“C’mon. Just one drink. We’ll go downstairs to the hotel bar.”
“Maybe tomorrow,” I say, praying she’ll forget the promise twenty-four hours from now.
Lucy opens her mouth, as if she’s about to say something. But she doesn’t.
I’m in the bathroom when I hear the hotel door open, then close. I step into the room, lathering my face.
Lucy has disappeared.
It’s two a.m. and I’m sitting on our balcony overlooking the Grand Canal. The water glistens in the moonlight, softly lapping against the docks. I gaze up at the blue-black sky dusted with stars. Here I am, in Italy, four thousand miles from home, against my family’s wishes. How could I possibly be cowardly?
I turn when the French door opens. Poppy steps out, wearing a polka-dot robe and pink kitten-heel slippers embroidered with gold fleur-de-lis. Who knew they made slippers with heels?
“I had a hunch I’d find you awake,” she says. “You’ve been upset all evening.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not used to being called cowardly.”
She braces her hands on the balcony and gazes out at the canal. “Luciana is threatening your beliefs. It’s not comfortable for you. She’s making you question whether perhaps, all these years, you’ve hidden behind the curse.”
I absently rub my scar. “Yeah, well, I guess there’s a bit of truth in that. For both of us. I mean, neither you nor I have tried to break the curse.”
Poppy turns to face me. “Dear, you and I are nothing alike in that respect. You see, I’ve embraced my sexuality. There was Rico, of course, and later Thomas. I celebrate my femininity. I wouldn’t dream of suppressing it. But Emilia, my child, I fear you have.”
I stare at her. “Because I don’t date? Because I’m not hell-bent on getting married?”
She flicks her wrist. “I don’t give a whit whether you marry. That’s entirely your choice. What I care about is you, being whole and authentic and fully feeling. And right now, you’re behaving like a lily-livered lion.”
“I’m just being myself.”
“That sounds like a cop-out. Why not strive to be better than yourself?” Before I can reply, she continues. “You neutralize yourself, Emilia. You dress and act in a way that’s deliberately unattractive. It’s as if you’ve stuffed your femininity into a cardigan sweater and buttoned it up to your chin. You are undeniably female, my girl, yet you refuse to own it. I suspect your sweet Matt would vouch for that.”
I cross my arms. “So I’m not a flirt. I’m not stylish. I don’t look glamorous. This is me. It’s who I am.”
She studies me with her head cocked. “Yes. This is who you’ve become. But Emilia, my dear, you don’t have to die as that woman.”
The bedside clock flips to 3:27. Where is Lucy? The hotel lounge closed at two. Is she okay? Why didn’t I join her?
I stare up at the ceiling, remembering Liam and what happens when second-born daughters dare to love. But still, the little voice screams, You’re a coward!
If only I could talk to Matt. He’d assure me that Lucy’s off base, that I’m perfectly fine, exactly how I am.
Or would he? Matt clearly wants more from me than friendship. Have I been a coward, keeping him at arm’s length? Could I have been the one in my family to break the curse and spare Lucy and Mimi? I love MC. Does it matter that I’m not “in love” with him?
I roll onto my side. Rather than easing my mind, Poppy only added to its clutter. What’s so wrong with who I am? I don’t want to be like Lucy—a woman who relies solely on her sexuality.
But Emilia, my dear, you don’t have to die as that woman.
Have I been hiding? Have I allowed the curse to brand me, to define who I am? Has the Fontana myth become my scapegoat?
Our hotel door jiggles. I grab my glasses to check the time: 4:07. The door opens and Lucy slips inside. Thank God! I click on the bedside lamp and she startles.
“Jesus! Way to give me a heart attack.”
Her hair is mussed and her clothes are rumpled. I’ve got a gazillion questions … and I don’t want the answers to any.
“Sorry,” I say. “I was getting worried about you.”
“I’m a big girl.” She tosses her clutch onto a chair and kicks off her heels.
“Right. Sorry.”
She drops onto the side of the bed and rubs her feet. She looks tired and lonely and defeated. I swallow hard and take a deep breath.
“I don’t want to be a coward, Lucy.”
She looks at me. She’s waiting for me to elaborate, to give her something more than an empty statement. Something that might actually help her.
“And I’m willing to change.”
Chapter 22
Emilia
Day Three
Venice
It’s eight thirty Wednesday morning, our final day in Venice before we head to Tuscany. Which means it’s our final night, too. In the wee hours of the morning, I promised to change. But can I? Will I?
The elegant hotel courtyard is set with cloth-covered tables topped with vases of sunflowers. Poppy and I sit alone eating a colazione of fruit, homemade yogurt, and exquisite pastries. I catch a glimpse of azure sky as I stir cream into my coffee.
“Looks like a great day for walking.”
Poppy fans her napkin onto her lap. “I suggest we take a vaporetto today.”
I turn to her, taking in the slight tinge of gray in her skin, the sharp cheekbones jutting from her thin face. Because she’s so agreeable, it’s easy to forget that Paolina Fontana is ill.
“Good idea,” I say. “My feet could use a break.”
Across the courtyard, a bedraggled Lucy plods past the buffet station. I wave and she works her way to our table.
“Is there a reason we start our days at the butt-crack of dawn?” she asks.
Poppy claps her hands. “We’re going to the Doge’s Palace today, one of the most famous landmarks in Venice. It has caught fire more than once, requiring restoration, but parts of the structure date back to the Middle Ages.”
“And I’m pretty sure it’d still be there this afternoon, if we’d chosen to wake at a humane hour.”
Poppy’s eyes crinkle with amusement. “How was your night?”
Lucy scans the small courtyard, as if she’s looking for someone.
“It was okay.”
My heart wrenches. Where was she last night? What must it be like, to be on a relentless search for love?
Poppy spreads apricot preserves on her croissant. “Some people have a certain relish for heartbreak. I hope you’re not one of them, Luciana.”
Lucy cuts her a look that could boil an egg. “Trust me, I’m not.”
“I’m glad to hear it. Because that type of person chooses a partner the way they’d choose a designer purse. It looks good on the arm and garners much admiration. But quickly, they realize they’ve paid too dear a price. They have a fancy purse, when what they really wanted was a backpack.” She sets down her knife and smiles. “Just my two cents’ worth.”
Lucy looks just as puzzled as I am. What is Poppy trying to say?
I could refer to Piazza San Marco, Venice’s most popular gathering place, as Saint Mark’s Square, like most Americans do. Or La Piazza, like the Venetians. But the writer in me prefers Napoléon’s romantic description: the drawing room of Europe.
I step onto a field of gray rectangular stones inlaid with white parallel geometric designs, reminiscent of a dazzling oriental carpet. Facing the entire length of the piazza sits the famous Basilica di San Marco, or Saint Mark’s Basilica, all arches and marble and Romanesque carvings. It seems impossible not to feel small and young and insignificant in its domineering shadow.
“The four horses,” Poppy says, pointing to a magnificent quartet of bronze beasts. “A symbol of Venice’s pride and power, brought to Venice by the Crusaders in 1204. Napoléon looted the piazza in 1797 and had the sculptures shipped to Paris. They were returned eighteen years later. Sadly, air pollution was ki
lling them. The original horses are now safely inside the basilica.”
Lucy moans and rubs her temples. “Just my luck. First time in Europe and I’m traveling with an art history teacher.”
We walk the Bridge of Sighs, which connects the palace’s interrogation room with the prison. “Imagine yourself a prisoner hundreds of years ago,” Poppy says, stepping to the side of the limestone bridge. “This may have been the last glimpse of the outside world you would ever see. Lord Byron gave this bridge its name, surmising that the prisoners would sigh as they viewed their beautiful Venice for the last time.”
I stop in front of a small block window and gaze out at the piazza below. People of all nationalities bustle across the square, darting into shops and restaurants and museums. No doubt they’re speaking languages from all over the world, each carrying secrets and scars, unspeakable tragedies and moments of bliss. I, Emilia Josephina Fontana Lucchesi Antonelli, am part of this crazy maze of humanity. Tears sting my eyes. I think of the prisoners, being pried away from these very windows, never to see this mad whirlwind of a world again. At once I feel like the luckiest woman alive. I’m not a prisoner—or at least I don’t have to be. I can roam freely, travel broadly, make mistakes, welcome adventures.
I startle when Lucy’s hand grips my arm. “You gonna spend all day looking out the window?”
“Nope,” I say, smiling as I continue across the bridge. “Most definitely not.”
It’s almost six o’clock when we head back to the hotel to get “gussied up,” as Aunt Poppy calls it. We’re two blocks from the hotel when Poppy suddenly stops. She backs up a few steps and peers into a store window, where a sign reads Occhiali da Vista. “Emilia,” she calls to me.
Thirty minutes later, I’m standing in front of a mirror, a dozen pairs of eyeglasses splayed on the counter in front of me. Once more, Poppy returns to the tortoiseshell frames and plants them on my face. They’re large and bold and chic—a completely different look from my small indestructible wire-frames.
“Perfect!” She turns to Lucy. “Don’t you agree?”
“Uh, ye-ah. About a hundred times better than those lame-ass glasses you’ve had since you were, like, six.”
I rise, rubbing a finger along my scar. “This is ridiculous. If you’re trying to make me beautiful, it’s not going to happen.”
Poppy scoffs. “Beauty is overrated. I’d choose interesting over beautiful any day.” She turns to the stylish optician who looks like she should be on a fashion runway. “How soon can we have these glasses made?”
“You can pick them up in the morning,” she says, her voice cool and aloof. “But without a prescription, we will need the original lenses.”
“Done.” Poppy hands her the new frames along with my old glasses.
“No,” I say, reaching for them. “I can’t be without my glasses. And besides, they’re just fine.”
“With all due respect,” the gorgeous optician says, “they are hideous.”
Lucy bursts out laughing. I lift my shoulders. “But I can see perfectly. Seriously. What difference does it make?”
Poppy pats my hand. “How about we find out?”
The sun fades and I stand beside Lucy at the bathroom vanity, tying back my hair while she applies her makeup. Everything is slightly blurry. Thankfully, she hasn’t mentioned going out tonight. Still, my aunt’s words echo in my mind. Emilia, my dear, you don’t have to die as that woman.
I take a breath and work a bit of enthusiasm into my voice. “So where should we go tonight?”
Her eyes find mine in the mirror. “Seriously? You really want to go clubbing?”
My stomach tightens into a knot. “Uh, sure.”
She crosses her arms and surveys me. I’m dressed in black slacks again, this time with a gray sweater. “Well, for sure you can’t wear that.” She sets down her compact and disappears. A moment later, she’s back, clutching a black skirt that looks like it would fit my niece Mimi.
“Try this.”
I stare at the tiny band of spandex. The last time I wore a short skirt was on New Year’s Eve with Liam, eleven years ago. And that ended in disaster. But Lucy’s face is so hopeful I can’t bear to disappoint her. I slip off my slacks and pull the skirt over my hips. The stretchy fabric hugs my every curve so tightly I can barely breathe. “It’s too small,” I say, ready to yank it down.
“It’s perfect,” Lucy counters. She drags me from the bathroom, over to her closet, and pulls a see-through blouse from its hanger. “Put this on.”
“Lucy, I can’t possibly—”
“Try it.”
Luckily, I’m wearing my white sports bra, because even without glasses, I can see straight through this flimsy fabric. I cross my arms. “It’s way too revealing.”
She scoffs. “That sports bra defeats the whole purpose. Don’t you have something lacy? No,” she answers for me. “Dumb question.” She shrugs. “I guess it’ll have to do.”
She pulls me into the bathroom and yanks the scrunchie from my ponytail. My hair erupts like Medusa’s and I cover my head. “What are you doing?”
She grabs a bottle from the vanity and squeezes a dollop of goop onto her palms. “I’ve always loved messing with hair. My first client was Lindsey—Carmella’s American Girl doll.” She rubs the product into my hair. “Carmella went ape-shit crazy, but the faux-hawk actually looked cute on Lindsey.”
Rather than taming the waves, like I’ve tried to do my entire life, Lucy scrunches my locks, forming loose curls.
“It won’t last,” I say. “It’ll turn to frizz the minute I step outside.”
“Hold still.” She grabs her compact. Before I can object, she’s stroking a brush across my cheeks. My nose itches and I go to rub it with my shoulder. “Close your eyes.” She shadows my lids with various powders, stopping long enough to pluck a few hairs.
“Ouch!”
“Addio, unibrow.” Next, she sweeps an eyeliner pencil into a bold cat eye, followed by several coats of mascara on my lashes. “Voilà!”
She pivots me toward the mirror. I blink until the reflection comes into focus. I take in the sultry woman with the see-through blouse and smoky eyes and I gasp.
“I can’t go out like this!”
“Why not? You look hot!”
Poppy appears at the open door and literally jumps when she sees me. “Emilia?” She starts to laugh. “You are trying to change!” She grabs a pot of Lucy’s gloss and starts to dab my lips.
“No,” I say, stepping back and lifting a finger to my scar. “Absolutely not.”
“She hates her lips,” Lucy explains.
Poppy studies me, curious. “This tiny scar wields such power over you. From what I gather, it is your only source of vanity. Now, would someone please tell me its history?”
We move to the balcony, where the last rays of sun turn the lagoon cotton-candy pink. Lucy combs her wet hair and begins to tell the story she’s heard a dozen times.
“You were, what—ten when it happened?”
“Eleven.”
“Her dad and Uncle Bruno were out fishing on Coney Island. She and Daria tagged along.”
I nod. “We begged them to let us come. The amusement park was our favorite place. But by noon, Daria and I had used up our tickets for the rides. We walked back to the pier where my dad and Uncle Bruno fished.”
Lucy interjects. “Of course they got bored and started goofing around.”
I smile. “That’s right. We were rifling through their tackle boxes, exploring the lures and bobbers, probably making a mess of things. To distract us, my dad offered to teach us how to cast the fishing pole.”
“Daria had to go first, of course,” Lucy says.
“Uh-huh. I stood behind her, waiting my turn, listening to my dad explain how to point the rod at the target.” I touch my finger to my scar, the image coming back to me with striking sharpness. “Daria lifted her arm and swung the pole back. But not in the gentle way my father instructed. It was more
of a jerky whip.”
Lucy winces. “I hate this part of the story. The hook got caught in Em’s bottom lip!”
Poppy gasps. “Oh, heavens! That must have hurt like a … motherducker.” She winks at Lucy.
I laugh. “It did! Like a wasp bite—ten wasp bites. I grabbed for my mouth, and felt something strange. Looking down my nose, I could see the fish hook, hanging from my lip. I started to scream.
“My dad rushed over to me. I’ll never forget his face, a mix of horror and sorrow and fear. ‘No!’ he kept saying, over and over. ‘No!’”
“He was scared shitless,” Lucy says. “That’s when Uncle Bruno took over. He grabbed a set of pliers from his tackle box.”
“Pliers?” Poppy asks, her eyes wide.
“Tiny fishing pliers,” I say. “He ordered me to hold still. I tried not to whimper, but I’d never felt such pain. I squeezed my eyes and gripped Daria’s hand. Uncle Bruno clamped the pliers on the hook. Hot white fire seared my lip. That’s the last thing I remember before I passed out.”
“Uncle Bruno drove like an effing maniac all the way home,” Lucy says. “When they got back, Em’s bottom lip had swollen to the size of a peach. Nonna was furious. But it was too late. Uncle Bruno had made a mess of her lip.” Lucy’s voice is wistful now, and she stares at my bottom lip. “It’s a lot better now, but the scar is still there, if you look closely.”
In the Grand Canal below, waves lap the concrete dock, methodical and rhythmic. The part of the story I’ve never told comes to me, as clearly as the twinkling lights across the Laguna Veneta.
“My dad’s balled-up T-shirt was pressed to my lip,” I say. “It stank of fish and sweat and salt water. He lifted it, so Nonna could see the injury. She leaned in and put a hand to her throat.
“‘Dio mio,’ she said, crossing herself. ‘There is no hope now. She will never find a husband with a face like this.’”
Lucy clutches my arm. “No, she didn’t!”
“My dad thought we should go to the ER. I remember so clearly. Nonna lifted her palms upward as she walked back to her apartment. ‘Perché preoccuparsi?’ she said.”
One Italian Summer: The perfect romantic fiction read for summer 2020 Page 13
