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

by Lori Nelson Spielman

Lucy closes her eyes. “Right,” she mumbles. “Just like they all do.”

  As the plane prepares for takeoff, Poppy presses her face to the window, looking so childlike I half expect her to blow steam and draw stick figures. I lean in beside her. Below, the flight workers direct the plane from the tarmac, using arm signals.

  “Look!” Poppy says. “He’s waving at me!” She waves her hand furiously, as if the man might see her.

  I can’t tell if my aunt, who’s smart and sophisticated and well traveled, is being funny or serious. Or maybe she really is crazy. I look over at Lucy, but she’s busy texting. Jack’s name shows on the header.

  “You’re still seeing Jack?” I squint at her screen, hoping to find something akin to I regret ever hooking up with your sorry ass.

  She shields her phone from my view. “It’s all good,” she says, whatever that means.

  Poppy leans in. “Better say good-bye now.” She nabs Lucy’s phone, turns it off, and stuffs it into the seat pocket.

  Lucy’s mouth falls open. “I wasn’t finished!”

  Poppy smiles. “Imagine how perplexed he’ll be, wondering what in heavens happened to you.”

  Lucy starts to reach for her phone, stops, seems to digest the comment, then pulls her hand back. Score one for Aunt Poppy. It strikes me that my aunt and my cousin aren’t really so different. Both are hoping against hope that one day, love will keep its promise.

  The plane speeds down the runway and lifts. My stomach does a flip-flop. Poppy claps. “Isn’t flight glorious?”

  “Simmer down, Pops,” Lucy says. But thankfully, her voice has lost its edge. She looks at me and shakes her head, like a secretly amused mother whose child said a bad word.

  Once we’re airborne and our meal has been served, Lucy swallows a pill. Minutes later, she’s leaning on my shoulder, softly snoring. It’s sweet having her snuggled beside me, like she’s my little cousin again.

  On my other side, Poppy’s ears are covered with her headset, and she’s laughing out loud at some Amy Poehler movie on the screen. I close my notebook and savor her laughter. I’m a bit miffed with her for manipulating us into traveling with her. But more than anything, I’m sad for her.

  I silently study my aunt, the woman who couldn’t let go after her child died, the woman who grew too attached to my mother and tried to take her as her own. Is she suffering from some sort of attachment disorder? I’d asked Poppy to tell me of my mother, like she promised. Once again, she spent nearly an hour talking about her young life in Florence. A shiver comes over me. Did Aunt Poppy even know my mother? Or was that just another ruse she concocted to get us to Italy?

  The cabin lights flicker on. The intercom crackles and the captain announces our descent into Venice, the floating city. One by one, passengers lift their window shades. Sunlight bursts into the plane. I rub my eyes and turn to Poppy. She’s perched upright in her seat, her lips and cheeks freshly painted, smelling of Chanel perfume.

  “Did you sleep?”

  She bats a hand at me. “Not a wink. I’m much too excited.”

  The plane tilts, providing a panoramic view from Poppy’s window. Brilliant sunlight reflects off the green waters. And there, in the middle of the sparkling Adriatic Sea, sit two perfect puzzle pieces, separated by the graceful curve of the Grand Canal.

  “Look!” Poppy cries. “The new Port of Venice! And there’s Piazza San Marco!”

  Beside me, Lucy comes alive. She stretches toward the window. Poppy grabs each of our hands and she raises them to her face. “Thank you,” she says, her eyes bright.

  Her voice breaks, and so does my heart. There’s no turning back now. No excuses to be made, no rationalizing to take the sting out of it. We’re here now, in Italy, the place where, in eight short days, Poppy’s heart will be either filled with joy or completely pulverized.

  Chapter 15

  Emilia

  Day One

  Venezia—Venice

  Marco Polo Airport is bustling this Monday morning, and we make our way through customs. Aunt Poppy’s gait isn’t quite so sprightly, and under the airport’s fluorescent lights, her olive skin reflects a grayish undertone. She looks every bit her seventy-nine years—or worse. Of course she’s just made an eight-hour overnight flight without sleep. I wouldn’t expect her to look youthful.

  It’s eleven in the morning when we step outside the airport. The sun spills over the Laguna Veneta—the enclosed bay of the Adriatic Sea—and at once, we all seem more vibrant.

  “Hiraeth!” Poppy cries, and claps her hands. “Do you know this Welsh word? It’s a feeling not easily translated into words. A deep longing for home, a nostalgia—a yearning—for the place that calls to your soul.”

  “That’s beautiful,” I say, “though I’ve never actually experienced hiraeth.”

  “I’m not surprised.” She tips her head. “But one day you will.”

  Five minutes later, we board a water taxi, a small wooden craft Poppy arranged to deliver us to our hotel on Venice’s Grand Canal. Taavi, our handsome driver, stands at the helm dressed in tight jeans with a scarf snaked around his neck. Lucy plants herself beside him, while Poppy and I claim a red vinyl bench.

  Boats of every shape and size zip up and down the lagoon, ferrying passengers to and from the mainland. Ahead, Venice beckons us, a city of more than a hundred tiny islands stitched together by bridges and alleys and canal sidewalks.

  “Once,” Taavi tells us, the wind at his face, “the only way to reach the city of Venice was by boat. In 1846, the Ponte della Libertà was built—the Bridge of Liberty.”

  “Bridge of Liberty,” I say. “I love the sound of that.”

  “It is our causeway,” he continues, “the railway into the city.”

  “What about cars?” Lucy asks.

  Taavi grins. “No automobiles in Venice. We use the vaporetti—much like the ferry boats—to get around the islands.”

  Lucy leans close, her jacket unzipped, and tells him about the ferry boats in New York. He listens politely, but he shifts away from her, keeping his eyes on the water instead of her cleavage.

  The boat swerves and the salty brine trickles down on us like holy water. Poppy lifts her hands and cheers, her pink and orange silk scarf billowing in the wind. Taavi waves to his mates, the fellow water taxi drivers. “Oi, oi,” he calls, warning them as we pass.

  Poppy waves, too. “Oi, oi,” she mimics.

  The wind laps my face. Without warning, I begin to laugh. “I’m in Italy. We’re in Italy. We’re actually here!”

  Lucy shakes her head. She doesn’t understand that for twenty-nine years, I’ve longed for an adventure like this.

  The lagoon curves, and we enter a wide swath of water lined with ancient Venetian palaces, domed cathedrals, and sumptuous hotels, all awash in peaches and pinks and yellows.

  “Welcome to the Grand Canal,” Taavi says, slowing the boat. “The Main Street of Venezia.”

  Pilings of timber line the waterway, serving as markers for the myriad of water vessels.

  “The city of Venice was built on a wooden platform,” Taavi explains. “Back in the fifth century, after the fall of the Western Roman Empire, barbarians from the north raided the mainland. People escaped to the marshes. Later, many decided to make the wetlands their home. These early Venetians drove stakes into the sand and constructed wooden platforms atop the stakes. The beautiful buildings you see today are built upon those wooden platforms.”

  “It really is a floating city,” I say, studying the ornate structures with even greater appreciation.

  Taavi docks the boat in front of the Ca’ Sagredo Hotel, an exquisite pink building dotted with white balustrades. He takes hold of each of our hands as we climb from the boat onto a concrete platform. Lucy steps off last.

  “Do you have a business card?” she asks Taavi, her head tilted in what I’m sure is a calculated angle, ensuring that a lock of hair spills over one eye. “We’re here for three days. I might need you again.”
>
  I cringe.

  “Uh, sì.” Taavi pulls a card from his shirt pocket. Before handing it to her, he scribbles something on it.

  Lucy’s mood seems to brighten three shades. She waves as Taavi speeds away. “Arrivederci!”

  She glances at the business card as we move to the hotel, and stops in midstep. “Motherf—” She catches herself. “Motherducker.” She tears the card in two, but not before I see No, thank you written on the back. “Don’t you hate it when you’re just being friendly, and guys think you’re hitting on them?”

  Poppy rests a hand on Lucy’s back. “A pair of breasts in one’s face is apt to imply the latter, dear.”

  Lucy gushes when she opens the door to our spacious suite. “Whoa. Someone’s laying down some serious cash.”

  “It’s gorgeous,” I say, admiring the glossy wood floor and soft gray walls. Two gigantic beds take up the front of the room, with a comfortable sitting area toward the balcony. I peek my head into a white marble bathroom with double sinks. How can a retired art teacher afford this place?

  “Apple stock,” Poppy says.

  “What?”

  “That’s how I made my money.”

  “Oh,” I say, feeling heat rise to my cheeks. Is this equestrian-teacher-yogi also a mind reader?

  She lifts her chin, her dark eyes dancing. “Invested ten thousand dollars in that little-known tech company the day it went public in 1980. Twenty-two dollars a share. By the time I sold it, it had gained over twenty-nine thousand percent. Can you imagine? And that doesn’t include dividends.” She tips her head back and laughs.

  “Oh, hell yes!” Lucy says and holds out her fist for a bump.

  “Well, thanks for being so generous,” I say.

  “Money is a tool, not a treasure.” She opens a set of double doors, and we enter an equally pretty, completely separate bedroom.

  “Nice,” I say. “Your own private suite.”

  “You and Lucy don’t mind sharing the other, do you?”

  Behind me, Lucy lets out a screech. I shake my head.

  “Oh, c’mon, Luce. It’s only three nights.”

  “My phone!”

  I rush to her side and help rummage through her bags. But she already knows, and so do I. Her phone is on Delta Flight 474 in her seat pocket, right where Poppy placed it. “I have to go back to the airport,” she says, gathering her purse.

  Poppy takes her by the arm. “It’s too late. Surely they’ve cleared the plane. Let it go.”

  Lucy wriggles away. “Are you insane? I need my phone.”

  “I’ll contact the airline.” She takes Lucy’s face in her wrinkled hands and stares directly into her eyes, like a female Svengali. “But in the meantime, let it go,” she repeats, this time very slowly and with a gentle firmness. Lucy finally steps back, shaking her head.

  “You owe me a new phone,” she says.

  “When we return, I’ll buy you the very latest.” Poppy pats her arm. “I’m sorry I was so careless, Luciana. But trust me, you’ll find freedom from its absence, I promise.”

  Lucy continues to grouse, but she’ll be okay, I can tell. I’m guessing Poppy’s right. It can’t be easy waiting for a lover’s message that never comes, or being grilled by a mother who’s been promised a miracle.

  I cross the room and pull back sheer white curtains. Sunlight spills in. I step onto a balcony staged with a pair of chaise lounges and urns of red geraniums. I lean against the concrete balustrade, inhaling the salty sea air that tickles my nostrils. Three stories below, people mill about along the Grand Canal, taking photos and eating gelato. The water is rough today, and spray from the water taxis mists the air. I gather my sweater across my chest. Aunt Poppy comes up beside me and tucks her hand into the crook of my arm.

  “My country,” she says. “The land where I met my Rico.”

  I give a wan smile. “Maybe, just maybe, we really can find your old friend. What’s his last name? I’ll Google him. If he’s on Facebook or Twitter, we’ll send him a message and remind him—”

  “Nonsense,” she says, cutting me off. She plants both hands on the balcony ledge and closes her eyes. “Rico has not forgotten.”

  Poppy suggests a costume change before we set out to explore the “splendiferous sights of Venezia.” I throw on a pair of jeans and a cotton sweater. Lucy wriggles into a short suede skirt and ankle boots. Poppy flaunts a red and purple knit cardigan, belted at the waist, and a giant firefly brooch nearly hidden beneath a necklace with turquoise beads the size of my fist. Up and down her arms she wears colorful bangles. They look like they’re made of plastic, but I can’t be sure. She catches me staring.

  “You wear one, and they look cheap. You wear a dozen, and it’s a style.” She grabs a pair of gigantic red sunglasses and plants them on her tiny face. “We’re off!”

  On the street, Poppy doesn’t seem to notice the conservatively clad Europeans staring at her flamboyant garb. She laughs and waves and calls out, “Buongiorno!” to puzzled passersby. I link arms with her. Back home, I might be embarrassed. But here in Italy, I’m strangely proud of this woman who displays her style—and her heart—so fearlessly.

  Poppy darts into the first bakery she sees, Pasticceria Rizzardini. We each order a baba, an individual cake soaked in rum, filled with pastry cream.

  “Here, we call it fiamma, or flame,” the man behind the counter tells us, “because it is so richly drenched in alcohol.”

  I plunge a plastic forkful into my mouth. The cake’s buttery sweetness collides with the sharp tang of alcohol. “Mmm,” I murmur, wondering why my baba doesn’t taste this good. Butter, I decide. Their butter is different here … fresher.

  We nibble on our cake as we meander through Venice. The green waters of the canal follow alongside us, and we stroll the narrow streets—or calli, as they’re called here in Venice. The entire city, it seems, is in a breathtaking state of opulent decay. Stucco peels from the sides of homes and buildings, revealing gaping chunks of exposed brick, a look urban designers at home try desperately to duplicate. We reach a spot where the street is so narrow I can almost touch the buildings on each side. Sunlight disappears, dropping the temperature ten degrees. For a moment, I feel claustrophobic. Ahead, I hear voices, laughter. The street widens, and light spills over us again.

  Potted plants and stenciled house numbers tell me we’re in a residential area. Black shutters adorn the homes, splayed like outstretched arms. Pink bougainvilleas cascade from second-story window boxes, and every now and then I spot a little cubby housing a statue of the Virgin Mother and Child.

  “I love this place,” I say, snapping a photo of creamy linen sheets, meticulously hung on a wire suspended between two houses. “I never realized laundry could be so pretty.”

  Poppy smiles. “For centuries, Venezia was one of the most powerful cities in Italy. Today, it’s simply magical.”

  And it is. Every block, it seems, we climb another arched stone bridge, one of three hundred and forty in the city, Poppy tells us. A giggle escapes me. With each step, a strange sensation of lightness fills me, as if I’ve been freed from shackles and set aloft. I can’t help but do a little dance when I reach the top. Poppy sees me and joins in, doing her own little two-step. Lucy shakes her head at us, and we all laugh.

  We wander down a crowded cobblestone alley where tourists peer into shop windows, admiring colorful trinkets and mouthwatering pastries. A woman squeezes ahead of us, dressed in flat shoes and a fur coat, clutching a bag from the market. A merchant wearing a paper hat leans against his building, eyeing Lucy as we pass.

  I’m smiling when the alley empties into yet another town square, or campo, as the locals refer to them. In the center stands an ancient cistern, ornately carved in stone. Children giggle as they squat beneath it, filling balloons with water. I snap a photo, then pull my map from my purse. We must be in Campo Santa Margherita. Or maybe it’s Campo San Trovaso.

  “Put that away,” Poppy suggests. “Venice is a maze. Yo
u’ll never find your bearings. I always say, when you feel lost or confused, consult your heart. It’s your most reliable source of navigation.”

  Yeah, right. I smile and stuff the useless thing into my purse, charmed by the sound of a man on a balcony, singing in Italian. Pigeons swoop overhead. Wine bars and upscale restaurants sporting colorful awnings span the perimeter of the square, alongside jewelry stores and bakeries and pizzerias. At the far end stands a small but proud cathedral. People stroll and shop with their families, or sit in pairs at little iron tables.

  We cross a longer bridge where a half dozen gondolas idle in the water. Poppy clasps her hands, and her entire body seems to tremble with glee.

  “A gondola ride! Let’s go!”

  “Seriously?” Lucy asks. “A gondola?”

  Poppy laughs. “Oh, Luciana, be on the lookout for childhood joy, won’t you? I fear you have lost yours.”

  Italian men of various shapes and sizes stand at the helms of their Venetian flat-bottom boats, wearing black-and-white-striped shirts and red kerchiefs, a vision so corny that it’s quaint. Lucy points a finger at a particularly good-looking gondolier.

  “Quello!” she says.

  The shiny black gondola rocks when we step into it, and I help Poppy move to the red upholstered seat. The handsome gondolier stands on the asymmetrical boat, using a single oar to push the gondola down the narrow canal.

  Poppy drapes an arm around each of us, and I’m lulled by the relaxing gurgle of water. I breathe deeply of the canal, a unique smell that’s dank and fishy and fresh all at once. We pass beneath old stone bridges so low I almost duck, and float alongside beautiful calli lined with fancy hotels. Flags hang suspended from an iron balcony, red with gold, blue, and green, their brilliance shimmering in the dappled sunlight. The gondola veers close to the canal wall, and our driver uses his oar to push off. Lucy eyes him like a T-bone steak.

  “To symbolize their love for water,” Poppy says, “Venetian mythology claims a gondolier is born with webbed feet.”

  “Who cares about webbed feet?” Lucy says in perfect Italian. She raises her eyebrows. “I prefer a very long oar.”