“Bensonhurst is my home.”
“Is it?” She holds my gaze. “What if, after nearly thirty years of life, you discover you’ve been planted in the wrong place?”
An inexplicable chill comes over me. At once I remember the medal in my purse. “Excuse me,” I say. “I need to make a call.”
I punch in my sister’s number as I walk over to the window. She answers after three rings. “Thank you for the Saint Christopher medallion, Dar. I just found it.”
“It’s only on loan,” she says. “Don’t lose it.”
“I won’t, I promise. I’m here now, at the airport.” A smile hijacks my face and I practically levitate.
“I can’t believe you’re actually doing this. Nonna is beside herself.”
“She’ll be fine,” I say, wishing I believed it.
“So you’ll be back Friday?”
“Friday? This Friday? Of course not. We’ll be back a week from Tuesday—the twenty-third. Eight days in Italy, remember?”
Daria lets out an exaggerated groan. “But this weekend is our getaway to Atlantic City.”
I slap a hand on my forehead. Oh, God! The Groupon deal. I’d agreed to watch the kids … but that was weeks ago. Why hadn’t she reminded me? “I am so, so sorry. What can I do? I’ll call Carmella. Maybe she can babysit.”
“You think because she’s my cousin she’ll babysit for free? Forget it. She’d charge me a fortune.”
“Look, I’ll pay—”
“Never mind, Emmie, just go. Obviously, pleasing Poppy—someone who broke our nonna’s heart—is more important than we are.”
My fingers tremble as they trace the scar beneath my lower lip. “I’m sorry, Dar. We’re about to leave. I can’t abandon her now.”
“You can’t … or you won’t?”
I look over at my aunt. She’s playing peekaboo with a baby across the aisle. This peculiar old woman is ready to embark on yet another adventure, one that might lead to great joy … or bitter heartbreak. And something tells me that if I’m brave enough to join her, I might have an adventure, too.
My voice is soft when I finally speak. “Please understand—”
“No, Emmie, I don’t understand. This isn’t like you. Nonna’s right. Poppy has brainwashed you.”
“Daria, please—”
“I have to go,” she says, interrupting me. “Have a great time.”
Her sarcasm is punctuated by a click, disconnecting us.
I rush to the restroom. I fling my glasses onto the counter and blot my eyes with a paper towel. Daria is furious. Nonna is livid. Lucy is pissed. My father’s probably a wreck. Is there anyone I haven’t disappointed? And for what? An old woman’s fantasy that she’ll finally find true love? To end a curse that I don’t even believe? To hear stories about my mother that may or may not be true?
Poppy rounds the corner, and skids to a stop when she sees me in the mirror. “Oh, heavens!” She takes me in her arms, and I’m enveloped in her citrusy perfume. “What’s wrong, my girl?”
“Nothing,” I say, pinching the rough paper towel to my nose. “Everything.”
She rocks me against her bird-bone body. I swear I can feel her heart beat with mine. I close my eyes.
“Daria’s upset. I was supposed to babysit Natalie and Mimi this weekend.”
She pulls back. “You gave your word?”
I nod. “Back in August. We never confirmed a date. I forgot all about it.” I toss the paper towel into the trash. “Maybe I should just forget this trip.”
She takes me by the arms and spins me, so that my back is to her. I’m startled when she starts swiping at my shirt.
“What are you doing?” I ask, looking over my shoulder.
“Wiping the footprints off you.”
“Footprints?”
“The ones your sister leaves when she walks all over you.”
Poppy looks into my eyes and then bursts out laughing. Despite myself, so do I.
“Is there any feeling more sublime,” she says, lifting my glasses from the counter and settling them onto my face, “than laughing through tears?”
This, I realize. This is why I’m going to Italy.
Ten minutes later, I return to the gate, my eyes red rimmed but dry. Poppy is happily people-watching and Lucy’s on her phone, uttering a series of curt, one-word responses. I’m guessing it’s her mom, quizzing her about Aunt Poppy and the curse. I grab my notebook and pen, desperate for something to take my mind off all the family members I’m failing. I shield the page with my left hand as I write, but still Poppy zeroes in.
“You’re a writer!”
I close my notebook. “Oh, no. Not even close. It’s just a silly hobby.”
“That which brings us joy should never be besmirched.”
I let out a laugh. “Besmirched? Who even uses that word?”
“Writers, that’s who. Now tell me, what is it you write?”
“Romance,” I say. I quickly add, “But my stories have never been published.”
“Romance. I’m impressed.” She wiggles her brows mischievously. “You must have plenty of experience?”
“Um, well, not exactly. I did have a boyfriend in college, Liam. It lasted a few months.” I laugh. “Lucky for me, I have a good imagination.”
“I suspect we’re alike that way. We prefer to see life as it should be, not as it is.” She plucks a tube of lipstick from her purse. “This boyfriend … Liam. What happened? Were you in love?”
I’m caught off guard by her direct questions. Without warning, a lump rises in my throat. I work my mouth into a smile. “I think so. It ended before it got started, really. I left Barnard at winter break to fill in for Uncle Bruno at the store. I ended up transferring to Brooklyn College. Liam and I just … grew apart.”
Poppy knits her brows. “That little fucker.” She slaps her mouth, as if she, too, is surprised by the word. “Pardon me,” she says, “but there are times when no other noun will suffice.”
I can’t help but laugh. “Liam was a good guy,” I say, hoping to leave it at that.
“Sounds like my Thomas—another good guy.” She runs the glossy coral tube over her lips. “It’s time we found you someone with a more interesting description.” She smacks her lips. “I’m thinking someone cerebral. A dreamer … a lover of books. Someone with a sharp mind and a firm rear end.”
She erupts in guffaws. Before I have time to tell her I’m not interested, she shifts the topic. “Do you play a musical instrument?”
“Oh, God, no.”
“Your grandfather was a musician.”
“He was?” I’ve seen pictures of Nonno Alberto, always with a cigar stub in his mouth, never a musical instrument. Surely she’s mistaken, but I don’t challenge her.
She extends her lipstick to me. I shake my head no. She stares at my scar before dropping the tube into her purse. “Do you paint? Draw?”
“Honestly, I’ve told you pretty much everything. My life isn’t all that interesting.”
“No matter,” she says. “That will soon change.”
“Tell me about you,” I say, steering the conversation to safer topics. “You left Bensonhurst in 1961. What happened next?”
A shadow crosses her face, but she quickly recovers. “I moved to Hershey, Pennsylvania, and got a job at the chocolate factory.” She puts both hands to her neck and crosses her eyes. “Assembly line. A nerve-twanging bore.”
I laugh. “And then you got a degree in art history?”
She nods. “I enrolled in night classes at Franklin and Marshall College. It took five years to earn my bachelor’s degree. After graduation, the University of Pennsylvania offered me a rare fellowship in their master’s program. That’s when I quit the Hershey factory and moved to Philadelphia.” She tells me about her job at the Shipley School in Bryn Mawr, teaching art appreciation to teens. “Forty-nine years and counting, though for the past decade, I’ve chosen to volunteer.”
“That’s so inspiring,” I
say, gazing at this educated, curious, independent woman, so unlike the other Fontana women I know. To think that I share her DNA. I glance at my watch. “We have an hour before we board. Would you tell me something about my mother?”
Lucy looks up from her phone. “How about we keep the convo in the present century, like, maybe who’s our favorite pick on The Bachelor, or something remotely interesting.”
It’s odd to me that nobody in my family, including Lucy, seems to understand my curiosity about my mother. Do they not realize how someone could miss, so deeply and profoundly, a person they’ve never known?
“Of course,” Poppy says, and I assume she’s agreeing with Lucy. But then she laces her fingers with mine and lets out a sigh, as if she’s about to embark on a difficult and daunting journey.
Chapter 13
Poppy
1959
Florence, Italy
Rosa insisted nobody would be the wiser. I scored ninety-eight percent on the Uffizi examination—or rather, Rosa did. Each morning I’d rise at five and walk two miles to the town of Fiesole. From there, bus number seven would pick up the village commuters. An hour later, we would be dropped off on Via Ricasoli, in the center of Firenze. Once I stepped off the bus, I would proudly pin my name tag to my uniform—Rosa Fontana Lucchesi.
It was December. I had been working at Florence’s famous gallery for a month, pretending to be Rosa. I adored my job, though I detested the plain brown suit we guides were expected to wear. To brighten the drab uniform, I wore cheap jewelry I’d accumulated since I was a child—a strand of plastic beads one day, a feathered peacock pin the next. Each day, I wound a brightly colored scarf around my head. Every guide held a stick so we could be easily identified in the crowds. I tied a bright orange ribbon to the end of mine.
It was chilly that morning, and I shivered as I stood outside the entrance to the gallery, waiting for my tour group to gather. Soon, Italian tourists from around the country began swarming around me. And there, standing alone in the back, was a yellow-haired man. He looked to be in his twenties, with a fine chiseled face and piercing blue eyes. He was so tall and broad I assumed he was American, or maybe an Aussie.
I introduced myself to the group and flashed my broadest smile. “The collection is vast,” I announced. “I am here to answer any questions you may have. Any questions whatsoever.”
A middle-aged woman raised her hand.
I lifted my chin and straightened, grateful for the opportunity to demonstrate my knowledge. “Sì?”
“Dove sono i gabinetti?”
Where are the toilets? The yellow-haired man burst out laughing, and despite my embarrassment, I did, too.
For the next ninety minutes, I led the group through the exhibits. The dashing yellow-haired man never spoke. But all the while, I was aware of his presence, as if he radiated some secret energy only I could feel. I studied his strong jawline, the long lashes that fanned over his clear blue eyes. More than once, when he was pretending to admire the paintings, I caught him watching me, too.
When the tour ended, he slipped away, taking with him a sliver of my heart. That sounds trite, but it’s true. We hadn’t spoken a word, but something had passed between us. I felt it deep in my soul, the way one does when touched by magic.
The following day, I was back … and so was he, the gorgeous man from the day before. I couldn’t believe my luck. I’d been a bit flustered by him the previous day, distracted by his presence. I wanted so badly for this tour to go perfectly. But then he smiled, and a dimple appeared in his cheek, and those blue eyes twinkled. I couldn’t think straight.
Mercifully, the tour ended, and I answered a few last questions. I was anxious to get away, to find the yellow-haired man and properly introduce myself. But when I went to find him, he was gone, poof! Vanished, once again.
I was so angry with myself. The goddesses had given me a second chance, and I’d squandered it. We hadn’t spoken a word.
On the bus ride back to Fiesole that evening, I watched out the window. Each time we entered a village, I’d search the crowds, hoping to catch sight of the blue-eyed man. I do believe if I’d seen him, I would have charged from the bus.
Two days later, as my morning tour was about to begin, who did I see but Mister Blue Eyes. My heart nearly burst! He was in my group, waiting with the others for the tour to begin. This time I wouldn’t blow my chance. I made my way through the gaggle of tourists and stepped up to the man. Oh, how my heart thundered! Up close, I could see his fine cheekbones, his even white teeth. He was so tall, so powerful, but at the same time, gentle. To me, he was as exquisite as any statue in the gallery.
“Buongiorno,” I said to him. “Back for your third tour, I see. You must be a glutton for punishment.”
He looked at me, confused. “Non capisco. Es tut mir leid.”
His words were a concoction of both Italian and German.
“You’re German?” I said to him in English. “No wonder you were so quiet.” I pointed to the German guide. “You will want to be in Ingrid’s group.”
He smiled at me, and I will never forget the look on his face. Admiration, is what I call it. “Grazie,” he said to me in Italian. “But I am where I want to be.”
“So you do speak Italian.”
“I know how to ask for the bathroom,” he said, his eyes twinkling.
Together, we laughed at the memory.
“But twice you joined the Italian tour—and you paid money. Did you understand anything from these tours?”
“Not much,” he said. “But I enjoyed them very much.”
I felt suddenly hot. I looked around until I spotted Ingrid. “There,” I said, pointing across the lobby. “The German tour is about to begin.”
“I am where I want to be,” he said in his broken Italian. “Hearing your voice is enough. I do not need to understand the words.”
When my shift ended that day, the beautiful German with the yellow hair was waiting for me in the piazza with a cup of gelato. How could I say no to a man who had twice—no, three times—spent money on a tour he didn’t understand, just to be near me? It was the most romantic thing ever to happen to me, the second daughter.
We communicated using a medley of English and German and Italian, as well as hand gestures that made us both laugh. He was from Radebeul, a village in East Germany, outside of Dresden on the banks of the Elbe River. He’d left his home and family eighteen months earlier, desperate to escape the harsh rule of the Communists in the German Democratic Republic, or GDR. His name was Erich.
“Erich?” I asked, licking gelato from my spoon. “You must mean … Rico. You see, here in Italy, a man’s name must end with a vowel.”
His eyes crinkled at the edges. “Fine. To you, I will be Rico. And what shall I call you, Rosa?”
I’d almost forgotten. My name tag read Rosa. He heard me introduce myself as Rosa. If I told him I was pretending to be my sister, might he think badly of me? Might he report me to the Uffizi Gallery? I decided to take the chance.
“My name is Paolina. I—I only pretend to be Rosa at work.”
He studied me, the corners of his lips upturned. “You should have chosen a more fitting pseudonym. The rose is much too thorny. You are more like the beautiful Mohn, bold and radiant.”
He pronounced it like the English word “moon,” and I blanched. “Moon? I will not be called Moon. Who wants to be a ball of cheese in the sky?”
He laughed then, a sound so rich I wanted to marinate in it. “Not moon, Mohn, the vibrant orange flower. I believe here it is called the papavero.”
“I adore papaveri. But it is a dreadful nickname.” I thought for a moment. “How about you call me Poppy, the English word for the flower?”
“Poppy,” he repeated, and my name never sounded sweeter. “It suits you. Vibrant, colorful …” He leaned in and stroked my cheek, ever so gently. “And addictive.”
I knew then, with the touch of his finger on my skin, that I would never be the same
. And I was right. Fifty-nine years later, I can still feel the touch of the only man I’ve ever truly and completely loved.
Chapter 14
Emilia
Everyone adores Poppy—everyone except Lucy, perhaps. I follow my aunt down the aisle of the plane, drawing back each time she calls out to our fellow passengers “Hello” and “Happy travels!” and “Off we go!” I sneak a peek at Lucy, behind me. Her jaw is clenched and she shakes her head.
“What the hell have you gotten me into? The woman is effing nuts.”
I lift my shoulders as if to say, “It’s too late now.”
We settle into our seats—an upgrade, thanks to Aunt Poppy’s new BFF at the check-in counter. Lucy insists on the aisle seat. Poppy slides into the window seat, leaving me in the middle of their growing tension.
“Spill it,” Lucy says, yanking on her seat belt. “Did you and Herr Yellow-Hair hook up, or what?”
Poppy’s dark eyes are soft and dreamy. “We did.” She pats Lucy’s cheek, seeming not to notice Lucy flinch. “Rico is the man I will meet on the steps of the Ravello Cathedral.”
Lucy’s eyes go wide. “You mean it’s not some random dude you’re hoping to meet? It’s someone you actually know?”
“Of course I know him. I am not that naïve, Luciana.”
I let out a sigh of relief. “So you fell in love with Rico. And the two of you have kept in touch all this time?”
She turns to me, her brows knitted. “Oh, no, dear. We haven’t spoken in nearly sixty years.”
Lucy groans. “For fuck’s sake, tell me you’re joking.” She leans over me, getting as close to Poppy as she can. “You might have told us this little detail before we committed to the trip.”
Poppy smiles sweetly. “What little detail, dear?”
Lucy’s nostrils flare. “What makes you think a man you haven’t spoken to in decades will suddenly appear at the Ravello Cathedral?”
She lifts her chin. “He promised.”
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