Why bother?
Chapter 23
Poppy
1960
Trespiano
The day of Rico’s visit arrived with a torrent of rain. Sheets fell from the sky, turning the fields into a patchwork of ponds. But weather never kept Mamma from Sunday mass. The Cathedral of Saint Romulus of Fiesole was cold and drafty. I knelt with my icy hands clenched in prayer, begging for a miracle. Please help Rico find the right words. Help us convince Papà of our love. Please, God, do not take away the one good thing in my life, the only person I have ever wanted.
We left the church and traveled home, all seven of us squeezed into Papà’s old Fiat. Rain ricocheted from the streets. Rico had planned to ride his bike—the buses didn’t run on Sundays. Surely he wouldn’t cycle thirteen kilometers in a downpour. We had no phone at our farmhouse, so he had no way to contact me. He would have to wait another day before approaching my father, a thought that left me simultaneously crushed and relieved.
I went about my Sunday chores, plucking eggs from the hen-house, sweeping the barn. At two o’clock, I set the table for dinner. Rosa was making artichoke salad again, something she had heard increased fertility. “Alberto and I are ready to start our family,” she reminded my mother, who stood at the stove, adding oregano to her marinara sauce.
I jumped when I heard a knock at the door. My stomach pitched. I will never forget the look that passed between my sister and me. She knew. She knew that Rico had arrived. And she was terrified. For him, and for me.
“It will be fine,” I said, pretending to be calm.
I smoothed my hair and untied my apron on the way to the door. There he stood, his brown britches and white shirt drenched. He was wearing a necktie, and I stifled a giggle. I’d never seen him in such dapper clothing. His face bloomed when he saw me.
“Not for you this time,” he said, looking down at his bouquet of soaking-wet daisies. “For your mother.”
My heart overflowed. How could my parents resist his charm?
Before I had time to let him in, Rosa rushed over, pushing me aside. “Papà will kill you—both of you. Go. Now. Before you cause Paolina trouble.”
“But Rosa, Rico has come all this way.”
“That will make no difference to Papà. He and Mamma have put all their hopes in Ignacio. They will be furious at anyone who comes between you—especially someone who is not Italian.” She looked at Rico. “Go, please. We must keep this our secret, for now.”
“Just one moment with your papà,” Rico said firmly, brushing past Rosa. “That is all I ask.”
He entered the house. My heart was beating erratically, like a metronome gone haywire. I wanted to have faith in Rico, but Rosa’s words rang true. Might Papà actually kill him?
In the kitchen, hiding my trembling hands behind my back, I introduced my mamma.
“Buongiorno, Signora Fontana,” Rico said, extending the flowers.
She yanked them from his grip, craning her neck toward the archway leading to our living room, where my papà rested.
“Grosso errore,” she whispered. Big mistake.
But it was too late. There, in the archway, stood my father, his hands planted on his hips, his wide stance swallowing the room.
Time stood still as I watched Rico cross the floor. Though he was a tall man, he seemed to shrink before the mountain of my father. If he had prepared a speech, it was forgotten.
“I love your daughter,” he blurted out.
“Fuori!” my father said. “Leave! Out of my house, now!”
“Papà!” I rushed to Rico’s side and linked arms with him. “Please, listen to him.”
My father turned to me. “Stai zitta!” he shouted. He flicked his hand. “Be quiet. Get this barbarian out of here. Now.”
Tears sprang to my eyes. How dare he be so cruel? I wanted to scream at him. I wanted to storm off and prove my love to Rico. But if I did, I would lose my family. If I chose my family, I would lose Rico.
Rico made the choice for me. He looked up at my father, his voice calm and certain. “I will leave, but you have misjudged me, signore. Nobody will ever love your daughter the way I do.”
My father huffed. “You know nothing. Paolina is engaged to marry a shop owner in America. She will have everything she wants, riches beyond belief, in this new land of opportunity. And most important, she will be with her family, something a German would not understand.”
“Papà!” I cried, my heart breaking for Rico. “Do not say that.”
He waved a dismissive hand in Rico’s direction. “I read of men in East Germany, leaving their fathers and mothers, siblings and wives, all for so-called freedom.” My father sneered. “It is not like that with us. The threads of the Italian family do not unravel.”
Rico’s jaw twitched, as if an electric current were passing through. But he kept his voice even. “You do not know of what you speak.” He turned to me and kissed my cheek. “Addio, mio unico amore.”
I started after him. How could I part with a man I loved, a man who called me his one love? But halfway to the door, Papà grabbed my arm, his thick fingers biting into my flesh. “Please, Papà. I love—”
My father’s hand swept across my cheek, so swiftly I heard the crack before I felt the sting.
Rosa ran to me. “Papà! No!”
He shot her a look, silencing her, before turning his attention back to me. “You are risking everything, everything, we have worked for, everything we have dreamed of!”
I swallowed hard, unable to speak.
“Ignacio is a solid man. He is willing to take you for his wife, and you, a second daughter no less. How dare you squander this opportunity, you selfish fool. You must stop this nonsense now. That is an order! You will go to America. Capisci?”
My knees nearly buckled. I grabbed hold of Rosa’s hand to keep steady. As my mind scrambled for a reply, Rosa answered for me.
“Sì, Papà. She understands.”
Chapter 24
Emilia
The wine bottle, empty now, sits beside a single candle in the middle of a cloth-covered table. Dusk has drifted into darkness, and streetlights reflect off the freshly washed sidewalk.
“That’s enough for tonight,” Poppy says, pulling her gaze from the window. “If I continue, you’ll miss your night on the town.”
“It’s okay,” I say, scooting to the edge of my chair. “What happened next?”
“Yeah,” Lucy says, draining the last drops from her glass. “Was our great-grandpa simply a bastard, or did he really think you’d be happier with that Ignacio dude?”
Poppy smiles, but her eyes are heavy. “My papà loved me. He and Mamma wanted the best for me.”
I choke on my wine. “You can’t be ser—”
She lifts a hand, silencing me. “I’ve found life much sweeter when I choose to believe the best of others, rather than the worst.”
The waiter appears with a tray of liqueurs.
“No Frangelico for me,” Poppy says. “I’ll take the check, please.”
Sweat breaks out on the back of my neck. “You still want to go out, Luce?” Please say no. Please say no. Please say no.
She scowls. “Ye-es.” She breaks the word into two syllables, as if to emphasize the silliness of my question.
Poppy claps her hands. “You shouldn’t miss Al Volto, the oldest wine bar in Venice.”
“Never heard of it,” Lucy says. “TripAdvisor says the place to go is Il Campo. Music and craft cocktails and lots of ragazzi caldi.” She does a jaunty little shoulder shimmy when she says the Italian phrase for “hot guys.”
Poppy tsks as she signs the receipt. “Suit yourselves.” She reaches into her purse as she rises. “For luck,” she says, and places two coins on the table.
“Thanks, Pops!” Lucy says, snatching one of them. She looks at me and wiggles her eyebrows. “Here’s hoping we get lucky.”
A pit forms in my stomach. Poppy pushes in her chair and waves her fingers. “Ta-ta until
morning.”
“Wait,” I say, panic setting in. “We’ll walk you back to the hotel.”
“Nonsense. It’s three blocks away. I’ll be fine.”
Yes, I imagine she will be. But what about me?
Lucy navigates using an app she’s loaded onto my phone. “Where the hell is this place?” We round another corner, cross another bridge.
“Sorry. I’m no help without my glasses.”
“This damn island is like a house of mirrors.”
“Maybe we should go back to the hotel, Luce. We can go out tomorrow, when we’re in Florence.”
She cranes her neck to find a street name on the corner of a building. “Okay, this way.”
She leads me into Campo Santa Margherita, and we navigate the perimeter. “Aha!” she says, pointing to a nondescript door with a tiny sign that reads Il Campo. “Here we are.” She gives me a quick once-over, then fishes a lip pencil from her purse. She uncaps it and aims it at me.
“Stand still.”
“Oh, no, you don’t,” I say, and step back.
“You heard what Pops said. You’ve got yourself a kick-ass battle scar if there ever was one.”
My heart beats erratically as she outlines my lips. Next, she dabs them with thick wet gloss. I fight the urge to swipe my mouth with the back of my hand. She stands back and smiles.
“Nice.”
It’s funny how words can affect a person, how, with the slightest shift in perception, along with one person’s faith, a lifelong belief can rise up like a flock of sparrows and fly away. I’m still a bit self-conscious. Others will notice my mouth now, and with it, my scar. The jagged blue line below my glossy bottom lip is as obvious as the sports bra beneath my blouse.
Tonight, I’m choosing to reveal, rather than conceal.
I follow Lucy through the door. Immediately, we’re assaulted by techno music and a cloud of cigarette smoke. Lucy sidles up to the bar. Without my glasses, everything’s a bit blurry. I blink and, for a moment, things come into focus. Throngs of kids—college aged, mostly—stand shoulder to shoulder. The entire place, it seems, is orange. Orange walls, orange chairs, orange sofa, orange rugs. I feel a headache coming on.
Lucy hands me a drink. My glossy lips stick to the rim of the glass, and I sip something that tastes like lime … but has a spicy hotness.
“Green chile and citrus vodka,” she shouts over the music.
“Oh. It’s … thanks,” I say, and choke down another sip.
She pays the bartender, seeming not to notice the dark-skinned guy with bloodshot eyes whose nose is practically pinched in her cleavage. His friend, a redhead who looks like a five-foot, three-inch version of England’s Prince Harry, smiles at me. I spin away and walk alongside Lucy toward a shaggy orange sofa that looks super comfy. Thank God I’ll get to rest these aching feet. How does my cousin prance around in these heels twelve hours a day?
We near a small round table, where a guy and a cute brunette stand, drinking martinis. As we pass, the guy looks me up and down without the slightest pretense.
“Asshole,” Lucy snaps. She turns to me. “I can’t stand a guy who checks me out when he’s with another woman.”
We arrive at the empty orange sofa and I plop down. “My feet,” I groan, and kick off my—Lucy’s—heels.
“Drink,” she orders.
“Oh, Luce. I’ve already had wine with dinner.”
“Drink,” she repeats.
Cautiously, I take another swallow of my chile citrus vodka and shudder.
“Good girl,” she says, smiling. “You really are trying to change, aren’t you?”
I take a long swill of the awful drink, hoping for courage. We ignore what our heart—and stomach—tells us when we think it could make someone love us.
Thirty minutes and two citrus whatever-they’re-calleds later, Lucy and I have befriended a quartet of tall blond women from the Netherlands. They speak perfect English—better than mine at the moment.
“You guys are great!” I say, but it sounds more like, “Who died in the lake?”
“To new friends,” Lucy says, and we clink glasses. I throw back my delicious drink. Beside me, Lucy scans the place from wall to wall, as if measuring for carpet. She slams her glass on the table and rises.
“C’mon! Let’s dance!”
The blondes jump to their feet and make their way to the dance floor. I try wedging my feet into my shoes, my heart battering in my rib cage. Lucy grabs my hand and yanks me from the chair.
“Wait,” I say, as I stumble forward. “I haven’t danced in … forever.”
The room sways. She pulls me onto the wood floor, crammed with sweating, writhing bodies. I shift awkwardly and tug at the hem of my skirt. A guy with a scarf around his neck scoots up behind me, thrusting his crotch dangerously close to my rear. I yelp and spin around. My tongue feels thick and I shout in Lucy’s ear.
“Did you see that?”
She shimmies her shoulders and laughs. “Be nice!”
I look around at this blurry crowd of happy millennials, laughing, bobbing, hopping up and down with their arms raised to the ceiling. I’m probably the oldest person here. Besides Lucy, I don’t know a soul in this entire place, or the entire city. A refreshing surge of freedom washes over me. Here, I can be whomever I choose to be.
I find my rhythm. People look at me, smile at me. Thanks to the alcohol, I’m almost able to ignore my aching feet—and the couple to my right who are basically dry-humping. It’s actually fun, dancing with this laughing group of girls.
But one by one, my new friends scatter. The blondes find a flock of guys to dance with. Lucy moseys over to the tall, dark-skinned guy who’d been checking her out at the bar. She’s on the other side of the dance floor now, her arms flung over her head as she prances around in front of him, arching and dipping to provide an unobstructed view of the Fontana mountain range.
I’m smiling when, without forewarning, my stomach rumbles. A queasy feeling comes over me.
I snake my way through the dance floor, trying to steady myself, when the short redhead—Prince Harry wannabe—appears. Uninvited, he grabs hold of my hands. What makes him think I want to hold his sweaty hands? He winks as he yanks me back onto the dance floor. Am I the only one who thinks winks are creepy?
I do my best to lose myself in the song—some techno tune with lots of bass. I’m at a bar in Venice, drinking and dancing—with a guy. Tonight, I’m actually putting myself out there, just like I promised Lucy I’d do. My stomach churns.
Speaking of Lucy, where is she, anyway? I gaze past the top of Harry’s head, trying to keep a little rhythm in my step. The music slows. My neck snaps when he yanks me to his chest. Our bodies press together, sandwiched like a PB&J, except one slice of bread—my slice—is about twice the size of the other. Lovely. I’m dancing with a twelve-year-old. And what’s that poking at my thigh? Oh, shit! Make that a horny twelve-year-old!
I struggle to create some distance between us and search the dance floor for Lucy. There she … hey, where’s she going? She’s walking off with the swarthy guy in black. I wave my hand until finally, she sees me. She points at the guy, wags her tongue, and gives me a thumbs-up. I manage a weak smile, one I hope conveys Don’t you dare leave me!
“Relax, beautiful,” Harry whispers.
But how am I supposed to relax, in the clutches of Shorty and his hard-on? I take a deep breath. This isn’t about me. I’m here for Lucy. And tonight, she’s happy.
The song ends and Harry grabs my hand. “Come,” he says, pulling me across the floor.
My heart thuds. “Wait,” I say, searching for Lucy. “My cousin—”
But Harry has a tight grip and he’s dragging me along like a kid at a carnival. He’s hurting my hand. My head is filled with cotton. I can’t think straight. I stagger past the bar, trying to keep up with him, all the while craning my neck, hoping to spot Lucy. Everything’s out of focus. Where is she?
The door pushes open and a co
ol puff of wind hits me. Behind us, the door slams shut.
It’s mercifully quiet in the piazza. I suck in deep breaths while Harry leads me around a corner. I realize he’s on a mission and pull back. “Stop,” I say, tugging my hand from his grip. “I have to find my cousin.”
“She left with Ethan.” Sure enough, he has a British accent.
“Who?”
“My mate.” He tips his head to the right. “Let’s go.”
“Go? Where would we go at this hour? I don’t even know you.”
His eyes twinkle, as if I might be joking.
“I’m not leaving without Lucy. My aunt is waiting—”
Without warning, his thin, chapped lips clamp down on mine, stealing my words. I’m frozen with revulsion and shock. A wet tongue darts into my mouth. “Stop,” I manage to say, but he hitches me closer. He tastes of garlic and stale beer and I fight the urge to gag. I try pulling away, but Harry’s grip is too tight. He’s groping my ass!
“Let me go!” I say, and manage to shove him away. But he’s right back on me like a chimpanzee, his arm a vise around the back of my neck.
My stomach gurgles. The chile vodka whatever-it-was rises from my stomach. It’s making its way up my esophagus, and I’m powerless to stop it. I put my hands to Harry’s chest and push away with all my might. He staggers backward.
“The fuck!” he says.
I double over, vomiting down his pant legs, onto his Stan Smiths.
“Oh, bloody hell!”
I swipe my mouth with the back of my hand. “Now,” I say. “Do I make myself clear? Leave me the hell alone!”
He stares at me with wide eyes, then lifts his hands. “You are one sick bitch.”
I watch as he walks away. “Yes,” I say proudly. “I am.” Then I vomit once more, this time into a trash bin.
Chapter 25
Emilia
I can’t believe I barfed on the Brit. Serves him right. Men are pigs—all men except Matt and Liam, that is. Is this what Lucy has to contend with, night after night? No, thank you!
One Italian Summer: The perfect romantic fiction read for summer 2020 Page 14