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

by Lori Nelson Spielman

  Mercifully, my house comes into view. “Thanks for the umbrella and the hoodie.”

  He turns to me. “You know, it just hit me. I think I finally realize why you put up with their abuse.” He chews his lip and studies me. “You’re scared.”

  I laugh. “Scared? Whatever, Cusumano.” I step into the rain. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

  He grabs hold of my—his—coat sleeve. “C’mon, Ems. Think about it. You’ve seen firsthand what happens to people in your family who don’t conform.”

  Rain speckles my glasses and drips from my nose. “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about Poppy. And the fact that you’re both treated like shit, like you’re somehow less worthy, all because of that fucking lie.”

  My heart trips. He’s talking about the curse.

  “It’s not natural, the way your nonna cut off all ties with her sister. I’ve always thought it was weird. And you … you tiptoe around her and Daria, bowing to their every need—even forfeiting a trip to Italy that I know damn well you want to go on—just so they’ll love you. Because if you don’t, you’re afraid one day you could end up alone and abandoned, just like your aunt Poppy.”

  I want to argue, but I don’t trust my voice. I cover my chin. Matt’s eyes go soft.

  “Hey, I didn’t mean to upset you.” Without warning, he leans in and kisses my cheek. Instinctively, I flinch. Then, as if he needed further humiliation, I swipe the spot where his lips were. Even in the dim streetlight, I can see I’ve hurt his feelings.

  “I’m sorry, MC. I didn’t mean—”

  He lifts a hand to silence me. For a moment, he just stares at me, shaking his head. “Can’t you see, you’ve got a chance of a lifetime here? And you’re about to lose it. You’re about to throw it away, because you’re too damned scared to move forward.” His voice is picking up steam, the way it does when he’s frustrated. “You’re twenty-nine years old, Em. You’re not a kid anymore. Stop pretending you don’t see what’s right in front of your nose. You’ve got an opportunity. Grab it. Because one day, mark my words, you’re going to regret losing the best thing that’s ever happened to you.”

  I swallow hard, my mouth suddenly dry. There’s not a doubt in my mind, this conversation has nothing to do with Italy.

  He places a hand on my wet cheek. This time, I make sure I don’t recoil. “Do you understand where I’m coming from?”

  “Yes,” I whisper, my heart pounding in my chest.

  This is a pivotal moment. He’s waiting for me to elaborate, to say something that gives him hope. My lifelong friend, my easiest companion, the man I’d step in front of a train for, wants more than my friendship. I close my eyes, intoxicated with terror and rebellion and guilt.

  “I know exactly where you’re coming from,” I say. “And you’re right.” I smile and slug his arm. “I do want to go to Italy.”

  I wave good-bye and turn up the sidewalk. God help me, I’ve become just as good as my sister at deflecting.

  I nudge the front door open ever so slowly, and I’m assaulted by a blast of heat, the one indulgence Nonna, who’s never gotten acclimated to New York winters—or even summers—allows. My mind whirls. Matt is flat-out wrong. My family would never cut ties with me, the way they did with my great-aunt. With the slightest whisper of a click, I lock the door behind me. In the darkness, I navigate the terrazzo foyer. I’m almost to the staircase when I stumble over a pair of shoes.

  “Damn!” I cry, and immediately I slap a hand over my mouth. But it’s too late. The hallway light flickers on. In an instant, Nonna Rosa’s butterball frame appears at the door to her first-floor apartment, her faded green robe zipped knees to chin.

  “Silenzio!” she hisses, knuckles planted on her wide hips. “You will wake your father.” She speaks with a heavy accent, using broken English sprinkled with her native Italian. After fifty-eight years of living in the United States, my grandmother, whose world is largely made up of Italian immigrants like herself, is only moderately fluent in English. She’s a woman who chooses seclusion over inclusion and then complains about not fitting in.

  I bend down. A pair of black orthopedic shoes lay haphazardly in the foyer. “Your shoes, Nonna,” I say, and hand them to her.

  She snatches them from me as if she’s peeved. But I know my nonna. She left her shoes out on purpose so she would hear me when I came in.

  “Mi dispiace,” I say, offering an apology, never mind that I nearly broke my neck.

  I turn and make my way to the staircase, hoping for a quick escape to Emville.

  “You received a letter?”

  I close my eyes. Is there nothing Dar doesn’t share with Nonna?

  She crosses her arms, settling them atop her round belly like it’s her personal countertop. “How does my sister get the idea that you would go with her to Italy? You have been corresponding with her, Emilia Josephina?”

  “Only on holidays, Nonna. She still sends cards. I haven’t seen Poppy in a decade, not since Uncle Bruno’s funeral. I swear. We’re friends on Facebook, but she hardly ever posts.”

  Nonna bats a hand and harrumphs. “Facebook. Who does she think she is, doing the Facebook? I tell you, Emilia, the woman is indecente. You must stay away from her. Capisci? Stay away!”

  I stare at my grandmother’s pinched face, her glowering eyes. If her teeth were visible, I’m certain they would be gnashing. She glares at me, waiting for my assurance. It takes all my strength, but tonight I refuse to acquiesce or even blink. She lifts her chin.

  “In the morning, you will give me the letter. I will reply. I will tell my sister you want nothing to do with her and her tricks.”

  I clench my jaw, Matt’s words shouting to me as I march up the steps. You’re scared. You tiptoe around her … I’m almost to the landing when I stop. I look down at my grandmother shuffling back into her apartment, her shoes dangling at her side.

  “Nonna?” She turns and looks up at me, her brows creased. My pulse speeds. “I’ll reply to Poppy.”

  She blinks several times. “You will tell her you do not wish to travel with her to Italy?”

  But that would be a lie. I do want to go to Italy. Indecente or not, I want to know Paolina Fontana, the enigmatic woman who annotates her letters with silly little drawings, the spunky old gal who’s ready to travel the world.

  “You will do this, Emilia?” Nonna continues, her eyes narrowed.

  I turn away and continue up the stairs, knowing that tomorrow, the dutiful granddaughter that I am will comply with her wishes. Nonna will be satisfied. Daria will be relieved. But tonight, it gives me a perverse charge of pleasure having not agreed to it.

  Young girls often dream of a white dress and a diamond ring. I suppose I had that dream, too, when I was younger. But I’m over it now. I’ve learned to accept single life—in fact, I embrace it. Unlike most women approaching thirty, I can enjoy a night with my friends without the anxiety of wondering whether I’m going to meet “the one.” With the exception of my concealer stick, I save a fortune on makeup and skin care. I get to wear practical shoes and comfy glasses. I’m spared from awkward first dates and the heartbreak that inevitably follows. I don’t bother joining a gym, where I might meet other “active singles.” I run outside in sloppy old sweats and do online yoga in my living room, sometimes in my pajamas. When I do meet the occasional guy who shows interest, my chest doesn’t flood with butterflies. I don’t imagine a flock of children with his nose and my eyes. I never make a show of being witty or clever. I’m simply myself—which generally stops potential suitors from continued pursuit.

  It’s a gorgeous Monday afternoon—my day off—and I’m jogging in Petrosino Park, lost in a new song by Lord Huron, when my phone chimes. I slow to a trot and glance at a text. Hey, Ems. Netflix tonight?

  Matt and I are currently binge-watching reruns of The Office, providing the perfect excuse for hours of dormancy and gluttonous amounts of cheesy popcorn. I smile, happy to see he’s usin
g my old nickname. Maybe the weird vibe between us is finally waning. I reply with a thumbs-up. Immediately, he responds with a heart.

  A heart? Seriously? I stuff my phone into my pocket and break into a sprint. A minute later, a call comes in. I double-tap my AirPod.

  “What’s up, Cusumano?”

  “Well, hello, Emilia!”

  I screech to a halt and pull out my phone. A pretty, olive-skinned woman smiles into the screen. Who FaceTimes without forewarning? I rear back and remove the clip-on shades covering my glasses.

  “Aunt Poppy?”

  Chapter 7

  Emilia

  A cobalt-blue scarf snakes around Aunt Poppy’s head, corralling a mass of silver-threaded waves. I wipe my brow with my shirtsleeve.

  “Aunt Poppy? Is that you?”

  “Last I checked.” She laughs, unleashing a magnificent display of lines from the corners of her dark eyes. “Look at that beautiful smile,” she says, peering closely at the screen. “You’ve finally grown into your teeth!”

  I laugh. “I guess I have,” I say, and put a finger over the scar beneath my lip.

  “And you’re still wearing those vintage glasses.”

  “Oh,” I say, “these aren’t vintage.”

  “No, but one can pretend. Now, let’s talk about our upcoming trip.”

  I bend over and grab my thighs, trying to catch my breath … and collect my thoughts. It’s been almost a week since I received my aunt’s invitation. As Nonna demanded, I replied the next day with a polite note of thanks-but-no-thanks. Did she not receive it?

  “I’m sorry, Aunt Poppy. I can’t go to Italy.”

  She taps a painted fingernail against her chin. “Please, my dear girl, avoid saying no so quickly. You’ll find life is much more interesting when you learn to say ‘It’s possible.’”

  In the background, her doorbell chimes.

  “Look,” I say, grateful for an excuse to end the call. “You’re busy. We’ll talk another time.”

  “Nonsense. We’ve got a trip to plan.”

  She scurries through a periwinkle-blue living room as she talks, the bobbing screen making me dizzy. I catch sight of a cluttered array of knickknacks—an old gas station clock mounted above a fireplace, mismatched pillows of every size and color, a zebra-print chair sitting on a purple shag rug. In a corner, an egg-shaped wicker chair hangs on a chain from the ceiling. Is that a carved monkey, dangling from her light fixture?

  Suddenly a door bursts open and the screen erupts in sunlight.

  “Brody!” She aims her phone at a tall, sixty-something man with shaggy blond hair, dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt. “Brody, meet Emilia. Emilia, meet Brody.”

  I chuckle awkwardly. “Oh. Well. Nice to meet you, Brody.”

  “Same to you,” he says in a deep voice that matches his rugged exterior. “Your aunt is mighty excited about the trip.”

  I cringe. She’s telling people I’m going to Italy? I listen as the man informs my aunt he’s finished for the day. The phone wobbles, then I catch sight of a wrinkled hand. “For luck,” Poppy says, placing a shiny penny in his palm. “So long for now, dear friend.” Poppy’s hand flutters in the screen as she waves good-bye. “Go spread your sunshine in the world!”

  The phone finally returns to her face. “That man is a godsend,” she says, closing the door behind her. “Lost his leg in Vietnam, but he’s my right hand. He comes every day to help with Higgins—that’s my twenty-year-old gelding.”

  I’m still trying to digest the fact that my aunt has a horse when she adds, “Brody’s father was my man companion.”

  “Your man companion? You mean …”

  “Yes, Emilia. My lover. Past tense, God bless his soul.”

  If Nonna is old Italy, heavy and drawn and dark, Poppy is cosmopolitan America, with a light and frivolous air that complements her bright, perky voice. She’s kept just enough of her Italian accent to sound European and exotic.

  I almost feel like I’m with her, in Devon, Pennsylvania, as she moves into a cluttered kitchen. When Poppy announces it’s teatime, I naturally assume she’s talking Earl Grey or oolong. Instead, she lifts a bottle of Bombay gin from her teal-colored cabinet and grins. “Do you prefer your martini up or on the rocks?”

  “Up and a little dirty,” I say, playing along and sending Poppy on a riff of laughter.

  “Oh, how I wish we were side by side right now, lost in day-drinks.”

  I settle onto a park bench, the sun warming my shoulders, and watch my aunt mix her martini. She has propped her phone against a bottle of wine, but it’s off center, capturing only a slice of her left side. Most of the screen is aimed at a fridge covered in photos of babies and children and adults of every race and shape. A mass of pink-capped women carrying signs at a rally. Poppy in full riding gear astride a beautiful black horse—Higgins, I presume. My aunt ankle-deep in the ocean, locking arms with a swarm of friends who look half her age.

  She glances at the fridge behind her. My cheeks warm, as if I’ve been caught snooping. Her eyes twinkle. “Life is better measured in friendships than years, don’t you think?” Without waiting for my answer, she grabs her drink, along with the martini shaker. The screen goes dark, and I imagine it’s tucked under her arm. Next thing I know, she’s standing on a shady terrace.

  “My little heaven,” she says as she slowly pans the area with her phone. Misshapen plants and unruly vines, pink hibiscus and bright orange poppies mingle haphazardly in clay pots, littered among ceramic fairies, colorful gnomes, a life-size alligator, a wooden peace sign, a tin rainbow. “Check out my latest project,” she says and lowers herself next to a koi pond. “Come here, Nemo,” she calls, making ripples in the pond. “Over here, Dory!”

  I laugh out loud. “Your place is fascinating.” It’s the truth. Poppy’s home looks stimulating and dizzying and strangely inviting, like a scene in a fantasy novel, where the character might be whimsical and young at heart … or batshit—

  “Crazy as a crane fly,” Poppy says, interrupting my thoughts.

  “What?”

  She rises to her feet. “That’s what you were thinking, was it not?”

  “No!” I give a nervous chuckle. “I, uh …”

  She laughs and settles into a wicker chair with mismatched cushions. “It’s okay, Emilia. You see, I adore crazy people. Those who are crazy to explore. Crazy to laugh. Crazy to create. The ones who embrace broken bones and broken hearts, who risk failure and welcome surprises. I suspect you’re one of these people.”

  “Mmm,” I murmur, hoping she interprets this as a yes.

  She props her phone on a table in front of her. This time, it’s pointed in the right direction, giving me my first chance to study my aunt. She’s thin, with pretty olive skin and a wide, full mouth painted bright pink. She’s wearing a white linen sundress, with a chunky orange necklace and a fuchsia belt.

  “To Emilia,” she says. She lifts her glass and a dozen colorful bangles clatter against her dainty wrist. From my park bench a hundred miles away, I pretend to raise a drink when she adds, “My fellow second daughter.”

  I choke on my make-believe martini, thoughts of Filomena and Cosimo and poor Maria surfacing.

  “Cheers,” I say. “But I don’t believe in that curse.”

  “Well, I should hope not!” She shakes her head. “I’ve always bristled at the injustice of that tale.”

  “Same here. A woman is sexually assaulted and, as a result, gets pummeled with a rock and slapped with a lifelong curse. Go figure.”

  “Shameful. Filomena and Maria should have locked arms and given Horny Toad Cosimo a boot in the balls.”

  I burst out laughing. “Amen!” I say, feeling a kinship with my fellow second daughter, never mind that we’re two generations removed.

  She tucks her legs beneath her, exposing bare brown feet tipped with tangerine toenails. “Tell me every good thing about you, Emilia.”

  I shift on the bench and try my best to make Daria and Matt,
my cat and my job and my nieces, even my little apartment, sound fascinating.

  “That about sums it up,” I say. “My life isn’t all that interesting.”

  She shrugs. “No matter. That will soon change. You’re about to embark on an all-expenses-paid trip to Italy!”

  All expenses paid? Last I knew, Poppy was some sort of teacher—art history, I think. How can she afford a European trip for two, along with a beautiful home and a horse and an employee? Is she spending her entire life savings on this trip?

  I rise and meander over to the paved jogging path. “That’s really generous,” I say as I stroll. “But I can’t get away from the store. I’m sorry.”

  “Ah,” she says. “Making cannoli is certainly more memorable than a trip to Europe.” Before I can reply to her sarcasm, she continues. “You’re a young woman, Emilia. If you can’t travel and see the world, you may as well jump in the box right now.”

  I think “box” means casket. To Poppy, a life like mine is akin to death.

  I open my mouth to say something—what, exactly, I haven’t decided—when a cyclist nearly swipes me. “Watch it!” he yells.

  “Sorry,” I call to him and scurry back to the park bench.

  “Emilia, my child,” Aunt Poppy says. “Do me one favor, please? Stop apologizing when you’re not sorry.”

  I scowl. “What?”

  “Back to the business at hand,” she says. “I’ve got our itinerary all planned. Eight days in Italy, with a travel day on each end. We’ll see some sights first, but we must get to Ravello—a beautiful hillside town on the Amalfi Coast—by October twenty-second.” She smiles into the camera. “The day I turn eighty.”

  “But, Aunt Poppy—”

  “We’ll leave in six weeks. I thought you could drive here, to Devon, and pick me up. I live twenty minutes from Philadelphia International Airport.”

  “I don’t drive,” I say.

  “You New Yorkers,” she says, tsking. “In that case, we’ll meet at JFK. What a grand time we’ll have. We’ll begin our journey in Venezia—Venice—then—”