One Italian Summer: The perfect romantic fiction read for summer 2020
Page 33
Lucy, Rico, and I reach into the tin, each taking a handful of our Poppy’s ashes. Rico turns, facing west, where the horizon is dusted with peach and lavender. “As we promised, mio unico amore. One last Tuscan sunset.”
He strikes up his violin. Bittersweet notes cry out, Que será, será. I throw my arm to the pastel sky and release my clenched fist. A breeze rushes over the hill, catching the ashes and setting them afloat. For the briefest moment, Poppy’s remains become iridescent in the sun’s golden halo. Then they’re swept away, into the ethereal, infinite horizon.
An image of my nonna Poppy and her Johanna comes alive. Together, they’re laughing, hugging, dancing in the heavens.
“It’s possible,” I whisper.
Chapter 57
Emilia
Days Later
Amalfi Coast
Daylight softens. Along the beach, two men dressed in black work to fold umbrellas and stack lounge chairs. I check my map, then trot up a hill and wind my way through the seaside town of Amalfi.
I reach the pretty tree-lined Via Pomicara and check my phone again for the address of Poppy’s attorney friend. I pass a white stucco building wreathed in vines and bougainvilleas and almost miss the small placard beside the door. Studio Legale di De Luca e De Luca.
The polished cherry door squeaks when I step inside. I take a deep breath. In a matter of minutes, I’ll have my own home. A balloon of gratitude sets afloat in me.
I gaze about a stylish but deserted reception room. Has everyone left for the day? Somewhere down the hall, a radio plays. I step forward.
“Hello?” I call softly, taking another step.
The music grows louder. I reach an open door and freeze. A thirty-something man with a close-cropped beard sits with his feet propped on his desk and a novel splayed on his chest. His head is tipped back and he’s snoring. I can’t help but smile.
I clear my throat and he bolts upright, sending the novel hurling to the floor.
“Merda!” he says, the Italian word for “shit.” He glances at me as he scrambles to retrieve the book—some sort of crime mystery. “Scusi.”
“It’s okay,” I say. “I’m sorry I …” I start to say “woke you,” but opt for the less embarrassing, “startled you.”
He rakes a hand through his wavy hair and straightens his tie. “I apologize,” he says, grabbing a pair of dark-framed glasses from the desk and planting them on his face. “I was not expecting—” He leans in to peer at me. “Do I know you?”
“No. But I spoke to someone on the phone earlier this week—maybe you? I said I’d be coming in today to sign some papers that my aunt—my grandmother—and my grandfather had drawn up.”
He shuffles through several folders on his desk. “You must have spoken to my father. He has left for the day.” He lands on a stack of papers and squints at the top page. “You are Emilia Antonelli?”
“That’s me.”
“Ahh, Poppy and Rico’s granddaughter, at last.” He places his warm hand in mine. “Hello, Emilia. I am Domenico De Luca.” He cocks his head and stares directly into my eyes. “But you and I have met, I am certain.”
“Nope. Not me.”
“Maybe six … eight months ago? I would not forget a face so beautiful.”
I stop short of rolling my eyes. “You must be mistaken.”
“No. I do not think so.” He stands, stroking his beard, gazing at me, until finally I point to the pages.
“Are those for me?”
“Ah, yes.” He gestures to a rectangular table and pulls out a chair for me before taking the seat beside mine. He’s tall, with broad shoulders and long legs. When he positions the first page in front of me, I catch sight of his long, tapered fingers, minus a ring—not that I’m looking. In a deep voice that, I must admit, does sound vaguely familiar, he explains the legal jargon as I read along. He smells of soap and heat—the way a man should—making it hard to concentrate.
I look up when I realize he has stopped reading. He studies me with knit brows. “I remember your face, those eyes.” He vaguely lifts his hand toward my face. “I have thought about it many times. I believe we met at Giardini Caffè? Am I right?”
I shake my head. “Never heard of it.”
His eyes twinkle. “Perhaps you would allow me to take you to dinner sometime, so we can uncover this mystery?”
I get it. You’re incredibly charming, and lines like this probably work on many an unsuspecting signorina. But let’s cut the bullshit.
“Shall we sign the papers?” I say, pulling a pen from my purse.
I roll my suitcase up the cobblestone walk, greeting a couple as they pass. Ravello is cast in bronze now, and the thrashing sea croons in the distance. Poppy’s old Welsh word hiraeth springs to mind. She predicted one day I’d understand its meaning, and she was right. It feels as if this seaside town, half the world away from the city where I was raised, is the home I’ve been yearning for my entire life.
I stop when I reach the pink stucco building. A dim light shines in the old bakery, and I imagine my young nonna inside, some sixty years ago, making bread before sunrise. A faded sign sits in a clouded window, marking the business Affittasi—For Lease.
I gaze through the large window, taking in the tin ceiling, the wall of ovens, the uneven plaster walls. Instead of a bakery I see the perfect bookstore, a cozy shop with shelves up and down the center, and a small reading area in the back.
My mind wanders as I move around back. Does Ravello need a bookstore?
The hum of the piazza quiets when I step into the wonderfully rebellious courtyard, overgrown with vines and tangled roses. A café table and a pair of chairs are housed beneath the sprawling lemon tree—the perfect spot for writing.
I catch sight of the staircase and my smile fades. Will I ever climb these steps without thinking of my pregnant nonna Poppy, collapsed and near death? What strength she had, what resilience and grace. Just like my scar of courage, these steps will remind me that I can endure anything, that nothing is impossible. After all, I am Poppy Fontana’s granddaughter.
I fit the key into the lock. The old wooden door creaks when I open it. I step into Rico and Poppy’s old apartment—my new home in Ravello, the place I’ll launch memories and write my next novel. Yes, it’s possible.
I flip on a light switch. The colorful poppy painting comes to life, along with a new piece of art, my favorite. I move into the living room, my eyes already misty. Hung in a thick, contemporary frame, it’s the photo Lucy snapped almost a year ago in the hospital courtyard. Printed in a cool black-and-white, giving it an artsy vibe, the picture covers much of the wall. I’m sandwiched between my grandparents, laughing, as Poppy kisses my cheek and Rico gazes at me with a tenderness I only now understand.
I travel from room to room, giggling, saying prayers of thanks to my nonna and opa. The place is gorgeous. How did they know this is where I was meant to be planted?
I spot a note on the kitchen counter, written in Italian.
Welcome home, Emilia. Best wishes settling in. I trust you will love this place as much as your nonna and I did. Remember us at dusk, when you take a glass of wine to the rooftop and bid farewell to the sun, before it ducks beneath the sea.
Elene and Jan send their best wishes. They would love to see you, once you are settled. We will all have dinner when I visit next month. Until then …
All my love,
Opa
P.S. I hope the signing with the lawyer went well. Mr. De Luca has been a godsend to us during this transaction.
My eyes fix on the Italian word for “lawyer.” The hairs on my arms stand erect.
At once, I remember.
I glance at my watch. It’s almost seven. Is he still there, reading his novel perhaps?
A memory finds me. It’s time we found you someone … I’m thinking someone cerebral. A dreamer … a lover of books. My arms erupt in gooseflesh, and I know for certain my nonna has led me here, to this moment.
I f
umble through my paperwork. Finally, I find his number. I lift my phone. My heart batters in my chest. He answers on the second ring.
“Nico De Luca.”
“I remember now.” A smile overtakes my face. “I called you an avocado.”
He is silent for a moment, and then deep, rich laughter pours over me. “Yes! That is right! It wasn’t Giardini Caffè. We were in front of Piacenti’s Bakery.”
I smile as I meander down the hall. “I think you were wearing sunglasses that day. And a hat, too, if I’m not mistaken.”
“If you tell me I was without a beard, you are completely forgiven.”
I laugh. “The beard! That’s what threw me off!” I step into Poppy and Rico’s—my—bedroom. In the distance, the bells of the Ravello Cathedral chime. I pull back the gauzy white curtain and gaze across the piazza at the beautiful church, aglow with the last rays of sunlight. “I can’t believe you remembered me, after all that time.”
“It was an unusual encounter. You were like an angel who appeared out of nowhere, reminding me of my dream.”
“You had a plan for the bakery,” I say, recalling our conversation.
“Sì. And now you own that building.”
I freeze. “I do? I own this entire building? Including the bakery?”
“Sì. I explained this before you signed.”
My chest floods with gratitude and excitement … and anxiety.
“So I need to find a tenant? I don’t know the first thing about commercial real estate.”
“Do not worry. My father can help you. Or my uncle.” He pauses, and when he speaks again, his voice is tinged with hope, and trepidation, and seduction. “Or perhaps you will choose me?”
My breath catches. I know, somewhere in my heart, that his simple question comes loaded with possibilities. But I am happy now. I own this beautiful pied-à-terre, in a place that feels like home. I have a wonderful opa, and my sister’s love again, along with my cousins’, Lucy and Carmella. Matt Cusumano is my future cousin-in-law—or would that be my second-cousin-in-law? Whatever the title, he’s my best friend again. And I have a new family in Germany, too, one I’m excited to meet. And on top of everything, I’m a soon-to-be published author. Do I dare risk the happiness, the genuine joy I feel now, for the possibility of love … and heartbreak?
His offer stretches between us like a bridge, waiting to be crossed … or circumvented. I can almost see my nonna Poppy, feel her soft hand enfolded in mine. If love comes to you, if you find it within your grasp, promise me you’ll pluck it from the vine and give it a good lookingover, won’t you?
“I am sorry, Emilia,” Nico says. “I did not mean to be so forward.”
I let go of the curtain and turn back to the room. The day’s final shaft of sunlight follows me, landing on a scratch etched above the door. I step closer, squinting up at it. It’s been painted over, but I make out one letter … and then another. Shivers blanket me. A word comes into focus, then an entire sentence.
We chose love.
PF & EK
“I won’t need your father,” I say. “Or your uncle.” I close my eyes, gathering all my courage. “I choose you.”
Dear Reader,
Several years ago, I received a six-page letter from a reader in Germany. Dieter “Dieto” Kretzschmar, an elderly man from Germany who grew up during World War II, had suffered unspeakable atrocities during the Nazi regime, and later behind the Iron Curtain under the German Democratic Republic. In 1965, Dieto and the love of his life, Johanna, made a harrowing escape from their home in Dresden. Dieto went on to become a worldfamous juggler. He wanted me to write his memoir.
I replied to Dieto, explaining that, although his story was fascinating, I write fiction. In no time, we were corresponding regularly. We’ve become great pen pals, and even met in person when Dieto visited the United States.
Though Dieto’s story was not mine to tell, I couldn’t stop thinking about the heartbreaking life he had endured, his spirit and resiliency. What happened to a relationship when a couple was split, one living in freedom, the other trapped behind the Iron Curtain? Soon, a story formed, this one contemporary fiction with a female protagonist. Though vastly different from my German friend’s story, with his permission (and delight) I was able to sprinkle the novel with bits of his journey—his father being part of a troupe of prisoners that entertained the Russian soldiers, his mother finding shelter for her children in a sawmill in the village of Clausnitz, the angst he felt when leaving his family behind, his escape route using the trains and his bicycle.
I hope you enjoy Poppy and Rico’s story—and Emilia’s and Lucy’s, too—as much as I enjoyed writing it. As Dieto signed off to me in his very first letter:
With kindest regards, yours sincerely,
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
One of the first rules of writing is to show, not tell. Though I’ve tried to show my heartfelt gratitude to those who’ve traveled with me on this novel’s journey, I have no doubt I’ve fallen short. Therefore, I must resort to telling, using mere words in an attempt to convey my deepest appreciation.
First and foremost, I give humble and hearty thanks to my dear friend Dieter “Dieto” Kretzschmar, the inspiration for Erich. Dieto, thank you for reaching out to me, a novelist thousands of miles from your home in Germany, and trusting me with your bittersweet memories. Though your life story is merely touched upon in this novel, your strength and resilience in times of adversity, your golden heart, and your good humor shone through during the entire writing process.
Aunt Poppy must have given me a lucky penny, because I’ve had the tremendous good fortune of being represented by my dream agent, Jenny Bent, along with her fabulous team of international agents. To each of you, I offer my sincere gratitude.
I’m over the moon to be working with the fantastic team at Berkley, led by the esteemed Claire Zion and my brilliant editor, Sarah Blumenstock. Your attention to detail, your patience and expertise, have created a far richer story. Additionally, I give a world of thanks to my ambitious and dedicated sales and marketing teams championed by Jeanne-Marie Hudson, Craig Burke, Jessica Mangicaro, and Tara O’Connor.
Grazie mille to my dear friends Joe and Elaine Natoli, for regaling me with tales of their Bensonhurst neighborhood and helping capture the essence of a big Italian American family. A million thanks to my wonderful friend and walking partner Vickie Moerman, for snapping and sending photos from Italy. Your eloquent descriptions helped bring Italy back to life in my mind’s eye.
I give a huge shout-out to my invaluable cast of supportive friends during the penning of this novel, especially Linda Zylstra, Kathy O’Neil, Julie Lawson Timmer, Kelly O’Connor McNees, Kathryn Sue Moore, David Strickland, and my sister Natalie Kiefer. As always, I pay homage to my early reader and fellow writer, the brilliant, hilarious, and endlessly encouraging Amy Bailey Olle. And to the generous authors who graciously gave their time to read and share their thoughts about this novel, you have my everlasting gratitude.
To my lovely reader friends, book bloggers, and booksellers, I am grateful and honored to have been welcomed so warmly into your hearts and onto your bookshelves. Thank you for embracing my novels, for sharing them with others, for reaching out to me with your thoughts. There is no greater joy for me as a writer than knowing that my story has touched another person’s emotions.
To my wonderful parents and family, to God and my angels—I am humbled by your love. And finally, I thank my dear husband Bill. Without you, there would be no story.
About the Author
Lori Nelson Spielman is a New York Times, USA Today and Der Spiegel bestselling author. She is also a former speech pathologist, guidance counsellor, and homebound teacher. She enjoys fitness running, traveling, and reading, though writing is her true passion. Her first novel, The Life List, has been published in thirty countries and optioned by Fox 2000. She lives in Michigan with her husband and their very spoiled cat.
You can find her on twitter @lne
lsonspielman or connect via her website, www.lorinelsonspielman.com
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