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

by Lori Nelson Spielman

  “Move it!” Lucy shouts.

  I step on the accelerator and the car lunges. I’m almost past the bus when a curve appears in the distance.

  “Oh, God!” I cry. The engine groans, downshifting on the mountain’s incline. I start to wedge between the bus and the RV, but there’s not enough space.

  “Let me in,” I shout, at the same time Lucy cries, “Go for it!”

  I press my foot on the gas. I have no choice but to try to overtake the RV as well. Sweat breaks out under my arms.

  “Wahoo! You’ve got this, Em.”

  From a hundred yards ahead, a car rounds the curve. It’s heading straight at us.

  “Holy fuck! We’re gonna die!” Lucy covers her head, screaming as she slides down the seat.

  My heart’s in full-blown tachycardia. I grip the steering wheel. Please, God! Help me! I punch the gas. The approaching car grows nearer. The RV stretches beside me, an endless box of aluminum. “Let me in, asshole!”

  With seconds to spare, I crank the wheel and dart back into the lane. The car whizzes past.

  I let out a half cry, half groan. “Oh, my god!”

  I turn to Lucy. She’s crouched on the floor of the car, clutching her head.

  “You can sit up,” I tell her.

  She eases her way back onto her seat. “Jesus, Em, you almost killed us!”

  I give a nervous chortle. “I warned you.”

  She grins. “I’d prepared myself for the missing nose, not the urn of ashes.”

  In that dark place inside of me where fear has festered, a door opens. Light spills in. I let out a laugh, softly at first. Lucy joins in. Soon, it’s full-on hysteria, an intoxicating release of fear and shock and frayed nerves. Lucy pounds the dashboard, tears running down her cheeks. “The look on your face when that car appeared out of fucking nowhere!”

  A little chuckle rises behind us.

  “Sorry, Aunt Poppy,” I say, glancing in my rearview mirror. “We’ll be quiet. Go back to sleep.”

  “And miss all the fun? Never!”

  Chapter 35

  Poppy

  1960

  Ravello, Amalfi Coast

  The massive cathedral door groaned, that evening of my twenty-first birthday. We dipped our fingers into a basin of holy water and crossed ourselves. The shadowed church was empty and smelled of incense and musty carpets. Tiered candles glowed in the prayer booth, white-capped flames in a sea of silence.

  Rico led me down the center aisle until we reached the altar. He turned to me then, his eyes bright, and took my hands in his.

  “I, Erich Joseph Krause, do take thee, Paolina Maria Fontana, to be my wedded wife. I promise to love you and cherish you all the days of my life, until death do us part.”

  I put a hand to my quivering chin and said my vows, my throat so tight I could hardly get the words out. “… Until death do us part.”

  “May I kiss the bride?”

  He took my face in his hands. Just as his lips touched mine, footsteps startled us. Out of the darkness, a priest emerged, not Father Pietro but a youthful man with dark hair and a long, thin nose.

  He climbed the three steps to where we stood on the altar. “Bow your heads,” he said, and he placed his hands upon us.

  “May God bless and protect you. May he smooth the path that lies before you, and give you the grace and humility to accept both fortune and sorrow. May you be strong as the redwood when troubles arise, and bend like the willow when forgiveness beckons. Above all, may you love joyfully, gratefully, faithfully, in Christ’s name. Amen.”

  “Amen,” we repeated, stunned by this unexpected prayer, awed by this mysterious holy man who appeared out of nowhere. We thanked the young priest and left the church, a married couple if ever there was one.

  We barely made it outside the cathedral before Rico drew me into his arms. With his lips at my ear, he whispered, “My wife. My life.”

  “How do you say ‘my husband’ in German?”

  “Mein Ehemann,” Rico replied and stroked my cheek. “And one day, when your parents come to accept me, we will come back here for a real ceremony, and I will truly be your husband.”

  “Real ceremony? Real husband?” I shook my head. “Mein Ehemann, we are married. It could not be more real.”

  “I feel it, too.” He squeezed my hand.

  Something shiny caught my eye. I bent down and plucked it from the concrete step. “A lucky coin,” I said, showing it to Rico.

  Together, we gazed at the coin, as if it held some magic power. Rico put his hand over mine. “May we be here, in this very spot, on your next birthday, as in love as we are today.”

  A chill came over me. Despite the day’s joy, I believe we both sensed, in some secret place in our hearts, that darkness lay ahead.

  “Next year?” I said, trying to lighten the sudden weight of our futures. “That is too easy.”

  “Okay,” he said, rubbing his chin. “We will be back here on your thirtieth birthday.”

  “Nine years from now? Still too easy.” I clutched the coin and searched the sky for my favorite star, wondering how we might guarantee our future. “We will be here, together on the steps of the Ravello Cathedral, on my eightieth birthday. Promise me this, mein Ehemann.”

  He smiled, but his eyes glistened. “Yes. On your eightieth birthday,” he said. “It is a promise.”

  Chapter 36

  Emilia

  Day Seven

  Ravello, Amalfi Coast

  I’ve heard of people who enter a place—a big city or small town, an old castle or a lakeside cabin—and feel as if they’d returned home, following a long and lonely journey. Poppy called it hiraeth, a yearning for a place, a home, one you might never have realized you were missing. I steer the car into the hilltop village of Ravello, and I think I understand.

  The sun dips behind the Tyrrhenian Sea, bathing the pristine town in watercolor pastels. Hedges of magenta bougainvilleas create lush pops of color, and everywhere I see urns of red geraniums and baskets of purple hollyhock and yellow snapdragons.

  “Home!” Poppy cries. She rolls down her window, letting in a fragrant breeze of roses and sea salt. “At last!”

  Beyond the cliff’s edge, the Mediterranean hums a soothing lullaby. The day’s stress seems to vanish in this quiet village of fewer than three thousand residents, but there’s an energy, too. Hikers with walking sticks climb the winding sidewalks; cyclists wave as they zip past.

  I slow to a stop in front of an elegant boutique hotel in the heart of Ravello’s Piazza del Duomo, taking in the gorgeous fountain through the open courtyard. My hand aches when I pull the key from the ignition. I let out a sigh. “Thank you, God.”

  Lucy smiles. “You did it, Em. You drove. You were friggin’ awesome.”

  Poppy squeals and goes to lift her door handle, but Lucy turns to her in the backseat.

  “Not so fast, Pops. All this time you’ve been married? Why didn’t you tell us?”

  I twist around, anxious to hear Poppy’s response. She gazes out the window.

  “We had no witnesses, no papers. We’d been living in sin. Looking back, we should have tried harder. It never occurred to us to marry outside the Catholic faith. The truth is, we didn’t know then that time was running out.”

  Lucy looks from Poppy to me, then back to Poppy. “Still. That means the curse is broken, right? All this time, there never was a curse!”

  “Rico and I believed that God, our God, had blessed our marriage. We bought silver bands at the jewelry store, cheap as bottles of milk. We returned to the cathedral, time and again, asking to see the young priest who’d appeared that night. But Father Pietro, whose hair was white as ash, insisted he was the only priest in the parish. We waited after Sunday mass and asked the church members. Nobody knew of the dark-haired priest with the long, thin nose.”

  “So what does that mean?” Lucy says. “Are you legally married or not?”

  Poppy lifts her hands. “Was it legal? Was it mor
al? Will others believe me? Criticize me? Abandon me?” She clamps a hand on Lucy’s shoulder, and I know she’s talking about Sofie now, not Rico. “Perhaps they will. But when you come from a place of love, of truth, you will be confident in your answers. And more often than not, the answer is, ‘So what if they do?’”

  Our room at the Michelangelo is even grander than the one in Venice, with Wedgwood blue walls topped with ornate moldings, splashy oil paintings, a sitting room, and two king-size beds. Lucy and I unpack, but Poppy stands aside, staring out the second-floor window. I tuck my suitcase in the closet and go to her.

  Across the cobblestone piazza, a pretty white church faces us, its pyramidal spire topped with a simple cross. Twin arched windows, like a pair of eyebrows, hover over a set of green double doors.

  “There,” she says, pointing her finger, “is where I will meet Rico tomorrow.”

  Her voice is heartbreakingly hopeful. I open my mouth to caution her. But then I close it again. What’s the harm in letting this ferociously positive old woman believe it’s possible for one more day?

  The church bells chime seven times, and well-dressed couples set out for dinner. The mild evening calls for sandals and skirts, but Poppy opts for a pink faux-fur vest. She suggests we stop at Villa Rufolo on our way to the restaurant. “A wealthy merchant built the ancient villa in the thirteenth century. Rico and I adored its gardens.”

  Most of the tourists are gone now, and it’s quiet when we enter what looks like an ancient watchtower. Stepping through an arched opening, we continue down a path lined with lime and cypress trees.

  Poppy stops. “Close your eyes.”

  When I open them again, my jaw drops. It’s as if we’ve been transported into a fairy-tale Italian courtyard. A circular fountain sits in the center, surrounded by geometric borders hosting lush tropical plants and roses of every variety and color. I’m drawn to the edge of the terrace. As if perfectly staged, an umbrella tree rises from the flora. Three hundred feet below, the Gulf of Salerno sparkles against a sky bruised with purples and golds.

  “They call this the Garden of the Soul,” Poppy says, coming up beside me. “Rico played his violin in this garden from time to time.” She turns and slowly pans the perimeter. It takes a moment before I realize: she’s looking for him.

  “Anyone hungry?” Lucy says, forcing us back to the present.

  We make our way to L’Antica Cartiera, an intimate seafood restaurant perched on the rocks, overlooking the coast. Poppy orders a bottle of Greco de Tufo, a crisp white wine from Campania that puckers my tongue. Waves crash against the cliffs, and we feast on fresh tuna tartare, chunks of lobster the color of coral, and seafood soufflé with wild fennel and fresh tomatoes. Every few minutes, Poppy pats her wig, making sure it’s in place. Each time someone steps onto the terrace, her head pops up. And each time, my heart sinks.

  The waiter refills our wineglasses. “To my beautiful girls,” Poppy says and lifts her glass. “Luciana, you finally realized you didn’t need that fancy purse.”

  Light dawns on Lucy’s face. “Yeah … I get it now. I was choosing fancy purses, when all along I’ve been a backpack kind of girl.”

  “You’re becoming the woman you were meant to be.”

  “You really are,” I say to Lucy as I clink her glass.

  “Me? Look at you. You stood your ground with Daria. And you drove across the flipping country.”

  A surge of pride comes over me. For a decade, I’ve lived within a walking-distance little bubble. I allowed myself to be manipulated by fear, and that really was a curse.

  “And what’s more,” Poppy says, tapping her glass against ours, “Emilia survived her first real heartbreak.”

  I groan. “Thanks for reminding me.”

  “Finally, you can write your romance novel.”

  “I was already writing my novel.”

  “An artist’s most important tool is right here.” She points to my heart. “And you’ve finally uncovered yours. Until now, you were writing from your head. At last, my dear, you will write from the heart.”

  I want to be angry. I want to play victim a bit longer. But as always, she’s right. I’m an insider now, rather than one with her nose pressed against the window, watching and wondering what it is to feel love.

  Our waiter slides a huge Neapolitan pastiera onto the table. Poppy is the first to plunge her fork into the creamy molded cake. She closes her eyes.

  “Deliziosa!” She pats her lips with the napkin. “Legend has it, a woman once left a basket on the seashore, filled with eggs and ricotta, candied fruits and orange blossoms. It was her sacrifice to the gods, to ensure that her husband, a fisherman, would return safely from the sea. When she came back to the shore the next morning, she discovered that the waves had mixed the ingredients. Her husband arrived home safely, and she had a beautiful pastiera for him to eat.”

  “Sweet,” Lucy says, licking her fork. “But we’d rather hear your story. You left us with a cliff-hanger.” She elbows Poppy. “Your wedding night.”

  Poppy giggles and waves her off. “Suffice it to say, it was stupendous.” Her smile fades. “But as they often do, things changed.”

  Chapter 37

  Poppy

  1960–61

  Ravello, Amalfi Coast

  It was a cloudy Friday in November, just four weeks after our wedding. Rico and I strolled the market, buying melons and fresh tomatoes, when someone called out.

  “Erich? Erich Krause? Sind Sie das?” The accent was unmistakably German. My heart began to race. I could sense Rico’s alarm, too. Though people were escaping East Germany in large numbers, in all of his months in Italy, he’d never once seen a familiar face. Now I could see the toll it took on him, being an escapee. He looked stricken, as if the border guards had finally caught up with him.

  His grip on my hand tightened, and slowly he turned around. Before us stood a round-faced young man with rosy cheeks and an infectious grin. Rico let out a sigh, the tension easing from his shoulders.

  “Fritz Kuhlman!” he cried. The two clasped hands and slapped each other’s backs. “How long have you been in Italy?” He spoke in German, but I was able to understand most of what he was saying.

  “I escaped last month. I arrived here just one week ago.”

  “Darf ich vorstellen?” Rico said, drawing me near. “Meine Frau.”

  A flush of pride warmed me. He was introducing me as his wife. Whatever else might happen, we were united, until death do us part.

  Fritz looked at me, then back to Rico. “Frau?” he asked, his brow creased. He began speaking so rapidly that I couldn’t keep up. But I recognized one word. Karin. He used her name several times, along with Verlobte. Fiancée.

  Rico flinched each time her name was spoken. “Nein. Nein,” he said, shaking his head. “I do not love her. She knows this.” He turned to me, no doubt trying to change the subject. “Fritz is from my city of Radebeul,” he said. “He was in school with my sister, Johanna.”

  I listened as Fritz told of the food shortage back home, the tightening at the border, the way the Communist government was taking over private businesses. My hands trembled and a knot formed in my stomach. Fritz had invaded our little bubble, and I was certain he hid a needle in his pocket.

  “My family,” Rico said, stepping forward and letting go of my hand. “Is my father’s business still safe? How is my mother? Is Johanna well?”

  “You do not know?”

  “Know what?” Rico asked. “What news do you have?”

  Fritz looked down and rubbed the back of his neck. “Your father … he suffered a stroke. He’s … he’s …”

  “My god!” He grabbed Fritz by the arms. “Is he alive? Spit it out!”

  “Yes, last I knew, he was alive. But he is a changed man. It is only a matter of time before the VEB takes over your father’s repair shop. If they haven’t already.”

  We sprinted to the post office. It had been weeks since Rico had called home. His family
knew nothing of me, or his new life in Ravello. We’d been so caught up with our love and our life together that everyone else seemed superfluous. Now we recognized how selfish we’d been.

  He spent three hours trying to place a call to his family’s shop. I stood beside him, rubbing the knots from his shoulders, bringing water in paper cups, listening as he chastised himself. Finally, at four p.m., the call was connected. We held our breath as the phone rang once. Twice.

  “Krause Autoreparatur.” I huddled beside him, close enough to hear the woman’s voice through the receiver.

  “Johanna,” Rico said, his voice so thick he could barely speak.

  They spoke in German, Rico and his sister, a rapid-fire volley of questions and answers. Again, words and phrases jumped at me.

  “Komm nach Hause.”

  “Du musst.”

  “Wir brauchen dich.”

  Come home now.

  You must.

  We need you.

  We left the post office, my beautiful world suddenly out of focus. Rico sat me on the edge of Villa Rufolo’s concrete fountain. Clutching my hands, he told me of his father’s condition.

  “His right side is useless. He cannot lift a fork, let alone a wrench. He has lost his speech and sits all day in a wheelchair. My mother feeds him, bathes him, like a small child. It has made her very weary, Johanna tells me.”

  He looked away. I rubbed his back until he could speak again.

  “Johanna is trying to keep the business going, but how? She knows nothing of auto repair. Her husband tries to help, but they are losing business. The authorities have come twice. They are pressuring Johanna, and my mother, too. They demand to know where I am, why I have not returned. My maximum travel permit expired long ago. The authorities threaten Johanna. They tell her if I do not return, my father’s shop will be turned over to the VEB—the Volkseigener Betrieb.”