon when Nonna caught me pacing the foyer.
“What are you doing, wasting time when you should be cleaning your room?”
“I’m waiting for the mail,” I told her, anticipation bubbling anew. “I have a pen friend.” Aunt Poppy had used the phrase in one of her letters, and I loved the sound of it on my tongue.
Nonna frowned. “Pen friend? What is a pen friend?”
I grinned. “I’m writing to your sister, Great-Aunt Poppy!”
Without a word, she retreated to her apartment. Ten minutes later, just as our new mail carrier, Mr. Copetti, stepped into the foyer, Nonna emerged. She held out her hand for the day’s delivery.
“Here you go,” he said to Nonna. He winked at me. “Looks like a card today.”
I smiled and peered over Nonna’s shoulder. Mr. Copetti turned to leave, but Nonna lifted a hand. “Wait.” She quickly perused our mail until she landed on a tangerine-tinted envelope.
“That’s for me,” I said, reaching for it.
Nonna pulled a pen from behind her ear. She slashed a red line through the address and wrote, Return to Sender.
“Nonna!” I cried. “What are you doing?”
She thrust the letter at Mr. Copetti. “Go.”
His eyes bore the look of a milquetoast grasping for courage. Nonna took a step forward, aiming her finger at the door. “Out! Now!”
He practically charged from the house. I was grounded for a week, and all “frivolous” communication with Aunt Poppy was forbidden.
I waited a full ten days before secretly penning another letter to my great-aunt. I hid it inside my math book, planning to drop it in the mailbox on my way to school. My heart hammered as I sat down at Nonna’s breakfast table that morning. All the while I ate, I kept a protective hand on the book.
Nonna eyed me suspiciously. I nearly passed out when she came up beside me, peering down at the textbook. I continued sipping my cocoa, keeping my hand fixed on the cover, praying to the Blessed Mother that I wouldn’t be found out. But when I stood to leave, my sweater caught on the chair’s arm. The book jostled. As if in slow motion, the letter drifted from the pages like a paper airplane, descending gracefully onto the toe of Nonna’s Orthaheel slipper.
Needless to say, Nonna showed no mercy. Aside from the generic Christmas cards, the halfhearted thank-you notes, and the hit-or-miss birthday cards, I never reached out to my great-aunt again.
I turn to the window, an urban patchwork of rooftops and utility wires and ancient antennae, and absently rub the scar beneath my lip. What did Aunt Poppy think when my letters stopped coming? Was she hurt? Disappointed? Did she realize it was because of Nonna, not me? Or was it? Why hadn’t I pleaded my case, convinced my dad to let me continue my friendship? The answer comes easily. My dad would never defy his mother-in-law. He’s far too timid. And the shameful truth is, I’m not so different. When it comes to Nonna Rosa, the fierce little woman who signs our paychecks and holds the title to the apartments we rent, we’re both cowards.
My stomach clenches and I drop my head into my hands, trying to silence the question that’s calling to me. Do you have the courage now, almost two decades later, to redeem yourself?
Chapter 4
Emilia
I don an apron, determined to put all thoughts of Italy and poor Aunt Poppy out of my mind. With my favorite possession—my mom’s old cookbook—splayed on the Formica counter, I set to work.
In Italy, where Nonna and Uncle Dolphie and Aunt Poppy were raised, cake is called dolce pizza, or sweet pizza. I mix a teaspoon of soda into sugar and flour while Claws does circle eights around my ankles. My big sis, who has never learned to bake (and why would she, when she has a sister to do it for her?), has no idea that this sweet pizza, filled with a cinnamon–orange zest custard and Amarena Fabbri cherries, takes longer to make than the time we’ll spend at book club tonight.
Forty minutes later, my phone rings. I catch my sister’s name and punch the speaker button so I can stir while I talk. “Hey, Daria. I’m making the pizza di crema now.”
“Oh, good. Listen, Emmie, I just saw this Groupon—half off at Atlantic City’s Tropicana. It’d be a nice getaway for Donnie and me, right? If I get it, will you watch the girls for a weekend, maybe sometime this fall?”
I pour the batter into the cake pans, not bothering to scrape down the bowl. “Uh, yeah, sure.”
“Great. You’re the best, Emmie.”
I smile. “You’re better.”
Instead of our childhood ritual where she declares, “You’re the bestest,” she changes the subject. “So book club doesn’t start until seven, but I need you here ASAP.” She lets out a sigh. “Of course Donnie picks the first week of school to start an out-of-town job. You won’t believe all the homework Natalie has. And Mimi’s supposed to bring cupcakes tomorrow.” She raises her voice. “And someone forgot to tell
me!”
Poor Mimi. She’s absentminded, like I was when I was seven. “I’m sliding the cake in the oven now. I’ll be there as soon as it’s done.”
“Awesome.”
She’s about to hang up when I blurt out my news. “I got a letter today. From Great-Aunt Poppy.”
“Oh, God. What did she want?”
I run my spatula down the bowl and stick it in my mouth, grateful we’re not on FaceTime. “She wants to take me on a holiday.” An unfamiliar sensation brews and a smile takes over my face. I go in for another scoop of batter. “To Italy.”
“Oh, well, you can’t go. Nonna will never allow it. She’ll have to take another niece. Carmella, maybe. Definitely not Lucy.” She laughs. “Nobody in her right mind would set that girl loose in a foreign country.”
I suck on the spatula. “That’s Poppy’s decision, not Nonna’s.”
“Nonna hates Poppy,” Daria says, ignoring my statement. “You know that.”
“But why, Dar? Poppy’s her sister.”
“She has her reasons. We need to respect that.”
“I’m going to talk to Nonna.”
“Don’t!”
“I have a chance to go to Italy, Dar. I’m not going to blow it just because Nonna has issues.”
“Issues?” My sister’s voice rises, and I brace myself, knowing what’s coming next. “Nonna may not be perfect, but she sacrificed her entire life for us, Emmie. She’s been like a mother to you.”
It’s her trump card, the one that always stops me cold. A heaviness takes hold of me and I hang up the phone. I plug the sink and turn on the faucet, rubbing my scar as I wait for the sink to fill. My sister has confirmed it. I can’t go to Italy. Doing so would be an unforgivable breach of loyalty to the woman who raised me. Poppy will need to find another travel companion, maybe someone on the other side of her family. But again, I’m reminded, my great-aunt has no other family. She never did. She never will. Like me, she’s single … and the second daughter.
One Italian Summer: The perfect romantic fiction read for summer 2020 Page 2
