One Italian Summer: The perfect romantic fiction read for summer 2020

by Lori Nelson Spielman

  I absently massage my scar. “Aunt Poppy, please. I can’t go to Italy. It’s im—”

  “It’s possible.” She stares at me with such force that I’m grateful she’s only on-screen. “Despite your protests, you’re dying to go. Isn’t that why you included your phone number in your letter?”

  I sigh. “Okay. Maybe I would like to go. The truth is, Nonna won’t allow it. She wanted to write you back herself, but I insisted. For some reason I thought it was important to tell you myself.”

  Poppy grins. “Well, what do you know? You’ve got some spunk after all. Must drive Rosa bananas. Your mother was made of honey water. I’m glad to see you’re different.”

  My heartbeat quickens. All my life I’ve longed for details about my mother. I stopped asking my father about her years ago, after Nonna accused me of pulling scabs off wounds, something that sounded excruciating to my young ears. Aside from physical traits I’ve gleaned from photos, my father has shared exactly three things about my mother. She liked to dance. Her favorite color was blue. And she hated spiders. It saddens me to think perhaps this was all my father knew of his young wife.

  “How well did you know my mom?”

  “I saw her every Christmas and Easter. She’d leap from the porch and rush down the sidewalk when she saw me coming.”

  I picture my mother and her aunt, spinning in circles, giggling like Mimi and I do.

  “Rosa resented our relationship. She was very controlling, as you well know, and sweet Josie was a pleaser.”

  I grip the phone. “Tell me more. Did she love books? Was she curious? Kind? Please, Aunt Poppy, tell me everything you know about my mom.”

  Chapter 8

  Poppy

  1959

  Trespiano, Italy

  The entire country of Italy, it seemed, was booming in the 1950s, especially those in the “Industrial Triangle”—Milan, Turin, and Genoa. Billions of dollars were streaming into our country, thanks to the Marshall Plan. But our small Tuscan village of Trespiano, just outside of Firenze—the Italian city of Florence—remained more or less untouched. My father, a hardworking farmer, was missing out on the windfall.

  My oldest brother, Bruno, along with Rosa’s handsome fiancé, Alberto, worked in the fields alongside Papà. Each week they took their crop to market, and returned with barely enough money to cover the rent and family expenses. Although he had toiled for years in these fields, Papà still leased his land. The wealthy landowner was the one who was making money.

  Rosa’s fiancé was the first to voice his frustration. In a few years, Dolphie, who was still too young, would join the trio. Alberto wondered how the farm could support four men and their families when it could not support three.

  All the while Alberto hoed the land and tilled the soil he was planting seeds—literally and figuratively. He and my brother Bruno, both twenty-four at the time, would leave this place where they were not appreciated. They would go to America, where milk and honey flowed from the riverbanks.

  Alberto had an uncle who had immigrated to the United States three years earlier. This uncle, Ignacio, wrote to Alberto, telling of the place he lived, New York, and the refrigerator in his apartment and the machine that washed his clothing. Ignacio had opened a little store called Lucchesi’s in a Brooklyn neighborhood called Bensonhurst, where many of his fellow Italian immigrants made their homes. But Ignacio needed help slicing meats and preparing foods in the kitchen. If Alberto and his friend Bruno came to America, they would make more money in one month than in an entire year of farming.

  My brother Bruno thought it was a grand idea. He and Alberto began saving their money. Alberto would marry Rosa before he left. Once he was settled in America, she would join him and they would start a new life in America. Dolphie would soon follow. “You will be welcome, too,” Alberto told my parents. “Paolina as well.”

  The thought of going to America, a country brimming with modern ideas and freedom, a daring new Guggenheim museum that was said to look like a nautilus shell, and the handsome senator John Fitzgerald Kennedy, rumored to be a future presidential candidate, thrilled me. But not my sweet sister Rosa. At night, beneath the eaves in our tiny bedroom, she shared her fears with me. Though she was two years older than I, and sassier than most men, Rosa was timid, even cowardly at times. She craved security and safety and certainty. She wanted nothing more than to remain in Trespiano forever, surrounded by our family and Alberto and a flock of children.

  Alberto and my father talked every night at the dinner table. Bruno and Alberto would leave for America. They would have no trouble getting visas. Uncle Ignacio would sponsor them, assuring the US government that the men would have jobs upon their arrival.

  Behind his back, Rosa scoffed at the idea, claiming her fiancé was a dreamer, that they would never leave Trespiano and Mamma and Papà. But I knew her fate was sealed. She would soon be married to Alberto. Women in our family had no voice. Once her husband was in America, she would be expected to join him. Alberto wanted a strong, hardworking wife in his new homeland, a woman who would bear him many children. And if Rosa wasn’t willing to travel to America, there were plenty of girls in the village who would.

  Alberto Lucchesi was smooth as a swan on the dance floor, and when he laughed, you couldn’t help but join in. Over six feet tall, he had a thick head of black hair and a twinkling gaze that seemed to mesmerize. I witnessed him charm more than one of my girlfriends, though I never told my sister. She was already insecure. And Papà was no help. He congratulated his eldest daughter on her prize fiancé, joked about her good fortune. “You, my dear daughter, are a simple fishing net. Yet somehow you have managed to catch the biggest fish in the sea.”

  Each time Papà made comments like these, Rosa seemed to shrink. And when Alberto read books and newspapers or used words that Rosa could not pronounce, let alone define, Rosa’s self-doubt grew.

  “Alberto will soon be bored with me.”

  “The kindest girl in Italy?” I would say. “The most wonderful cook in Trespiano? The one who will make him a perfect wife? Nonsense.”

  “And mother,” she added. “Alberto wants many children.”

  “Of course. You will make the best mother.”

  Rosa said nothing when Alberto began saving money for his voyage to America. She didn’t want to think about what would come next—a trek across the Atlantic all by herself. Often she would wake with nightmares and cling to me, relaying the visions of the whirling waters, the tiny ship’s cabin that she could not escape.

  One day at dinner, Rosa announced that she had wonderful news. My father continued to roll his pasta onto his fork, uninterested in his daughter’s silly thoughts, but I sat up, curious.

  “Alberto has written to his uncle Ignacio,” Rosa said.

  My father’s eyes lifted.

  “Ignacio has agreed to marry Paolina.”

  I choked on my bread.

  “They will marry as soon as Paolina and I arrive in Brooklyn.”

  My father’s face lit up. He raised his glass of Chianti. “To Ignacio and Paolina. I never thought it would happen.”

  To my family, it was settled. I would go to New York and marry Ignacio, a hot-tempered forty-one-year-old who needed a young bride to cook and clean and wash his filthy clothes. I shuddered. “Never!”

  “Please, Paolina,” Rosa said, her hands folded in prayer. “You must accept his proposal. If you are engaged to a man in America, immigration into the United States will be easy. And best of all, we will travel together to America.”

  My fork clattered onto my plate. “I will never marry this man. He is too old. I do not even know him.”

  “Hush,” my mother said. “You are the second daughter. Do you not realize how lucky you are that someone is willing? Think of all your cousins who would jump at this chance.”

  I threw my napkin on the table. “I do not believe in that curse. I never did.”

  But as I spoke, my thoughts drifted to my great-aunt Isabella, my
aunt Blanca, my cousins Apollonia, Silvia, Evangelina, Martina, Livia. All second-born Fontana women. All single.

  “And what about children?” my mother said. “You finally have a prayer.”

  I nearly upended my chair when I stood. “I no longer have an appetite.”

  I was halfway up the stairs when Rosa grabbed my arm.

  “Paolina, please forgive me. I thought you would be happy about Ignacio. Now we can go to America together.”

  I felt trapped. Yes, I wanted to help my sister. And I longed to go to America. I yearned for the freedom and opportunities. Perhaps I could even go to college. But I would never marry a man I did not love.

  “I do not need a husband. I am happy to be single forever.”

  “Do you not see? This is the easiest way for you to get into the country.” She pulled me close and whispered, “Who is going to make you marry this man once we are in America?”

  I looked into her mischievous eyes. She was right. Rosa and I would arrive in America at least a year before my parents. America was the land of the free. Women actually had a voice. They smoked and drove automobiles and some even took pills for menstrual cramps that were rumored to prevent pregnancy. Once there, I could do anything, be anyone I wanted. The idea left me breathless … and hopeful. I grabbed Rosa into a hug.

  “I love you, my clever sister.”

  In late September, Rosa and Alberto were married in a sober ceremony that seemed, to my young heart, completely void of passion. But Rosa was deliriously happy. “I finally have him,” she told me. “The man of my dreams is all mine, and nobody can take him away.”

  Two days later, she and I applied for visas to America, Rosa as a young wife whose husband would soon be living and working in the United States, me as a woman engaged to an Italian American who had already gained his citizenship. We were told it would take months, maybe over a year, to get approval. Until then, we would work and save our money for the passage—the ship’s fare to America was expensive.

  I was almost twenty years old, curious about everything—languages, history, science. But I had no skills or education. I found work as a laundress four days a week, a dreadful job steaming linens in the basement of a hotel in the neighboring town of Fiesole. When I wasn’t at the hotel, I was home with Mamma, helping her prepare enormous meals and clean the house and take care of the chickens. She taught me to darn socks and mend clothing, so that I could assist with the sewing jobs she took in for extra money.

  But sewing was a bore. I was a dreadful cook. And cleaning the house? Who wants to spend their days on hands and knees, half the time with your head in a bucket? I was restless in the home, so I lost myself in fantasies. I dreamed of going to the university, once I got to America, and becoming an architect one day. And a physicist the next day. And a professor the next. La mia sognatrice—my dreamer—my mother would call me.

  Rosa, a married woman of twenty-two, had more options. Her new husband, Alberto, had a cousin whose friend worked at La Galleria degli Uffizi in Florence. If Rosa could pass the test, she would be hired as a tour guide at the famous gallery.

  I was so envious! The Uffizi Gallery housed one of the finest collections of Renaissance art in the world. My lucky sister would have a prestigious job in the city, a job that was stimulating and exciting. But first, Rosa had to pass her examination, which was no small feat. Her eyes would glaze over each time she tried to study the sixty-page manual the museum’s curator had given her. Poor Rosa had little curiosity and absolutely no interest in art.

  Each night after my long day of work, she and I would sit on the little bed we used to share in the attic before Papà put up the partition creating a separate space for her and Alberto. I would quiz her, asking about Leonardo da Vinci’s Annunciation and Michelangelo’s Doni Tondo, the dates and history of every major piece in the museum. But Rosa never seemed to remember. Her mind was too fraught with worries. She fretted over Alberto’s upcoming departure, bombarded me with questions that had no satisfying answers. Would her new husband forget about her once he left Trespiano? And what about the ship that would one day carry us to America? What if it sank? What if we arrived in New York and Alberto was not there to greet us?

  Finally, the night before the exam arrived. But this time, I was the one with the knot in my stomach. My sister knew nothing. She confused her dates, couldn’t distinguish the sculptors from the painters. I flung the book onto the bed and took Rosa by the arms. “Do you not understand how important this is? You must get this job, Rosa, so we can save money to get to America, and you can be with Alberto.”

  “La mia sorella testarda.” It was her pet name for me, her stubborn sister. She fell back against the bed. “I cannot do this, Paolina! How would you like to have to learn all of these boring facts?”

  “Boring? These artists are fascinating. And for your information, I do know it.”

  She sat up. I could see the balls in her head rolling. “You,” she said, pointing a finger at me. “You take the exam. You work as the tour guide. I will take your job as the laundress and help Mamma with the house chores.”

  I couldn’t believe it. She would rather work in a stifling laundry room than give tours at the famous gallery? Why?

  “I need to stay close to home,” she said, answering my unspoken question. “Here, I can learn of the local gossip, keep track of Alberto’s comings and goings.”

  How do you reply to someone so fearful? My heart hurt for my sister.

  “But, Rosa, I have not applied. The Uffizi is expecting you.”

  She turned and looked me directly in the eyes. “Then you will pretend to be me.” Her eyes were absent any conflict or guilt.

  I rubbed the gooseflesh from my arms. “Rosa, no. We cannot …” My voice trailed off.

  Hidden within my fear, a tingling of excitement rose. Could we possibly get away with such a charade?

  Chapter 9

  Emilia

  Through the screen of my iPhone, Poppy shakes her head, as if she’s coming out of a trance. I watch and wait, hoping she’ll continue. But she’s reaching for her martini shaker now.

  “What a fascinating story,” I say. “You and Nonna were close when you were young.”

  “We adored each other.”

  “I never knew my nonno Alberto. I had no idea he was a heartthrob, or that Rosa kept tabs on him.”

  “My sister treated love like a possession,” Poppy says, pouring the last drops of gin from the shaker. “To me, love is more like a lending library. To keep it, we must continually renew it. Otherwise we pay a hefty fine.”

  I smile. “That’s lovely. Did she ever grow confident in Alberto’s love?”

  “Things improved once they were in America. Parenthood created a bond, as it often does.”

  I peel a flake of green paint from the park bench. “You honestly didn’t believe in the curse, Aunt Poppy? Even when you were young?”

  She laughs. “Never. You?”

  “No,” I say, and quickly change the subject. “Hey, you never got to the part of the story about my mom.”

  “In time, dear.” She sips her drink and leans back in her chair. “Now, I’ll purchase our tickets this week.”

  A secret yearning gathers in me. Like mist from a river, it begins to rise. What will Nonna do? What will Daria say? My temples throb as Matt’s words echo in my head. You tiptoe around them, bowing to their every need, so that they’ll love you. Because if you don’t, one day you could end up alone and abandoned, just like Poppy.

  If being ostracized once terrified me—and I’m not saying it did—it’s not so scary anymore. In the course of an hour, I’ve come to know my aunt Poppy, the woman my family cast aside like an empty soup can. I’ve been given a snapshot of her rich, full life. I’ve seen photos of her friends and even met her lover’s son. Today, the idea of being the rebel in the family doesn’t frighten me. It inspires me.

  “You do have your Italian passport, yes?” Poppy continues. “It’s something your m
other would have insisted on.”

  Because my mom was born in Italy, I have dual citizenship, and apparently this was important to her. “Really? What else do you know about my mom?”

  “She loved this farm. She stayed here with me the summer she turned eighteen.”

  For a moment I wonder if she’s lying, or simply delusional. Nonna would never have allowed that. But then she adds, “Of course Rosa was incensed. She ordered her home, and eventually Josie obeyed.”

  “I never knew that. What else?”

  She gazes into her martini glass. “You come to Italy and I’ll share everything I know about your mother. Everything.”

  A flurry sets off in my chest, like a collector awaiting the unveiling of a newly discovered masterpiece. I have a once-in-a-lifetime chance to get away, to travel to Italy with my free-spirited great-aunt, to hear stories of my mother. My heart batters. At this very moment, sitting in Petrosino Park, I make a decision.

  “Aunt Poppy?” I take a deep breath. “It’s possible.” My eyes flood with emotions—freedom and excitement and independence and terror. “I’m coming with you to Italy.”

  “Yes!” Her face beams. “Emilia, my dear girl, you have inherited the Fontana gene of fortitude. You’ve kept it hidden, but there it is, shining from you like a pollia berry.”

  “A what?”

  “Pollia berry. Shiniest living organism in the world.”

  I laugh, touched by an unfamiliar sense of pride. “Well, thanks.”

  “Now that you’re on board, I can invite Luciana.”

  “Lucy?” I snicker. “You mean Carmella, your other niece, Lucy’s older sister. My … quieter cousin.”

  “No. I mean Luciana, the twenty-one-year-old.”

  My smile fades. I feel like I’ve stepped into a sinkhole and it’s too late to pull myself out. As second daughters, Lucy and I share an unspoken bond. And now that we’re both in our twenties, we’ve grown even closer. But I can think of no more unlikely travel companions than Lucy and me.