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

by Lori Nelson Spielman

  Across the table, Daria shushes the girls. “Looks like Aunt Emmie has been keeping a secret.”

  Mimi’s eyes go wide. “You have a boyfriend?”

  Everyone laughs except Matt. He raises an eyebrow and I look away.

  “No!” I say, and bat a hand at Mimi. I take a deep breath. “I’m going to Italy.”

  Daria’s face falls. The table goes silent. From the corner of my eye, I see Nonna cross herself.

  “That’s right,” Matt says, looking around the table. “She leaves next month. Eight days in Italy. Pretty cool, huh?”

  Heads turn. Confused looks are exchanged. Slowly, my family members find their voices.

  “Why is she going to Italy?”

  “Is it safe?”

  “Not for a young woman.”

  “Europe is teeming with crime these days.”

  “Yes,” Aunt Carol agrees. “Terrorists.”

  “And gypsies. They’d steal the blood from your veins if you let them.”

  Matt rubs his forehead and steals a glance at me. I work my face into a smile, trying to lighten the mood.

  “C’mon,” I say. “It’s Italy, our homeland.”

  “You are not traveling alone, are you, Emmie?”

  Lucy closes her eyes, as if preparing for a hit. All eyes turn to me. “No,” I say, and glance down the table. “I’m going with Lucy.”

  “Lucy?” Aunt Carol snaps her head toward Lucy. “You’re not going to Italy. Are you?”

  I twist the napkin in my lap. “We’re going with Aunt Poppy.”

  A silence takes over the room, so profound you could hear dust drop. I run a finger over my scar. Finally, Nonna’s chair scrapes against the wood floor. Wordlessly, she rises. Gripping her espresso cup, she moves into the living room, as if she hasn’t heard a word I’ve said.

  While my dad and Uncle Vinnie squat beside Nonna’s chair, offering their comfort, Aunt Carol lobs questions at Lucy. I busy myself gathering dishes from the table, trying not to eavesdrop.

  “What are you thinking, Luciana, leaving your new beau to go traveling? You’ll ruin your chance.”

  As I stack plates, their exchange becomes heated. The vein in Lucy’s forehead bulges. Finally, with her nose inches from her mom’s, she whispers through clenched teeth, “The effing curse will be broken. In Italy. Aunt Poppy promised.”

  Aunt Carol’s eyes become saucers. She leans in, clutching her chest. “The curse will be lifted?”

  My heart sinks. I hang my head and curse myself … and Lucy … and Aunt Poppy.

  My entire body shakes with frustration as I rinse glasses at the kitchen sink. Just one person with no ulterior motives. That’s all I wanted. Just one person in my family to cheer for Lucy and me, to tell us they’re happy for our adventure, to wish us a good trip. But no, they’d never voice their support aloud. Not one person dares to upset Nonna. She controls all of us … including me. Up until now.

  My dad comes up beside me and sets his plate on the counter. “Eight days in Italy. That is a long time to be away from the store.”

  “Yup.” I snatch his plate and blast it with spray. “And it’s actually ten days, if you count the travel.”

  He does a quick perusal of the kitchen, then bends to my ear. “I’m happy to take care of Claws while you’re gone.”

  I turn to look at my father, and see the twinkle in his eyes. My mouth falls open. I want to kiss him. I want to throw my arms around him and thank him and tell him I love him. But that would be too awkward. Instead, I smile. “Thanks, Dad. I thought I’d ask Carmella if she’d like to stay at the apartment. It’s easier on Claws.” I don’t mention the fact that my single cousin, who still lives with my aunt Carol and uncle Vinnie, would probably kill for her own space, if only for ten days.

  “Sure,” he says and turns to leave.

  “But Dad?” He looks back. “Thank you.”

  He squeezes my shoulder and disappears from the kitchen.

  I’m filling the kitchen sink when Matt appears. “You were amazing,” he says, surprising me by bending down to kiss my cheek.

  I twist away, uncomfortable. “Thanks. Hey, go back out there, will you? I need to know what they’re saying about me.”

  He turns to leave, but not before I see the disappointment in his eyes. “Shit,” I whisper. I plunge my hands into the sudsy water and I set about scouring a cast-iron pot. Suddenly, a cold hand grips my elbow. I jump, showering the counter with tiny bubbles. Through my steamy lenses, I see my nonna’s pinched face. She leans in so closely I can smell the espresso on her breath.

  “You went against my wishes. You made this decision without telling me.”

  Um, maybe because I’m twenty-nine years old, and I’m long overdue to start thinking for myself. But I swallow the brazen words. “I didn’t think you’d let me go,” I say truthfully, and dry my hands.

  “This is right. I would not have allowed it. Not now. Not ever.” She turns away and covers her face, her way of displaying emotion without shedding a tear.

  “I’m not doing this to hurt you, Nonna.” I put a hand on her shoulder and she flinches.

  “You have hurt me, Emilia. Very, very badly.”

  “I’m sorry. But I don’t understand.”

  She looks away and swabs her dry eyes with a tea towel. “No, you do not understand. How could you? You do not know the story.” Her eyes return to mine. “My sister is il diavolo.”

  “The devil?” I chuckle. “No, Nonna. She’s really nice now. You should call her, talk to her.”

  “You are a fool!” The vein in her forehead bulges, and I fear she’s going to keel over with a stroke. “Paolina tried to take my child from me, my Josephina. She tried to snatch my baby girl right from my arms.”

  The kitchen goes cold. “Au-Aunt Poppy tried to kidnap my mother?”

  “Sì.”

  I shake my head. “How? Why?”

  She pats her heart, making a thumping sound. “I cannot talk about it.”

  “That was decades ago,” I say, trying to convey a confidence that I’m not feeling. “Surely you believe in second chances. She’s your sister.”

  “You listen to me, Emilia Josephina.” Her eyes narrow and she points her arthritic finger at my chest. “No more talk of Italy, not with that woman. I forbid it.”

  I try to lose myself in cleanup and conversation and Chianti, but by afternoon’s end, Nonna’s words have sunk in, and with them, a fog of doubt. Poppy tried to steal my mother from Nonna’s clutches. No wonder Nonna is so bitter. Just who is this woman I’ve agreed to travel halfway across the world with?

  The five o’clock sun casts shadows on the small patch of grass out front. I wander onto the porch, where Uncle Dolphie sits smoking a cigar, gazing out at the passing cars.

  “Uncle Dolphie,” I say, perching beside him. “Is your sister evil?”

  He taps his cigar, then shakes his head. “Nah. Not evil. Just mean.”

  I laugh. “No, not Rosa. I’m talking about Poppy.”

  “Paolina?” He lets loose a heavy sigh. “That one broke my heart. She was sunshine in our home, my favorite sister. She loved to play tricks on me. Always she would find lucky coins. And her imagination!” He lifts his hands. “Endless! She would take me into the fields and we would pretend to be orphans, running away from an evil monster. I think it was our father she was imagining. You see, our papà, he was hard on Paolina.”

  “Was he hard on Nonna, too?”

  “Yes. That was his nature. But everyone knew he favored Rosa, his firstborn daughter. She was a pretty girl before she came to this country, and she had a loving heart. It is as if America leached the kindness from her.”

  “You said Aunt Poppy—Paolina—broke your heart. How?”

  He groans, as if a steel vest has been placed upon his shoulders. “When Paolina came to America, she lost her mind. I was back in Italy, still living in Trespiano with Mamma and Papà. Rosa and Bruno sent letters. It was very hard for my parents to learn
that their daughter was so ill.”

  “Was this when she kidnapped Rosa and Alberto’s baby?”

  His head snaps to attention. “You know about this?”

  “Nonna told me. Why would Aunt Poppy do such a horrible thing?”

  He takes a puff of his cigar and stares off into the distance. “She was heartbroken when her baby died.”

  I gasp. “Aunt Poppy had a baby?”

  “She was pregnant, sì. But of course, she was the second daughter. She should have known it would end badly.”

  I rub the gooseflesh from my arms. Dolphie shakes his head. “Poor Paolina … she was never the same. When Rosa delivered her own baby, it was too much for Paolina. She snapped like a twig. Paolina became attached—too attached—to baby Josephina.”

  “So she took the baby,” I say. “But then she realized she was wrong and she gave Josephina back.”

  He nods. “And two days later, she left Bensonhurst for good, allowed to return only on holidays.” He stubs out his cigar and plants it tip side up in the front pocket of his sports coat. “It was for the best. Being near Josephina was too tempting for Paolina. Rosa and Alberto no longer trusted her. Your nonna still thinks Paolina is pericolosa.”

  My heart breaks for my young aunt. Did she ever recover from the loss? She seems quite functional now. “What about you? Do you think she’s dangerous?”

  He smiles. “Only as dangerous as a kitten. Paolina’s heart oozes honey, of that I am certain.” He rests a hand on my knee. “You know, this trip to Italy could be fortuitous. My sisters are growing old. I am not saying it will happen, but if you were to get into Paolina’s good graces, perhaps you could convince her to beg Rosa’s forgiveness once more, before it is too late.”

  Chapter 12

  Emilia

  It’s been thirty-two days, and thanks to my preoccupation with the trip, I’ve managed to avoid another serious conversation with Matt. Now, as our taxi zips down the Belt Parkway Sunday afternoon and Lucy’s busy painting her nails, I lift my phone to text him. I want to tell him good-bye, that I love him, that I’ll miss him. But everything’s become so complicated. What once would have been a completely natural message now feels unfair. I don’t want to lead him on.

  On way to JFK. I type. See you in ten days. Take care of yourself, MC.

  As always, his reply pops up instantly. I’m proud of you, Ems. I’m here if you need anything. Oh, and have you seen my hoodie?

  His Nike hoodie, the one he loaned me the night of Daria’s book club. Sorry. On my coatrack. Carmella’s staying at my place while I’m gone. Knock first so you don’t scare her.

  Before I have time to turn off my phone, he replies. Can we talk when you get home? Please?

  My stomach clenches. I take a deep breath. Sure.

  I toss my phone into my purse. As I go to snap it shut, something in the bottom catches my eye. I freeze. The hairs on my arms stand erect. No. It can’t be.

  It’s heavy and cool as I lift it, about the size of a silver dollar. Around its circumference it reads Saint Christopher, Protect Us. The bronze medallion that once belonged to our mother.

  For years this medal was Daria’s most prized possession. My dad gave it to her when she made her first communion. “The patron saint of travelers,” he told her. “Your mother would want you to have it.”

  And now Dar wants me to have it. She must have slipped it into my purse, too embarrassed to give it to me personally.

  A soft moan rises before I can catch it. I clutch the medal and hold it to my heart, filled with the comfort of Saint Christopher’s protection … my mother’s memory … my sister’s love.

  Lucy stops blowing on her nails and looks over at me, her head cocked. “Jesus, Em. You having an orgasm over there, or what?”

  As promised, Aunt Poppy is waiting just outside the Delta counter. Though it’s been ten years since I’ve seen her in person, I recognize her instantly. In fact, she’d be hard to miss, dressed in bright green slacks, a patchwork blazer, and big round glasses that nearly swallow her tiny face.

  “If it isn’t Elton John–ette,” Lucy mumbles.

  Poppy’s waving both hands at once. Beside her sit two wheelie bags splashed with purples and reds and yellows, as if someone—Poppy perhaps—took a brush dipped in paint and flicked it at a perfectly good set of white luggage.

  “My sunshine!” she cries, trotting over to us. Her nails are painted a flaming coral to match her lips. “You’re even lovelier in real life!”

  I want to be angry with this woman who tried to steal my mother. But when I step into her open arms, all reservations vanish. Criminal or not, my aunt makes me feel loved, a feeling I’m growing to like. But just as quickly, guilt rises. I’ve lived my entire life with Nonna, and now I’m betraying her for an aunt I barely know.

  “My heart is dancing!” she says, planting one last kiss on my cheek before turning to Lucy. “And you!” She goes to draw her other niece into a hug, but Lucy stands stiffly, her arms at her sides.

  “It’s wonderful to see you, Luciana,” Aunt Poppy finally says, and she grins. “Though I may have preferred seeing a little less of you.”

  Lucy rears back. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  I turn away, embarrassed for my poor cousin. What was I supposed to do when Lucy came wobbling down her porch steps, dressed in a clingy white cocktail dress and black open-toed ankle boots? Who, besides my cousin, ever thought open-toed boots were a good idea? But the cab was racking up a fortune, and we needed to get to the airport. Why start the trip with an argument?

  Poppy pats her cheek. “That silly old curse has made fools of us all. Just look at you, my dear girl. So desperate for love. And this one”—she points at me—“shows up looking like a scuffed shoe.”

  I gasp. “Me?”

  Lucy cracks up. “I know, right? But you’re going to break it now? The curse?”

  Poppy lifts her chin. “On my eightieth birthday, I will meet the love of my life on the steps of the Ravello Cathedral.”

  Lucy’s jaw drops. “That’s your plan to break the curse?”

  Poppy’s face erupts in childlike joy, and she nods. Lucy grabs her by the shoulders.

  “No. No! No! No! You can’t be serious. What makes you think you’re going to meet the love of your life at age eighty, when I can’t find mine at twenty-one?”

  “What Lucy means,” I say, my heart in my stomach, “is that the odds of meeting someone at your … um … stage in life … is … well …”

  Lucy interjects. “I hate to break it to you, Pops, but very few men are into windsock boobs and wrinkled asses.”

  I wince, and pray our aunt has a hearing problem.

  “Tell me,” Poppy says, looking from Lucy to me. “When was it that you stopped believing in magic?”

  Her question catches me off guard. I’m tempted to tell her the truth, that I stopped believing sometime around the fourth grade, when, after years of wishing and praying, I still hadn’t gotten a mother.

  “The only reason I’m here,” Lucy says, “is because you promised to break the curse. My mom’s already blowing up my phone, wondering when I’ll be freed. Please tell me you have a plan B.”

  Poppy turns away and lifts the handles of her wheelie bags. “Forget about the curse, Luciana. We’re off to Italy!”

  I avoid Lucy’s eyes, but I can feel them, shooting daggers at me. I want to assure her that, if there really is a curse (which of course there’s not), Poppy will break it. She will keep her promise. But I can’t. My great-aunt just may be the biggest manipulator since Downton Abbey’s old Lady Grantham.

  I follow Poppy through security. Unlike my pristine passport, stamps from foreign countries fill every page of Poppy’s book.

  “How many countries have you visited?” I ask as she slips her passport back into her oversized orange purse.

  “Thirty-four and counting. But Italy’s special. I return every year.”

  “You travel to Italy each year, hop
ing to meet your true love?”

  “Oh, goodness, no! Only this year. I haven’t set foot in Ravello since 1961. I’ve been saving that town for next week.”

  We three sit at the gate, side by side on pleather sling chairs. Lucy turns her back to us, typing furiously into her phone. Poppy seems oblivious. She sits erect as a queen, smiling and nodding to the travelers as they scurry past.

  “Airports are such fun, don’t you think, Luciana?”

  “Second only to Brazilian waxing,” Lucy says, her eyes never leaving her phone.

  Poppy tips her head back and laughs. “How clever you are, Luciana, for someone who chooses to wear stilettos for international travel.”

  Lucy looks over her shoulder. “Hey, they’re better than Em’s church lady shoes.”

  “What’s wrong with my shoes? These Clarks are super comfy.”

  Poppy plants a hand on mine. “Once you start dressing for comfort, dear, it’s all downhill. Ever visit a nursing home? Nothing but elastic and Velcro.”

  Ouch. She’s managed to ding both Lucy and me in one conversation.

  As Lucy taps her phone, Poppy tells me of her love for horses. “Bought Higgins on my sixtieth birthday.” Her favorite music. “I just got wind of a terrific new indie band called Chastity Belt. Have you heard them yet?” And the yoga classes that keep her limber. “Do you know that seventy percent of adults cannot get up from the floor without using their hands? Imagine!”

  As she talks, I study her, the way she emphasizes with hand gestures, furrows her brows, leans back and howls. She’s wrinkled, no doubt about it. But her face isn’t pinched, like Nonna’s. And those eyes. They’re the same oval shape as Nonna’s, the same deep chocolate brown. But I’d bet my life savings the creases that sprout from Poppy’s are etched from amusement, not animosity.

  I startle, and realize Poppy has stopped talking. “I’m sorry. Go on.”

  She leans in. “You’re looking at me as if you’re seeing me for the first time, dear.”

  I smile, feeling heat rise to my cheeks. “I guess I never realized you were so beautiful.”

  “I was a plain child. But you see, planted in the right spot, we blossom. You’ll find it happens to you, too, once you find your home.”