“I—I didn’t know she was coming with us.”
“She doesn’t know, either. Shall we call her now? You can put her on speaker. Ask her if she’d like to have a three-way.”
I can only imagine my cousin’s colorful response to that proposition. “Uh, no,” I say. “Lucy is not someone you put on speakerphone.”
She claps her hands. “I like her already!”
“Aunt Poppy, Lucy’s got a new job. And she just started seeing someone. I guarantee she won’t leave now.”
Poppy scowls. “She’s afraid she might lose this new boyfriend if she’s away from him?”
“Exactly.”
“How positively dreadful, allowing someone such power.”
“Lucy’s a second daughter,” I remind her. “Like us.”
She gives me a sidelong glance. “You actually believe the myth.”
“Me? I already told you, no. Absolutely not.”
She stares at me. My heart stammers and I return to that day in Sister Regina’s classroom, when my seven-year-old mind slowly digested the fact that Fontana second-born daughters once shared a strange coincidence—past tense. It would be another three years before Nonna Rosa marched into the room I shared with Daria and announced that the Fontana second-born daughters are cursed—present tense. On the very day she handed me my first training bra, she told us the legend of Filomena and Maria. Who was I, a girl of ten with mosquito-bite breasts, to argue with a centuries-old curse?
But Daria, who was twelve at the time and my biggest cheerleader, burst out laughing the minute Nonna left the room. “That’s a load of bull crap, Emmie. Don’t believe a word of it. You are not cursed. I swear to God.” She snatched the garment from my hand. “You might have to accept this old hand-me-down,” she said, stuffing her frayed and graying tee-bra into my drawer. “But you must never accept Nonna’s ridiculous story.”
That day—and, if I’m being perfectly honest, as recently as a dozen years ago—I believed my sister. What girl doesn’t expect a conventional life with a husband and kids? But as I’ve grown older, I realize Filomena and the second daughters before me have given me a gift. I have a pass, a perfectly valid excuse, to turn my back on the wretched dating scene. Though I don’t for a minute believe in that ridiculous curse, I am grateful nonetheless.
I smile at my aunt. “Of course I don’t believe in the curse. It’s just an old wives’ tale, an old-world myth. But Lucy does believe. And she’s determined to break it.”
“Oh, for Goddess’s sake! You tell Luciana if she comes to Italy, we’ll put that ridiculous Fontana second-daughter myth to bed once and for all.”
I rub the back of my neck. “You can’t promise that. Lucy takes the curse very seriously. You’d be setting her up for disappointment.”
“Oh, but I can. Come with me to Italy, and you and Luciana will return freed from the curse. I swear on my life.”
The hairs on my arms rise. “That’s im—”
“It’s possible,” she says, finishing my sentence.
Chapter 10
Emilia
When I described the supposed Fontana Second-Daughter Curse to Matt a decade ago, I compared it to a baseball team with a losing streak. The fans have no idea when, or even if, the losing streak will end. But the faithful crowd watches with wonder.
It’s the same thing with the curse. Some in the Fontana family battle it head-on, like my aunt Carol. Others seem to accept it, like Nonna. Some, like me, swear the curse is an odd coincidence. But one common thread exists in our family’s patchwork of personalities: everyone—from Nonna to my sister to Aunt Carol—finds the curse curious. Every generation wonders if theirs will be the one to finally see a second daughter marry. And if so, which second daughter will it be? And there have been some near misses, like a distant cousin of Nonna’s who developed smallpox three days before her wedding. Or Livia, the unfortunate second daughter whose betrothed turned out to be a married preacher with six children. Now it’s up to my generation to break the curse. So far, Lucy is the crowd favorite.
The evening sun casts shadows over Uncle Dolphie’s barbershop. I go around to the back and climb the familiar porch steps. Even though I visit my uncle’s shop every afternoon, it’s been three weeks since I’ve been to the adjoining apartment where his son, my uncle Vinnie, lives with his family. I knock on the metal screen door, hoping whoever’s in there can hear me over the Ed Sheeran ballad coming from inside.
“Lucy?” I call through the open screen. “Aunt Carol? Carmella?”
I’m about to knock again when Lucy rounds the corner, adjusting her bra strap. Her long hair, a different color each time I see her, is platinum blond tonight, and she’s wearing a half smile that can only be described as sultry. She sees me and her face falls.
“Emmie? What are you doing here?” She cranes her neck to look down the street. “Carmella’s not here. My mom’s out making deliveries. Come back tomorrow.”
My aunt Carol, who sells Avon, doesn’t think it’s professional to leave orders on customers’ porches. Whether it’s a complete facial regimen or a single bottle of nail polish, my aunt insists on a personal delivery, one that inevitably leads to a piece of cake or a cup of coffee. Since she started selling Avon, she’s gained thirty pounds and all of the gossip from Coney Island to Bay Ridge.
“I’m here to see you, Lucy. Is now a good time?”
She checks the phone in her hand. “Um, I have a sec, I guess.” She holds the door open. As I pass, she peers out at the street again, searching in both directions. “I’m having someone for dinner.”
I bite back a smile. Decked out in a red spandex jumpsuit with smoky eyes rimmed in thick black liner, my cousin looks like she really could “have someone” for dinner. Or perhaps she’s hoping someone has her.
The tiny living room that, for years, has served as our family’s gathering place for baptisms and first communions and high school graduations is immaculate, as always. Aunt Carol claims that the only thing worse than a messy house is a woman without lipstick. The savory aroma of roast chicken wafts from the kitchen, making my mouth water. In the adjoining dining room, I notice the table set for two. A vase of hydrangeas rests in the center between two flickering candles.
“Are you here to gawk or talk, Emmie? Can’t you see I’m in a hurry here?”
I smile. There was a time when my sharp-tongued cousin, who’s eight years younger than I am, intimidated me. But I realize now, her sarcastic barbs are generally aimed at those she loves most dearly.
“I promise I’ll vanish as soon as your friend arrives. But I have an offer for you.” I take a deep breath. “How would you like to go to Italy, all expenses paid?”
She blinks. “Italy? With you?”
“And Aunt Poppy.”
She chokes out a laugh. “That sounds like massive amounts of no fun.” She spins around. “What do you think?” She puts a hand to her hair. “Marilyn Platinum.”
“Nice,” I say, hoping I don’t get struck by lightning. Why she’d choose to disguise her naturally rich, dark hair is beyond me.
“We’ll leave sometime in mid-October,” I say, steering the conversation back to Italy. I quickly describe our aunt and relay her story of growing up in Trespiano.
Lucy pretends to snore. “Like I’d go to Italy with a boring lady who’s got one foot in the grave.”
An unexpected sense of protectiveness takes hold of me. “Boring is the last adjective I’d use to describe Poppy.”
“I wasn’t talking about Aunt Poppy.”
I shake my head. “Very funny, Luce. C’mon. It’ll be an experience. And you’ll love Poppy. She seems … extraordinary. Really.”
“Extraordinarily nutso.” She checks her phone again. “Nonna’s good with this?”
I rub my scar. “She will be,” I say, praying it’s true. “Lucy, we’re talking Europe. How cool is that?”
She gives a little huff. “It’s not exactly Vegas.” She glances at her phone again be
fore plopping down on the sofa. “Go ahead. Sit.”
I lower myself onto a brown sofa draped in one of Aunt Carol’s crocheted blankets—this one in oranges and yellows—and explain my conversation with Aunt Poppy. “She insists we both come with her to celebrate her eightieth birthday. She doesn’t have anyone else. Aunt Poppy is … a second daughter.”
Lucy flinches. Always an undercurrent, the curse is something we Fontanas rarely mention aloud. “Thanks to her, we’re left to break the curse—not that you’re any help.” She scowls and points at my sweater. “Don’t tell me. Coldwater Creek clearance rack? Or have you been raiding Nonna’s closet again?” She starts singing her own rendition of Right Said Fred’s “I’m Too Sexy.”
“I’m too sexy for my cardigan, too sexy for my cardigan, too sexy for my No-nna’s cardigan.”
I laugh. “Okay, okay. I get it. You don’t like the sweater.”
She checks her phone for at least the twelfth time. “Seriously. Tell Pops thanks anyway, but the timing’s all wrong. I’m in a relationship.”
“Yes. I know. That’s great.”
She scowls as she taps her keyboard. My eyes travel to the beautifully set dining room table. Wax pools at the base of the candles and I catch a faint whiff of charred meat. Lucy’s date is late. Very late. My heart breaks for her. I rise and give what I hope is a reassuring smile.
“We can talk later. I’ll get out of your hair.”
She grabs my arm, her purple nails digging into my skin. “Don’t do that, Em.”
“What?”
“Don’t give me that pitiful look!”
I sit back down, unsure what to do or say. “I’m sorry.”
“He just texted. He’s running late. But he’s coming. You’ll see.”
“I believe you, Luce. But, um, you might want to turn down the oven.”
The final rays of sunlight fade and I click on a lamp. Lucy twists open a bottle of Budweiser. Then another. “He’s coming,” she tells me once more as she opens her third beer.
“I know.”
“We’ve been out five times,” she offers. “Well, four, actually. The first was just a hookup.” She shoots me a look. “Got a problem with that?”
“No,” I say, honestly. “I don’t care.”
She peels the label from her beer bottle. “Carmella thinks I’m a slut who dates pigs.”
I rear back. “Your sister actually said that?”
Lucy shrugs. “May as well have. My mom thinks I’m a loser. She prays—literally prays on her knees—that I’ll meet a nice boy and get married and have kids. My dad’s no better. They’re both terrified I’ll be single forever.”
I frown. “Why is being single terrifying?”
She gives me a look. “No grandchildren.”
“Ah,” I say. “My family’s the opposite. They’ve given up on me. And I’m good with that.”
“Yeah,” Lucy says, “you’re lucky.” She looks down at her cleavage. “When you look like I do, they think you might actually have a chance.”
I picture adorable little Lucy, with big curious eyes and short chubby legs mapped with scrapes and bruises. Poor Luce. Aunt Carol, a pretty woman whose face I’ve yet to see without full-coverage foundation, didn’t appreciate her little tomboy. She enrolled Lucy in dance classes and every princess contest in Brooklyn. But Lucy wasn’t a dancer, and chubby girls didn’t win beauty pageants.
Things changed when Lucy hit puberty. Her baby fat morphed into voluptuous curves, and her confidence seemed to grow with each cup size. I study her now and can’t help but think my cousin looked more natural in her baggy shorts and Popsicle-stained T-shirt than she does in that ridiculous Spider-Woman jumpsuit.
“Tell me about him,” I say. “Your friend—this guy you’re seeing. I can’t remember his name.”
She lets out a breath. “Jack. As in beanstalk, if you get my drift.” She grins. “He’s gorgeous—even ol’ Carol’s hot for him. And he likes me, Em. He told me he’s never met anyone like me.” She checks the time again.
“Lucy,” I say, taking advantage of her alcohol haze. “Come to Italy with Poppy and me. Get out of Bensonhurst for a while.”
She gnaws on her thumbnail. “I can’t. It’s too new. You think Jack’s going to stick around if I’m gone? Get real.”
The guy is obviously a complete jerk, standing Lucy up. But still, she wants him. She’s one determined second daughter, I’ll give her that.
As she drones on about Jack, my thoughts spin. I could leave right now. I could call Poppy tonight and tell her that Lucy refused her offer. Poppy would find other travel companions, Lucy wouldn’t be disappointed, and Nonna would never know I entertained the thought of going to Italy.
I jump when Lucy slams her phone on the table. “Check your messages, asshole!” She leans her head against the sofa and stares at the ceiling. “It’s happening. It always happens. Jack’s losing interest.”
“Oh, Luce, I’m so sorry.”
“We haven’t hooked up in a week. And now the fuckwad’s standing me up.”
I long to wrap this desperately lonely girl in my arms, but I know better. “You don’t deserve this.”
“And neither do you. But we both have it, don’t we?”
She’s talking about the curse. Do I owe it to Lucy to tell of Poppy’s promise? No. If she’s gullible enough to believe in the curse, she may be gullible enough to believe Poppy could break it. And of course that’s …
Poppy’s words call to me: It’s possible.
With a nagging sense of foreboding and the utmost care, I open my mouth. “Luce, I need to tell you something.” I turn to her, the knot in my belly tightening. “Poppy has some ridiculous notion that if we come with her to Italy …” I pause, caressing my scar. What if Lucy actually believes our crazy aunt? What if she agrees to go to Italy, expecting to return home no longer plagued by the centuries-old curse? She may never recover from the disappointment. I imagine Lucy an old woman, bitter and angry and frustrated, just like the second daughters in the old family photos.
“She swears the second-daughter curse will be lifted.”
“What?”
“I know. Complete bullshit, right? I mean, first of all, there is no curse. Let’s get that straight. But secondly, the idea of Poppy somehow breaking it …” My voice trails off and I laugh, as if the idea is absolutely ludicrous.
Lucy stares at me, her eyes brighter now. “I guess I could go, I mean, if it’s so important to Poppy.”
“O-kay,” I say cautiously. “But, Luce, it’s just a trip to Italy. That’s it. Please don’t expect Poppy’s foolish promise to—”
“I know!” she snaps. “Jesus. Do you think I’m that desperate?”
I want to spare her some dignity, so I don’t answer. My heart settles in the pit of my stomach. Aunt Poppy is setting Lucy up for the greatest disappointment of her life.
And I’m her accomplice.
Chapter 11
Emilia
Every Sunday following mass at Saint Athanasius, our family gathers for dinner at Nonna’s apartment. We sit around her custom-made, eighteen-foot walnut table, covered with a trio of ancient-looking cloths flaunting more wine stains than a vintner’s apron. The arms of our chairs—all two dozen of them—overlap, just like our conversations. Most Sundays we fill the table, but sometimes Uncle Vinnie has to work at the dock, or Daria’s husband, Donnie, has one of his Sunday head colds.
Today we have fourteen people, including Matt, who’s here for moral support. Daria and the girls arrive with two loaves of bread and a jar of olives and garlic. They’ve dragged Donnie along today, too. He’s in the living room, watching the Mets game with Matt, while Uncle Dolphie rants about the new development on Forty-Second Street. “It is six stories high. Too big, I say. Does not fit with the old style.”
I move from room to room, conversation to conversation, half listening, half fretting.
“Lucy’s boyfriend is very handsome,” Aunt Carol whispers
to Aunt Ethel as they set the table. “I think this could be it.”
My heart sinks. She’s talking about the jerk who stood Lucy up. The odds that this could be “it” are about as remote as Uncle Dolphie switching from opera to Eminem.
“Eccellente!” Aunt Ethel cries. She leans in to Aunt Carol and lowers her voice. “The ghost told me, un matrimonio presto.”
Aunt Carol laughs. “The ghost is right … there may be a wedding soon. But we must keep it secret. Let Lucy tell you about her new beau all by herself.”
My niece Mimi looks up from the game she’s playing on her iPad. “I love secrets!”
At two o’clock, Uncle Dolphie calls everyone to the table. “Mangiamo!” he cries, clapping his hands. “Let’s eat!”
Matt settles into a chair beside Lucy’s sister, Carmella. My twenty-four-year-old cousin looks especially cute today, sporting black Converse sneakers and bright red lipstick. She was laid off from her job at the bank last month and now starts regaling Matt with stories of her “interviews from hell.”
I help Nonna bring out our first course, antipasto, followed by steaming bowls of ravioli. My dad pours wine—just a shot glass for the kids. Voices merge and forks clatter. We clink glasses, tear bread, dip the crusts into oil and herbs. But I can barely swallow.
“Buona pasta, Rosa.”
“Il migliore! The best,” Uncle Vinnie agrees.
I leave the table at the first chance and clear plates. I pass my father as he’s bringing out the next course, a rack of lamb. “Are you okay, Emilia? You look pale.”
“I’m fine,” I lie.
The lamb is delicious, but I can hardly get it down. I wait until the chocolate amaretto cake is served and the grappa has been poured. Voices lower, movements slow, postures slump with the sated satisfaction of the well-fed.
Catching my eye, Lucy taps her watch. Like me, she wants this to be over with. My heart thuds. I lean in and clear my throat. “I have some news,” I say, careful not to look at Nonna.
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