I was seven when I first caught wind of the Fontana Second-Daughter Curse. We’d constructed family trees for social studies class, and I chose my mother’s side of the family—the Fontanas. After studying my lineage for all of three seconds, my teacher, Sister Regina, blurted out a fact I hadn’t seen—or perhaps hadn’t wanted to see. “Look at all the women on your family tree who never married.” She scowled and looked more closely. “That’s peculiar. They’re all second-born daughters.”
I pushed up my glasses and peered at the felt-penned branches, where I’d carefully written my ancestors’ names on the leaves. I’d always known Nonna’s aunt Blanca was single. She was the reason my great-grandparents couldn’t come to America. And I knew my nonna’s sister, my great-aunt Poppy, hadn’t married, either—an old maid, Nonna Rosa called her. But tracing the branches with my finger, I found that Nonna’s cousins Apollonia, Silvia, Evangelina, Martina, and Livia were also single … and also the second daughters.
My eyes drifted downward, like a falling leaf. And there it was, plain as the white posterboard it was drawn on: my branch of the Fontana family tree.
Beneath my mother, Josephina Fontana Lucchesi Antonelli, and my father, Leonardo Phillip Antonelli, I placed a finger on my sister Daria’s name. I slid it to the right and found my name, Emilia Josephina Fontana Lucchesi Antonelli. The second daughter.
Chapter 5
Emilia
Clutching the box with both hands, I trot down the sidewalk toward Sixty-Seventh Street, my temporary fit of melancholy replaced with excitement now. I imagine Daria and me bustling around her kitchen, chatting as we set out the snacks and drinks for book club. I cross Bay Ridge Avenue, watching my step as I approach the curb, taking care that the box doesn’t shift. The pizza di crema is a masterpiece, if I may say so myself.
Please let Daria like it, I chant silently. Moments later, I realize my mental chant has become, Please let Daria like me.
A horn blares and I lunge onto the sidewalk, my heart racing. Then I spot the shiny black truck with Cusumano Electric splashed on the side door. The vehicle slows and the window lowers. Matteo Cusumano lifts his aviator sunglasses.
“Hey, gorgeous. Need a lift?”
I smile at my dearest friend—one I’ve never not known. Cradling the cake, I lean into his truck. “You sure know how to spoil a girl, showing up when she’s two blocks from her destination.”
“Hey, I’m that kind of guy.” Matt laughs. “Hop in. Let’s grab a beer.”
“Don’t you have electricity to restore? Wires to cross?”
He grins. “Just finished my last job for the day—the exhausting task of changing a lightbulb in Mrs. Fata’s kitchen.”
“Wow. That electrician’s license is really paying off.”
“Smart-ass.”
I climb into the cab of his truck, holding tight to the box as I fasten my seat belt. “You do realize Mrs. Fata is hoping you’ll change more than her lightbulbs, don’t you?”
“Women in their sixties love me,” he says. And it’s probably true. Matteo is lean and lanky, with a beautiful head of curly dark hair, front teeth that overlap slightly, and an infectious laugh that’s been known to tease a smile from Nonna Rosa herself. He elbows me. “It’s those twenty-nine-year-olds I can’t seem to charm.”
I stifle a groan and turn to the window, where a young mother pushes a stroller down the sidewalk. Though Matt is ten months older than I am, he’s always felt like my kid brother. He’s the scrawny boy who walked me to Saint Athanasius on the first day of kindergarten, the one who bloodied Joey Bonofiglio’s nose when he called me “fish lips” in the fifth grade, the brainiac who let me copy his chemistry homework our entire sophomore year, the sweetheart who took me to prom and later accompanied me to Daria’s wedding and every other event that required a date. Matteo Silvano Cusumano is my plus-one, times a hundred. Nobody could hope for a better friend. And that’s exactly how I want to keep it.
“Can you drop me at Daria’s, please?”
“No time for a beer?”
“It’s book club tonight, remember?”
“Right. All the more reason for alcohol.”
I shoot him a look. Matt isn’t a fan of Daria. “A raving bitch,” he once dubbed her, before I called him out on it. Nobody talks about my sister like that.
The truck slows to a stop in front of her house. “Thanks for the ride, MC.”
“What time does this shindig end? I’ll pick you up.”
“It’s okay.” I open the door. “I can walk home.”
“Seriously. It’ll be the highlight of my night.”
His eyes are as tender as a lover’s. I cringe, hating the awkward moments that seem to be creeping into our conversations more and more frequently. Our relationship shifted last May, when Matt broke up with Leah, his girlfriend of eight months. It’s always easier when Matt’s in a relationship. But our friendship reached an unspoken tipping point last month, when we attended his best friend’s wedding. Afterward, when we were walking through the parking lot, still howling over the father-of-the-groom’s attempt to moonwalk, Matt grabbed hold of my hand. Naturally, I let out a crack of laughter, slugged him in the arm, and stuffed my hand into my coat pocket. Matt and I hug. Sometimes I kiss his cheek. We high-five and fist-bump. We don’t hold hands. Ever. But I hurt his feelings and I feel awful, and there’s no way to apologize without bringing up the mortifying event—or worse, having to talk about “us.” So I pretend it didn’t happen.
I step out of the truck. “You’re pathetic, Cusumano. Thanks anyway. Really.”
I wave good-bye and turn up the sidewalk to the 1940s row house Donnie and Daria bought after Donnie’s dad passed. Their plan was that Donnie, who lays brick and claims to know a “shitload” about construction, would fix up the dated interior. Two years later, aside from a coat of paint in the bathroom and new carpet in the girls’ room, the place still looks like a set from I Love Lucy. It’s retrocool, I tell Daria. A classic.
Laughter rises from the backyard. I round the corner and step up to the chain-link fence, where my nieces are practicing gymnastics in a yard not much bigger than a collapsed refrigerator box. Already they’re so different, Natalie and Mimi, the firstborn daughter and the second. Just as my great-great-great-great-great-great-aunt Filomena predicted when she cast the Fontana Second-Daughter Curse—not that I believe the old myth.
I watch as nine-year-old Natalie does a perfect handspring. She lifts her arms triumphantly, then brushes back loose strands of shiny brown hair from her angelic face. Today, my sister has styled it into a French braid, entwined with a pretty red ribbon. Her turquoise leggings show off her lean, muscular frame, and she’s wearing a T-shirt that says Future President, which might actually be true.
“And that’s the way you do a handspring,” she tells Mimi. Yup, the girl is as self-assured and borderline bossy as a young Hillary Clinton.
Seven-year-old Mimi gazes at her big sister with awe. As usual, Mimi looks a bit rumpled today. She’s wearing a wrinkled, hand-me-down dress that hangs from her bony frame. Her long legs are grass stained and her toenails, unlike her sister’s purple ones, are bare. Her dark hair is clipped short, slashing twenty minutes of bickering from their morning ritual, according to my sister.
“Auntie Em!” Mimi cries when she sees me. She runs full force to me, her arms outstretched. I place the cake on the lawn and squat down, pulling her into my arms.
“Hey, sweet pea!” I close my eyes and breathe in her slightly sour smell. “How are my girls?” I rise and open my arms to Natalie. “Nice handspring, kiddo.”
She gives me a quick hug. “Thanks.”
“Swing me!” Mimi says.
I smile and tousle her hair. “Just once. I’m helping your mom get ready for book club.”
I take her hands and turn in fast, tight circles. Mimi, airborne, screams with laughter. I’m laughing, too. Somewhere behind us, the back door opens.
“Em? What are you doing?�
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I slow to a dizzying stop. “Hey, Dar.” I drop Mimi’s hands, trying to orient myself as the yard spins. “I’ll be right in.”
“Where’s the cake?”
I laugh and stagger backward, accidentally poking my cheek as I go to straighten my glasses. “Don’t worry, I’ve got it.”
“Auntie Em!” Mimi cries. “Watch out!”
My heel hits against something hard. I try to avoid it, but the earth is still spiraling. I’m stumbling now.
“Emmie!” Daria yells as I tumble backward.
My hip hits the ground. Hard. I hear the door slam shut. Instantly, Daria’s at my side.
“I’m okay,” I assure her, rubbing my side.
“Damn it!” she says, wedging the crushed box from beneath my feet. “The cake is ruined!”
She rushes off to the house. I push myself onto my elbows, the earlier excitement draining from me. “I’m so sorry,” I call to her.
“You’re in trouble,” Natalie tells me.
“I know.” I scramble to my feet and quickly kiss both their cheeks. “I better go see if I can salvage the cake before Nonna goes ballistic.”
It isn’t until I see their puzzled faces that I realize I misspoke.
Twenty minutes later, I’ve managed to prop the cake back up with the help of toothpicks and a second layer of icing. “Ta-da!” I say, holding it up for Daria.
She stands on a stool with her back to me, pulling wineglasses from her metal kitchen cupboard. She’s wearing a cute floral sundress that shows off her long, tanned legs.
I slide the cake onto her kitchen table, already filled with cheeses and crackers and tiny sandwiches. “Nobody will be the wiser,” I say.
She finally turns around. She zeros in on the cake. I wait, holding my breath.
“Good work, Emmie.”
I let out a breath. “Great. And, Dar, I really am sorry.”
She hops off the stool and I catch a whiff of her floral perfume. Her brown hair, highlighted with shades of gold and perfectly ironed, falls softly at her shoulders.
I pull my concealer stick from my pocket. “By the way,” I say, dabbing flesh-colored putty on the scar beneath my lip, “you look gorgeous.”
“Thanks. Hey, where’s Natalie? I told you, she needs help with her homework.”
“Oh.” I peek at my watch. “Right. I’ll get her.” I stop halfway to the door. It’s almost seven. A sinking feeling comes over me. “And those cupcakes Mimi has to take to school?”
“Thanks for remembering.” She tips her head toward a Duncan Hines cake mix sitting on the counter. “I owe you one, Emmie.”
I gaze out the rain-spattered kitchen window, my sister’s backyard shrouded in darkness now, and fill the sink. Daria’s voice drifts in from the living room, saying her good-byes to the last guest.
“Tell your sister her cake was amazing,” the woman says. “Invite her next month when I host. But warn her, I chose nonfiction. Probably too heavy for her.”
I scowl. What does that mean? I quickly dry my hands, ready to go defend myself, but Daria’s words pin me in place.
“Emmie’s got a degree in English lit. Trust me, she can handle it.” There’s no mistaking the edge in her voice.
I grin. Though it’s been years since she told me herself, my big sis is proud of me.
Ten minutes later, I place the last wineglass in the cupboard and fold the dish towel over the oven door handle. After surveying the spotless kitchen one last time, I grab my cake plate and turn out the kitchen light.
“I’m leaving,” I call down the hall.
Daria steps from her bedroom, already changed into her baby blue nightshirt. Memories rush in. My big sister in her pj’s, sitting cross-legged on the bed, polishing my nails. The two of us in matching nightgowns, singing into our hairbrushes to the Spice Girls’ “Wannabe.” Her hand rubbing circles on my back after I’d had a nightmare.
“Thanks, Emmie,” she says.
“And thank you. I heard what you said to your friend, the one who didn’t think I could handle nonfiction.”
She shrugs. “I’d say anything to shut Lauren down. That woman can be such a bitch.”
“Oh. Still, thanks.” An awkward silence settles. I hitch up my glasses. “Mimi’s cupcakes are on the counter.”
“Great.” She moves down the hallway, stopping an arm’s length from me.
“How was the book discussion?”
She looks away. “Fine. Boring. You didn’t miss a thing.”
“Really? Sounded like you guys were having fun.”
She sighs. “I’m sorry, Emmie. I didn’t realize Natalie’s homework would take so much time.”
What happened to us? I want to ask. My heart pummels against my rib cage. I muster all my courage and blurt out, “What did I do wrong, Dar?”
She crosses her arms and shifts uncomfortably before letting out a nervous chortle. “You should have let her use a calculator. I don’t care what the instructions say, it saves hours.”
She’s deflecting, as she always does, and we both know it. I drop it.
“I guess I’ll take off.”
“Okay. Be safe.”
I stare at the plate in my hand and wait, willing her to say something … anything. Finally I say, “You haven’t mentioned my cake, the one you asked me to make.” I hear the snark in my voice, but I can’t help myself. I’m too hurt. “How was it?”
She bats her forehead. “The pizza di crema! It was a huge hit. Nobody suspected that just an hour earlier, it was in pieces. Honest to God, Emmie, you should be a baker or something.” She tips her head back, and I’m enveloped in my sister’s rich, lilting laughter, a magical sound I once took for granted. “What would I do without you?” she says.
And just like that, all is forgiven.
Chapter 6
Emilia
I’m one block from Daria’s house and my hair’s already drenched. The winds have picked up, and the temperature has dropped a good twenty degrees since this afternoon. I trot down the street, cursing myself for not wearing a raincoat. Ahead, a man strolls toward me, nearly hidden beneath a gigantic golf umbrella. Headlights from an oncoming car illuminate his smiling face. A well of gratitude rises in me.
“MC!”
“Hey,” Matt says, shepherding me beneath his umbrella and handing me his Nike hoodie. “I know you said you would walk, but since it’s raining …”
I wriggle into his jacket. “Thanks.”
He lifts the hood over my head. “That hoodie’s never looked better.”
I ignore the compliment, and together, we set off walking.
“How was book club?”
“Fun,” I say, concentrating on the rain reflecting the streetlights.
“Yeah?” The air fills with silence—the pause of a lifelong friend who knows when I’m lying.
“I meant to tell you earlier,” I say, shifting the conversation. “My great-aunt Poppy invited me to Italy.”
“What? That’s awesome. You’ll finally have that adventure you’ve always wanted.”
Matt’s one of the few people who know about the travel magazines I borrow from the library and the dream board I concocted back in high school, per Oprah’s instructions, foolishly thinking mental images of far-off cities might make my dreams come true. I settle my eyes on the wet sidewalk.
“Uh-huh.”
“Aunt Poppy … she’s the one nobody talks to, right?”
“Yes. I have no idea why she’s chosen me as her travel companion.”
“Smart woman. When do you leave?”
“Oh, I’m not going. Nonna would have a stroke. She despises Poppy.”
“What does that have to do with you and your aunt?”
“Befriending Poppy would be the ultimate act of betrayal. Daria was the first to point this out.”
Raindrops pelt the umbrella. We walk in silence another block before he speaks again.
“Why do you let your family do this to you?”
“Look, I know what you’re thinking. But this is different, Matt. This is about loyalty and—”
“Bullshit.” He holds up a hand, blocking my rebuttal. “God, Em, you have no problem speaking your mind. Just last week, when we were in line at Da Vinci’s, you reamed the guy behind the counter for ignoring that Middle Eastern couple. And Fourth of July, when it was ninety degrees and you saw that collie trapped in a car? You waited thirty minutes for its owner to return, just so you could let her have it.” He gives me a lopsided grin and softens his voice. “I love that about you. So why the hell do you let your nonna—and your sister—push you around?”
I shake my head. Matt has never understood my family. He and his three younger brothers are best buds. Nobody in the Cusumano family ends a phone call without saying “I love you.”
“My family shows love differently than yours,” I say, already weary of this tired conversation. “But that doesn’t mean they don’t care. You remember when my uncle Vinnie had that scare with his heart eight years ago?”
He rolls his eyes. “Your entire family rallied.”
“That’s right. They did, Matt, so don’t give me that look. Every night, Nonna delivered dinner to Aunt Carol. Carmella and Lucy stayed with my dad and me for an entire month. And they’ve been there for me, too—especially Nonna. She dedicated her entire adult life to helping raise Dar and me. She’s never asked for a thing in return.”
“Except your complete obedience,” he mumbles.
I skate right over his sarcasm. “And when I was in the accident back in college, Nonna closed the store for three days so they could be by my side. That,” I say, “is what family is all about. So please, don’t act like my family has no soul. They’re good people.”
“To everyone but you and your aunt Poppy.”
One Italian Summer: The perfect romantic fiction read for summer 2020 Page 3
