“I could not find papaveri this time of year.” He kissed my cheek. “Would you like a coffee?”
My hands trembled when I took the freesia from him. I looked into his eyes, mustering all my courage. “I would rather go to your flat,” I said, swallowing hard. “If you will have me.”
I’d never felt more vulnerable. My heart thundered so fiercely I was certain he could see it pulsing beneath my blouse. After what seemed like ages, he cupped my cheek and smiled down at me. “Is this really what you want, amore mio?”
I nodded, unable to speak. He tapped my forehead with a kiss and led me down the street.
He rented a small room above a tailor’s shop, four plaster walls that held a wooden bureau and a single bed, everything in the world we needed. The room was tidy and warm, a palace to me.
He kissed my neck, my lips, my cheeks as he slowly unbuttoned my blouse. I stood before him naked, the soft gray light seeping through the window. His eyes shone with tenderness. “Exquisite,” he whispered. It was the first time I ever felt completely safe.
The rain tapped against the windowpane, and he laid me on the bed. Soon, the rhythm of the rain matched our bodies, followed by a crash of thunder that shook me to the core. Moments later, I lay in his arms, both of us moved to tears.
Neither of us spoke. There are no words when one has witnessed magic.
Il mio unico amore, he called me from that day on. I never asked about Karin, his fiancée. He called me his only love. That was all the assurance I needed.
For two months we shared a secret bliss, a life of two, unencumbered by friends or families, or even a future. Nobody knew of our afternoon trysts, where we’d walk and talk and make sweet love. It was a time suspended between past and future. We had no claim on tomorrow, so we cherished today, drinking in every bit of joy and laughter from each moment together, oblivious to the threat that loomed just beyond the horizon.
It was an extraordinary, ordinary Monday in April, and Rico and I were strolling through the piazza hand in hand. The papaveri were in bloom, and Rico stopped to buy me a bouquet. We continued on, pausing in front of the Palazzo Vecchio, where Rico told me about the first time he held his rail pass in his hands, allowing him to travel to Western Europe. “I will never forget the feeling,” he said, his eyes bright. “Standing in another man’s country, feeling so light, so completely untethered. It was overwhelming, this feeling of freedom, after what my people had been through.”
I was dabbing tears from my cheek when, from out of nowhere, Rosa appeared.
“Paolina?” Her eyes shifted from me to Rico and back again. “What are you doing?”
I couldn’t speak. My sister had caught me. For weeks I’d been tempted to tell her of Rico, how I’d fallen hopelessly in love, but I wasn’t ready to divulge my secret. Not even to my most trusted confidant.
“Rosa,” I said. “Meet my friend, Rico—Erich. More than a friend, actually.” I giggled nervously and stuffed my hands into my pockets. “I love him, Rosa.”
Rosa offered him a hand. “Pleasure to meet you, Rico. It must be difficult, knowing Paolina is engaged to marry a man in America, a handsome shop owner.”
I gasped. Rico turned to me, his eyes shrouded in bewilderment and pain.
“No,” I said. “I—I have changed my mind.”
“We will be gone within a year,” Rosa continued, as if I hadn’t spoken. “You know this, sì?”
My heart shattered. I closed my eyes, unable to look at either of them. Then I felt his hand in mine.
“I am sorry, Rosa,” he said calmly but firmly, “but that will not happen. You see, your sister and I are in love.”
Rosa looked him up and down, taking in the patched sleeve on his pressed cotton shirt, the worn toes of his polished boots. “You are a good man, Rico, I am certain. And my sister is very fond of you, that is obvious. But you do not understand. You are jeopardizing Paolina’s entire future. You see, my sister is the second daughter, and doomed to be alone forever. Ignacio is her only hope of breaking the curse. Please,” she said, clutching her hands as she gazed up at him. “I am begging you, do not ruin her one chance.”
My sister, my biggest protector, thought she was doing me a favor. Though she was crazy for Alberto, I don’t believe she had ever experienced true passion. How could I expect her to understand our love?
“She will have a good life in America,” Rosa continued, as if my fate were already decided. “What can you give her? Tell me. Do you have a plan? A business? A skill?”
“He can play the violin,” I said.
The sympathy seemed to drain from my sister’s eyes. “He plays the fiddle?” She turned to Rico, a mocking smile on her lips. “Can you tap-dance, too?”
Her desperation had unleashed a cruelty I had never seen in her. “Rosa, stop. Rico is smart and strong and talented. And I love him with my entire heart. I cannot go to America.”
She stared at me for the longest time, until finally, her shoulders slumped in defeat. She shook her head. “La mia sorella testarda. How can I go without you?”
My heart burst with love. “You will be fine. I will visit, Rosa. Rico and I, we will come see you in America.”
She studied Rico and bit her lip. “Rico, if you make my sister happy, you have my blessing.”
Rico hugged her. “Danke schön—er, grazie mille.” They shared a laugh. “I hope all of Pop—er, Paolina’s family will be as welcoming as you, Rosa.”
“Of course they will be,” I said, without thinking. “You must come to our house in Trespiano. It is time you met my parents and brothers.”
Rosa took a step back. “So soon, Paolina?” She was signaling me with her eyes, trying not to be rude to Rico.
I turned to Rico, ignoring her covert warning. “Please. Come to our house for dinner on Sunday. My family will adore you.”
But I saw the fear in Rosa’s eyes. My parents would never accept Rico, a penniless foreigner who threatened to upend their daughter’s future in America. And Rosa knew it.
Chapter 21
Emilia
Day Two
Venice
We’re in full tourist mode Tuesday. We visit the market in Campo San Giacometto, an ancient square hosting the oldest church in Venice. Poppy gushes at a display of perfectly proportioned sfogliatelle—flaky pastries shaped like lobsters—and buys one for each of us. I tear the edge from the crust and nod toward the church’s tower. “Check out that old clock,” I say.
“Don’t set your watch to it,” Poppy says, dabbing her lips with her napkin. She turns to Lucy. “Like many things in life, it’s attractive and flashy, but notoriously unreliable.”
Lucy lobs her napkin into a trash bin, seemingly unaware of our aunt’s not-so-subtle advice.
“I take it you and Rico broke up,” I say gently, wrapping my scarf around my shoulders as we stroll. Since sharing her story last night, Poppy hasn’t mentioned Rico. I don’t want to push, but I’m dying to hear what happened next.
She looks at me quizzically.
“You know,” I say, “when you realized he’d never be accepted by your family.”
Poppy stops at a bridge and leans against its iron rail. Below, a gondolier steers his boat, seemingly oblivious to the young lovers snuggled on the bench behind him. “Rico and I never broke up. We’re still together, in our hearts.”
Lucy looks at me and rolls her eyes. “Mm-hmm. Of course you are. Now, about the curse.” She slings an arm around our aunt. “When do we get to that part?”
“Perhaps in the next chapter.”
We continue on to the Galleria dell’Accademia, then to Teatro La Fenice. “In the history of Italian theater, this is the most famous landmark,” Poppy tells us.
“Bo-ring,” Lucy says, playing some sort of game on my phone.
Poppy tsks. “Bored people bore people.”
It’s late afternoon, and we’re sitting outside Caffè Florian, the world’s oldest coffeehouse, enjoying aperitivo—the Italian
version of happy hour on steroids. Pigeons fly overhead and I’m dreaming up stories set in this bustling old piazza. We sip our Aperol spritzes—Aperol, Prosecco, and a splash of soda, garnished with an orange wedge. A chubby man with an accordion winds his way through the tables playing the “Tarantella Napoletana.” Poppy taps her foot to the music.
“La vita bella,” she says and lifts her drink. “The beautiful life.”
I raise my glass. “Best part of the day.” I break off a piece of taleggio cheese from a plate heaped with Italian olives, pancetta-wrapped figs, and mini sandwiches filled with sun-dried tomatoes and marinated goat cheese.
“This café is where Casanova is rumored to have stopped for coffee when he escaped from prison,” Poppy tells us.
“How cool,” I say, taking in the array of arched stone windows adorned with white balloon curtains; the cream-colored awnings; the handsome waiters in their white jackets and black bow ties, balancing trays on their broad shoulders.
“Yes,” Poppy says. “Caffè Florian was the only coffee shop in eighteenth-century Venezia that allowed women patrons. I suspect that influenced Casanova’s decision.”
“Typical guy,” Lucy says, “hoping to hit it and quit it.”
A young Italian couple sit at the table beside us, so close that it’s impossible not to hear their entire conversation. The man—a good-looking thirty-something wearing too much cologne—talks nonstop about his job, the money he’s raking in, the Mercedes he plans to buy. His date finally excuses herself to the ladies’ room.
Poppy waits until the woman is out of earshot, then turns to the man. “Your first date?” she asks in her native language.
He nods. “That obvious?”
“Does she prefer a sunrise or sunset?” He scowls, but she continues. “If given the option, would she choose an extra month’s vacation or an extra month’s salary? What is her earliest memory of joy? If she could possess only one book, what would it be?”
He gives a mocking laugh. “Easy, lady. I told you, it’s a first date.”
“And if you’d like another,” she says, “I’d suggest more this”—she points to her ear—“and less this”—she mimics a moving mouth with her hand.
I look on, horrified and embarrassed and undeniably awed. The man’s smile fades. He rises and stalks off.
Lucy cracks up. “Way to shut down that pompous gasbag!” She lifts her hand and slaps Poppy a high five. “So how about doling out some of that wisdom for me—us. I know you’re sick and everything, so I’m not making demands. But …”
Poppy tilts her head. “But what, dear?”
Lucy takes a deep breath, and I can tell she’s trying to keep her temper in check. “You promised you’d break the curse. Was that complete bullshit?”
Poppy leans in and pats Lucy’s cheek. “We second daughters have nothing to fear. I promise you.”
Lucy’s nostrils flare. Poppy may have good intentions, but her statement is as helpful as telling a man in a wheelchair that his legs are perfectly fine. I grab Lucy’s hand.
“Poppy’s trying to tell you that you don’t have to worry about the curse. It was unfair of Aunt Carol to put so much pressure on you.”
She frowns. “Was it? Because you know what? My mom taught me to believe that I can break this damn curse. And I will.”
“Forget what your mom says,” I say, keeping my voice low. “It doesn’t matter. If you never break the curse, if you’re single forever, you’ll be just fine, Luce, I promise. No, you’ll be better than fine. You’ll be great.”
She plucks the orange garnish from her Aperol spritz and sucks it. “I’m going to be married one day.”
“Okay. Sure. Maybe you will be. But, Luce, you’re giving marriage way too much power. It’s one part of a person’s life—or not. You can still have a full and happy life without a ring on your finger, believe me.”
“Believe you? If you want to know the truth, you’re my incentive, Em. You inspire me.”
I smile and push up my glasses. “I do?”
“Yup. You’re the person I think of each time I put myself out there.” She tosses the orange peel onto her napkin. “Because I refuse to end up with a sorry-ass life like yours.”
The breath is knocked from me. I turn to Poppy for help, but she pins me with her gaze, waiting for my reply.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“Your life sucks, Em.”
I try to laugh, but it strikes the wrong note. “My life is great. I have a cute apartment, a sweet cat, no debts.” I absently rub my scar. “I get to cook whatever I want, whenever I want, or not at all. At night, the TV’s all mine.” I’m on a roll now, and the talking points come effortlessly. “I can binge on Netflix for ten hours straight, in my pajamas. I come and go as I please. I don’t have to worry about impressing anyone.”
“And you’ve never had your heart broken, have you?”
For the briefest moment, Liam’s sweet face appears, swollen beyond recognition. I block it out, as I’ve done for the past decade, and square my shoulders. “No.”
“You’ve never been disappointed by some dickwad who promised to call but never did.”
“See, there you go! No dickwad disappointment for me.”
Poppy chimes in. “You’ve never watched the world turn to Technicolor when you’ve spotted your love in the crowd.”
I laugh. “Aunt Poppy, that’s a little dramatic, even for you.”
She leans in. “You’ve never felt like you were going to die if you didn’t get to hold him one more time.”
“No. Of course not.” My eyes shift from Poppy to Lucy. Lovely. I’m being tag-teamed. “Okay, I get your point. Yes, I may have missed some moments. But those are fleeting. You know, studies show sixty percent of marriages are unhappy.”
“So … what?” Lucy says. “You quit the game because you have only a four-in-ten chance of winning?”
“I didn’t quit. I chose not to play. Honestly, curse or no curse, I want no part of the dating world.”
“You’re completely checked out.” She turns to Poppy and talks as if I’m not here. “There’s this guy, Matt, who’s been in love with her since as long as I can remember.”
“That’s not true.”
“He’s actually kind of cute, if you’re not a teeth person. But Em just shuts him down.”
“Matt’s my best friend. I feel nothing, nothing for him except friendship.” Guilt rushes me. It feels treasonous, expressing this out loud. “Forget about me, Luce. Look at Aunt Poppy. She’s a successful, happy woman with a full life, who travels the world. And she’s never married.”
“And then there’s you,” Lucy says. “A single female whose entire life could fit into a thimble. A woman whose obituary will read: A lonely girl who spent her life trying to please her nonna. A woman who lived up to everyone’s expectations.”
I throw up my hands. “Whatever, Luce. I’m happy. I’m safe.” I bite my lip until I can no longer contain my silence. “Unlike you. I mean, my god, you may as well have a tattoo across your chest that reads Next, please.”
Lucy leans in, the vein in her forehead bulging. “I’d rather go down fighting than forfeit the game, like you have.”
“But I haven’t …”
“That’s right, Em. You haven’t. You haven’t done a damn thing to break this curse. Do you realize the pressure you’ve put on me? You’ve given up, and now it’s all on me.”
“I never asked you to break the curse, Lucy.”
“Of course not!” Lucy explodes. “The truth is, you like the curse. Admit it. It gives you a perfect excuse to be a frumpy old lady, with those butt-ugly bendable glasses and that lame-ass ponytail. It’s your pass from ever having to put yourself out there. So just spare me the bullshit.”
“Ah,” Poppy says, nodding her head. “You resent Emilia for being cowardly.”
I hitch up my admittedly dated but perfectly functional glasses. “Cowardly?”
“Yeah,” Lucy says.
“That’s right, Poppy. Em is a coward. And never once did she stop to think of me.”
“Since when is it my responsibility to solve your problem?”
“Have you even once thought about Mimi? Or all the other future Fontana second daughters coming down the pike?”
I lift my shoulders. “Mimi will be just fine.”
“Well, I’m not!” Lucy’s face is red, and for the first time, I see pain along with the anger. “I’m on my own out here. And I’m drowning. It’s like you’re on this private island, comfortable and dry and boring as hell, watching as I flail and gasp and slip beneath the current.”
My cousin, who never cries, bats tears from her eyes. My throat tightens. Though I claim to deny the curse, might I have fallen prey to it, too? I actually like being single, and I’m perfectly content if that’s my status forever. But Lucy’s not. She’s overwrought with pressures and expectations and unfulfilled dreams. All her life she’s been made to believe that without a man, she’s worthless, incomplete.
In twenty-nine years, I’ve done nothing to try to break the curse. Until today, it never occurred to me that maybe I should.
On the way back to the hotel, we stop to look at necklaces behind a glass display. Lucy can’t decide between the gold chain or the silver, and eventually marches away with neither. She refuses to look at me. Her words—and Aunt Poppy’s, too—tag along like someone’s unwanted kid sister. Maybe I’m still jet-lagged, or homesick, or in mourning over Poppy’s illness, because despite being in this magical place called Venice, nothing feels right. Instead, the accusation echoes in my head. Em is a coward.
That night, after I’ve picked at my baccalà mantecato—a creamy mousse made of dried cod, served with polenta—we return to the hotel. It’s eleven o’clock and I’m ready to climb into bed and write a couple of pages. But Lucy, who drank nearly the entire carafe of wine with dinner, has come to life.
“Let’s go out,” she says, finally looking at me when she speaks. She throws up her arms and does a little dance.
I bust my own move by pulling my nightshirt over my head. “Seriously? Don’t you sleep?”
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