Lucy chokes. “Oh, please! Like that’s going to happen. Coming here was a huge mistake.”
“She promised to tell me about my mom.”
“Well, that’s not happening, either. Sorry, Em, but think about it. Poppy left Bensonhurst in the sixties. Your mom was just a baby. Sure, she visited on holidays, but that’s, what—maybe sixty days with your mom, total? She doesn’t know shit.”
I rub my temples. I risked my family, my job, my life for this trip. My aunt lied. We’ve been set up.
I can’t say I wasn’t warned. Nonna’s probably back home right now, ranting to Daria about how I betrayed her. My stomach churns. For the first time, I understand why Nonna has nothing to do with her sister.
“She sounded so sincere.”
Lucy shakes her head. “They always do.”
Forty minutes later, Lucy drains the last drop from the carafe and I collect the bill.
“So much for the all-expenses-paid trip.” Lucy’s words slur, like a record playing at the wrong speed.
I fish into my purse for my wallet. “It’s fine. I’ve got it.”
“Stuck with the bill and stuck here for eight days.” She stares at me with glassy eyes, and then her face changes shape. “Unless we leave.”
“Yeah, right.”
“Seriously. She knows her way around Italy. She doesn’t need us. She’s using us. I say we head back to the hotel and pack our bags.”
“That’s ridiculous. We’ve come all this way. We’re in Italy.”
“Yup.” She rises, and her body sways. “And now we can say we’ve been here.” She staggers toward the door. I grab my purse and follow.
“You’re drunk, Luce. The trip will get better. We haven’t even seen anything.”
Lucy steps into the street and gazes in both directions. “Old buildings. Italian restaurants. Italian bakeries. Looks pretty much like Bensonhurst.”
Nonna was right. This was a mistake. But leaving isn’t an option. I know this. Still, I can almost understand Lucy’s drunken stance. The floating city that delighted me this morning has lost its magic.
Lucy marches down the street and I struggle to keep pace with her. Twenty minutes later, we’ve miraculously found our way back to Ca’ Sagredo Hotel. The filmy white curtains billow when we let ourselves into the room.
“I thought she wanted a nap,” Lucy says, pointing to the balcony. Poppy stands with her hands on the balustrade, staring out at the canal, unaware that we’re watching her. She’s changed into a loose caftan, and her silver-threaded hair blows in the breeze.
Lucy charges into the room and grabs her suitcase. She throws open drawers and begins stuffing clothes into her bag. But I stand transfixed by the slip of a figure on the balcony, the tiny woman in the floral dress standing against a blue-gray sky.
“Get packing,” Lucy whispers. “We’ll call her from the airport. Or at least, you will. Someone poached my phone.”
“I’m not leaving,” I say. “She’s lonely. Look at her, Luce.”
Lucy rises. Together, we secretly watch our aunt as she savors the view of Venice. She turns in profile and smooths her salt-and-pepper hair. Then, without warning, she lifts the entire mop from her head like a lid from a pot.
I gasp and Lucy yelps. Poppy whirls around.
She stands facing us, wide-eyed and bald as a baby.
Chapter 19
Emilia
My feet seem to move of their own volition, ferrying me across the room, closer to this woman with the smooth oval head. How fragile she has become, without the cover of hair. As I draw closer, I notice a six-inch incision on the side of her head. She puts a hand to it.
“My battle scar,” she says, her smile wavering. “Surgery helped, along with chemo and radiation. I was feeling quite chipper for a while. But those wily cells decided to check back in to the Poppy Hotel. I’d been warned they might. Seems I make it far too comfortable for them in my soft little head.”
My heart races, and I pray she’ll rebut my next question. “You … you’re dying?”
“Aren’t we all?” She offers a smile, as if I were the one who needed comfort.
“Yes, but, you … I …” I’m stammering now, and my aunt reaches for my hand.
“I much prefer to say I’m living, don’t you?”
I pull her into my arms and squeeze my eyes shut, suddenly aware of how much I love this crazy, frustrating little lady.
“You should have told us,” Lucy says. She’s sober now, and all fury seems to have vanished. “We get it now, why we’re here. Your doctor wouldn’t let you travel alone.”
She rears back. “What? You think a doctor’s order would stop me?”
My eyes sting and I give a wobbly smile. “Of course not,” Lucy and I say at the same time.
Sure, she conned us, but still, I can’t help but admire my feisty aunt. She wanted one final trip with her family, and settled for two nieces she barely knows.
She gives us a brief account of her illness. “Ependymoma—a tumor in the brain, in that little passageway where cerebrospinal fluid is stored. Mine is slow growing, but it’s catching up to me now, the little stinker.” She smiles, as if her deadly tumor were nothing more than a pesky bug.
I blink back tears. “What can we do for you?”
“Yeah,” Lucy says. “Whatever you need. Say the word.”
She gathers us to her sides. “This”—she kisses each of our foreheads—“is all I want. To be with my girls when I finally see my love.”
I steal a glance at Lucy.
“Now go,” Poppy says, flapping her hands to shoo us away. “I still need to catch a wink of sleep. I’ll be fresh as a flamingo by evening, just you wait.”
Lucy and I wander aimlessly alongside a narrow stretch of the canal, both lost in thought. We visit little shops, stop for a cup of gelato, step into cool cathedrals. But nothing feels right. Our aunt is dying.
“We have to make this trip special for her,” Lucy says as we meander down Rio della Sensa.
“I know.” A speedboat chugs as it makes its way past us. “Rico’s not going to be in Ravello. You know that, right?”
“Yup.” She gazes out at the canal as she walks. “I think the crazy old fool actually expected to marry the guy.”
“No. She’s not that unrealistic.”
“I’m serious. Why else would she insist on meeting him at the cathedral?”
I stop and turn to her. “Oh, God. You might be right. What if she’s thinking he’ll show up after all this time, fall in love, and marry her?”
“And break the curse and fulfill her promise, all in one swell floop.”
She means “fell swoop,” but I don’t correct her. “Oh, Lucy,” I say, and rub my forehead. “I am so sorry. I should have pinned her down with details before I dragged you into this. I knew it was a long shot, but I was hoping she might actually have some way of helping you with this supposed curse.”
She looks away. “It was stupid to believe. I should know that by now.”
I think of little Lucy, being told she must give up her soccer ball. “You don’t deserve this,” I say.
“Neither do you.”
We walk in silence. Couples pass, holding hands. A woman in sneakers talks on her phone, her child in a front-pack. Two rosy-cheeked kids shriek as they race past on scooters. Lucy gazes longingly, as if she wishes she could be riding alongside them.
“Luce,” I say. “How come you listened to your mother?”
For the longest time, she doesn’t answer. Finally, she shrugs. “Same reason you listen to Nonna, I guess. We ignore what our heart tells us when we think it could make someone love us.”
I don’t reply. Lucy wouldn’t want my sympathy. I think of bossy Aunt Carol and of Nonna, and how I bow to her every need, squelching my own desires to please her, just as Matt said. Is it possible Lucy’s right? Have she and I both sold our souls, hoping against hope that we might one day win the affection of someone whose love we can never ful
ly trust?
It’s six thirty when we return to the hotel, and the sun has edged west, gilding the city in liquid gold. True to her word, Aunt Poppy is raring to go after her afternoon siesta. She’s freshly showered, dressed in a silky orange dress with purple pumps and a half dozen colorful strands of beads around her neck. She blots her coral lips with a piece of tissue and adjusts her wig. “Losing my hair was the worst part of this whole ordeal,” she says, peering into the mirror. “Rico loved my hair.”
Lucy shoots me a look as she rounds the corner to the bathroom, her arms loaded with shampoo bottles and cosmetics.
“You’re welcome to use my bathroom, Emilia,” Poppy says. “You’ll want to get all dolled up for our first evening in Venice.”
“Dolled up? Aunt Poppy, I’m exhausted.”
She places a hand on mine. “Tired people tire people,” she says. “Now shoo! Go get ready. And put a bit of effort into it, won’t you?”
Twenty minutes later, I emerge from Poppy’s steamy bathroom, admittedly revived. My wet hair is pulled into a sleek ponytail, my glasses are smudge free, my scar is covered, and I’m good to go.
“Luce?” I call, catching sight of Aunt Poppy on the balcony as I return to our suite.
The bathroom door swings open, and a cloud of steam rises. “In here.”
Lucy stands in front of a foggy bathroom mirror wearing the hotel robe, her head wrapped in a towel. A myriad of Avon cosmetics stretches along the vanity. I groan.
“You’re not ready.”
She gives me a once-over. “Unless you’re waiting tables at the Olive Garden, neither are you.”
I look down at my black slacks and red blouse and laugh. “What can I say? I’m a laid-back kind of girl.”
“Just so you know,” Lucy says, “laid-back girls rarely get laid back.” She grabs a pot of lip gloss and hands it to me. “Do yourself a favor.”
I step back, my finger moving instinctively to my scar. “No, thanks.”
Lucy shakes her head. I turn when Poppy appears at my side, a bright floral scarf in her hand.
“May I?”
I hesitate for a split second before I bend down. My aunt’s citrus perfume fills my nostrils as she wraps the soft fabric around my neck and knots it. I close my eyes, imagining it’s my mother helping me get ready. She stands back with her head cocked, assessing me. “Better,” she says, and she gives the scarf one last fluff.
“Not bad, Pops,” Lucy says. She turns to me. “You know you’ve hit a low point, Em, when your fashion guru is eighty years old.”
With Poppy in her orange dress, me with my bright scarf, and Lucy in a slinky silver bandage dress, we set out for dinner. Shadows fall and streetlights glow. I lock arms with Poppy as we get into the elevator. When she steps out, Lucy clasps her hand and walks her through the lobby. Together, we help her navigate the cobblestone calle. A block from the hotel, she throws her hands up. “Would you please stop treating me like a dying old woman? If I wanted pampering, I’d have gone to a spa.”
Without waiting for an answer, she pivots and trots down the lane and over a bridge. Lucy and I work to keep up with her. We turn down a wide calle. A woman waves to us as she leans out her window to gather her laundry. We pass houses, lit from within. The aroma of roasted herbs wafts into the street, and I imagine a family sitting down for their cena. I capture the sights and smells in my memory, hoping one day I can re-create the scene in a novel.
Poppy turns down a narrow alley, stopping just long enough to pluck a coin from the cobblestone walk and drop it into a ziplock bag. It’s cooler here, and nearly dark. I suspect we’re lost, but then she lets out a whoop. The sign appears for a restaurant called Carlucci, a tiny place tucked at the end of Calle Pezzana. She throws open the door and strides in as if she’s the guest of honor.
A dozen candlelit tables fill the dusky room. My stomach growls from the aroma of fresh bread and garlic. From behind the bar, a short elderly gentleman with a winding mustache looks up. He catches sight of Poppy and his face erupts. He claps his hands and rushes to her.
“Paolina! Benvenuta, amore mio!” He captures Poppy into a bear hug and lifts her off her feet. She laughs like a schoolgirl as he spins her in circles.
“Luigi!” she says. She steps back, her gaze traveling from his unnaturally black hair to his wingtip shoes. “Arrest this man!” she cries. “He is stealing my breath.”
Luigi blushes. “I have missed you, my flower.” He holds her at arm’s length. “You never age. What is your secret?”
“White teeth and dark hair.” She leans in and cups her hand around her mouth. “Most people our age have the opposite.” Luigi throws his head back and laughs. They stand gazing at each other until finally, Luigi remembers his role.
“Your favorite table awaits.”
He leads us to a spot by the window, settling us into our chairs and fanning napkins onto our laps. Poppy introduces Lucy first. He bows and shakes her hand. “Benvenuta. Welcome.”
“And this is Emilia.”
I smile. “Hello, Luigi.”
He looks into my eyes. “Bellissima.” He takes my hand and kisses it. “Come tua nonna.”
Beautiful. Like your grandmother. I smile at the compliment, and don’t bother correcting him.
For two hours, Luigi showers us with attention. Each course is accompanied by a special wine, selected by Luigi himself. I’m stuffed and a wee bit drunk when he brings a dessert of zabaglione—a light custard made with egg and sweet wine, served with fresh raspberries. It’s more tart than mine, and better. Next time I make it, I’ll use less sugar.
Luigi arrives with a tray of liqueurs and a trio of tiny glasses. “Fernet? Frangelico? Limoncello?”
I’m not the least bit thirsty, but according to Lucy, that’s beside the point.
Lucy lifts her dainty glass of Frangelico and settles back in her chair. “Are you scared to die, Aunt Poppy?”
I choke on my Fernet. “Lucy!”
“I am, a bit,” Poppy says, seemingly unfazed. “Yet I can’t wait to solve the mystery of what lies beyond.”
It feels odd having this conversation with my dying aunt, who, admittedly, seems quite comfortable with the subject. “Do you believe in God?” I ask softly.
“Oh, heavens yes! Though not in the conventional way I was taught. To me, spirituality is less about Sunday mass than it is about love. It’s that simple. When you treat others with love, consistently and fully, you honor your god or goddess. Some of the holiest people I know have never stepped foot in a church. And I’ve met many churchgoing, self-righteous born-again Christians that God himself probably wishes had never been born the first time.”
Lucy bursts out laughing. “Amen to that.”
Poppy sips her Limoncello. “I’m most excited to see the film. Ah, what a joy that was to produce.”
My aunt was a movie producer? “What film?” I ask.
“The one we’re told will flash before us when we die. I must say, I get goose bumps when I think about it. You see, my film will be part drama, part mystery, a bit of a thriller, with romantic comedy scenes tossed in for good measure.” Her dark eyes dance. “You, my dears, are still in the production stage of your movie. Make it riveting! Make every scene sizzle! When it comes time to watch the movie of your life, may tears run down your face, may you scream with laughter and cringe with embarrassment. But for Goddess’s sake, do not let your life story be one that’s so dull you fall asleep during the viewing.”
Lucy grins. “I think she’s talking to you, Em.”
Poppy stares down at her glass. “But with every life, there’s tragedy, too.”
Luigi arrives at our table, interrupting Poppy. “What else can I get you, amore mio?”
It sounds odd to hear Poppy’s flirty friend call her his love. I imagine she reserves that endearing term for Rico. But Poppy hasn’t seen her German love in decades. She’s had other companions, like Thomas, and perhaps even this man.
She reaches
into her purse and retrieves her bag of coins. “Nothing more, grazie. The meal was fantastico. And seeing you has made me so very happy.”
“The pleasure is always mine.” Luigi smiles, and his eyes never leave hers.
She takes his hand and presses a coin into his palm. “For luck.”
“I will add it to my collection.” He winks. “When will I see you again, Paolina?”
She rises from the chair and kisses his cheek. “Sooner than either of us can imagine,” she says, a bittersweet gleam in her eyes.
But there will be no next time. She knows this. How agonizing and overwhelming and oddly fortunate it must feel, bidding a final farewell to those you love.
The velvet sky is peppered with stars, and we three walk back to the hotel. Poppy drapes an arm around each of us.
“Now, where did I leave off? Ah, yes, Rico had just started playing his violin.”
“No,” Lucy says. “I’m sorry, Pops, but he was playing you. He had a fiancée, remember? Rehashing your tragic love story isn’t going to make it easier. I know guys like him. He’s going to be a no-show at the cathedral. You haven’t talked to him in over fifty years. He’s probably dead by now.”
I gasp. “Lucy, please!”
Poppy stops. She takes Lucy’s cheeks in her hands and stares into her eyes. “Tell me, Luciana, do you want me to break the curse or not?”
Chapter 20
Poppy
1960
Trespiano
Rico and I continued to meet in the square every Monday through Saturday. I refused to let the idea of a fiancée bother me. After all, I had a supposed fiancé, too, waiting for me in America. Rico loved me, I was certain. We would talk and walk and share a gelato or a pastry, hold hands, and sneak kisses. But I was growing frustrated. I wanted more of him.
It was a rainy Monday, the eighth day of February, a day I shall always remember. I hurried from the museum when my shift ended. Rico was waiting in the square, as always. He stood beneath an umbrella, a stem of orange freesia in his hand.
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