I plug my phone into the charger, but it doesn’t seem to be working. I turn to Lucy in the seat beside me. She’s massaging her forehead, looking stale as day-old bread. “How was your night?” I ask for at least the third time this morning.
She stretches and a slow smile makes its way to her face. “You saw him. He was hot, right?”
“Yes,” I say, trying to picture the guy. “And he was really into you, Luce.”
Her smile vanishes. “Of course now we’re leaving, and I’ll never see him again.”
“You can keep in touch. Did you get his email?”
She rolls her eyes. “Right, Em. The guy’s dying for a pen pal.”
Poppy turns to her. “Imagine the possibilities of actually getting to know someone.”
Lucy pulls a tube of lip gloss from her purse. “What’s that supposed to mean?” She offers me the tube. I hesitate briefly, then dab some onto my fingertip.
“True intimacy is a connection of the mind as well as the body,” Poppy says. “When you settle for only one of these two, the result is either emotionless sex or platonic friendship. Nothing more. Nothing less.”
Lucy huffs. “Gee, thanks, Dr. Phil.”
Lucy may not like the advice, but the words ring true to me. Could Matt and I have more than friendship if I tried harder?
“She’s only trying to help,” I whisper to Lucy, once Aunt Poppy’s attention returns to the window. “Seriously, I don’t understand, either. You’re putting yourself in danger, leaving with these guys. I mean, sure, you like sex. I get that. But—”
“What makes you think I like sex?”
She looks directly at me. The pain in her eyes renders me speechless. My cousin, who’s been AWOL two out of the last three nights, who gives herself so recklessly to any guy who shows interest, doesn’t even enjoy sex.
We ignore what our heart tells us when we think it could make someone love us.
The train glides past yellow fields and green hills, an occasional stone farmhouse, a pasture of sheep. Soon, I’m lost in my story, imagining my characters spending a clandestine weekend in this quaint setting. While I mentally sketch the scene, Lucy fiddles with my hair. I smile as she separates strands, mumbling to herself about which type of braid would be best for my oval face. Careful not to disturb her, I open my notebook. With my back to her, I lose myself in my writing.
Ten minutes later, I put my pen down. I pat my head, feeling a braid cascading down one side. I turn to find Lucy leaning over my shoulder … reading my story!
I flip the notebook shut.
“Hey!” she says. “I wasn’t finished.”
“How long have you been snooping?”
“Long enough to know you’re writing a book.” She grabs the notebook.
“Give me that.”
She holds it above her head and reads aloud, “He stroked her soft cheek, his touch sending shivers up her spine.”
“Stop!”
“She turned to him, her eyes filled with need.”
I finally yank the book from her.
“Don’t leave me hanging!” she says. “What happens next?”
I stuff the book into my bag and shake my head, choked with humiliation. “Just stop, Lucy. You’re not funny.”
She shrugs. “I wasn’t trying to be. I mean, isn’t that the point of writing, to have people read it? By the way, that braid looks awesome. Hey, Pops, check out the new do!”
Poppy’s ashen face brightens a shade. “Now there’s my girl! Well done, Luciana. Rico loved it when I wore a braid.”
Lucy positions the braid so that it spills over my shoulder. “Did you ever see Rico again? You know, after your dad basically cut off his balls?”
Poppy shakes her head. “It was the longest night of my life, that April day when Papà sent Rico away. I did not dream. I did not sleep. I could no longer breathe. Instead, I prayed.
“By the next morning, my head had cleared. I made a promise to myself. I would never again allow someone else to make decisions for me.” She turns to the train window. “If only I had kept that promise.”
Chapter 27
Poppy
1960
From Florence to Amalfi Coast, Italy
I was the first one off the bus at Piazza della Signoria. I ran all the way to Rico’s flat. I couldn’t wait to see him, to tell him my news. I had chosen him. I was breathless when I quietly let myself in.
“Rico?” I whispered, my eyes adjusting to the dim lighting. I blinked once. Twice. The room was empty. Every piece of him—his razor, his hair comb, his violin case—was gone. My heart sank. The only man I ever loved had vanished.
The door behind me creaked open. I spun around, expecting to find Rico. Instead, a woman barged into the room carrying a bucket and a mop. I rushed to her.
“I’m Poppy, Rico’s—Erich’s—friend. Do you know where he is?”
She reached into the pocket of her smock and removed an envelope. Poppy was written across the front. I tore it open.
Mio unico amore,
By the time you read this, I will be on the train to Naples, a broken man whose heart is bleeding. I must move on, and so must you. There is a place called Amalfi, wedged into the cliffs, cascading down the hillside to the Gulf of Salerno. I hear the crowds there are large, even bigger than in Firenze, filled with wealthy tourists waiting to be entertained. I will start fresh, a new life in Amalfi, just me and a beautiful coast where I can live in sunshine and freedom. This is what I came for. But now that I have tasted you, I realize I will always be missing the most important thing in life. Love.
Please honor your father’s wishes, and know that I understand and respect this. No person should have to choose between blood and water. Do not look back in sadness, but only in love, a reminder of a sweet time when two souls collided in song.
I wish you the best in your journey to America. Your life will be prosperous and easy, and for that I am grateful. I will pray for you every night of my life, asking for your safety and happiness. I have faith someone will hear my prayers. Of one thing I am certain: I will continue to love you until my dying breath—something I both cherish and fear. I am the luckiest unlucky man in the world.
I will love you a million times over, my beautiful papavero.
Rico
I didn’t hesitate. Not even for an instant. I dashed from Rico’s flat and made my way to the train station. I left Firenze two hours later. When the train stopped, I boarded a bus. It was dusk when the bus finally arrived in the seaside town of Amalfi. I asked the first person I saw for directions to the main square.
And there he was, new to Amalfi but already surrounded by a small crowd in the Piazza del Duomo. They cheered and cried for the German violinist. He had been practicing our favorite song, an international hit by Doris Day called “Que Será, Será.” Now he was performing it in public for the first time. I whispered the words as he played. “Que será, será. Whatever will be, will be. The future’s not ours to see.”
His bow slid up and down the strings, at once tenacious and tender. I stood clutching my hands, my heart soaring. And then he saw me. His bow fell to his side. He ran to me.
“Mio unico amore!”
He lifted me into his arms. I couldn’t see through my tears. The crowd cheered, and I knew, right then and there, I was home.
We rented a room above a bakery, in a small town called Ravello, three kilometers up the cliff from Amalfi. I was soon hired in the little bakery downstairs. Rico played his violin every afternoon and evening. Just as he was told, the crowds on the Amalfi Coast were larger, wealthier. Even so, we did not have much money. But we felt rich as royalty. Our palace was the tiny room where, from the rooftop each evening, we would sip wine, catching a sliver of sun as it set over the Tyrrhenian Sea.
Summer merged into fall. October arrived and the nights grew cooler. We had no heat, and we’d huddle beneath the covers in the mornings, our breath steaming the air. Soon, I would turn twenty-one. Every day, Ric
o would ask me what I wanted for my birthday. I think he feared I was lonely, that I missed my family and regretted my decision to follow him. Each time, my answer was the same. “You.”
That year, October twenty-second landed on a glorious Saturday. The bakery owner had given me the day off work. Rico and I spent the entire day together, drifting in and out of stores, stopping for a cappuccino, later a glass of wine. As the sun set, I sat in the piazza watching him perform, thanking the goddesses for my beautiful, talented music man. It was the best birthday I’d ever had.
I returned to our flat at half past eight to prepare dinner. An hour later, Rico waltzed up the stairs, clutching a mysterious box with a bright purple ribbon. He lifted me off my feet, kissing me with all of his passion.
I vowed I would always remember that moment—the smell of garlic sautéing on the stove, the comfort of his strong arms around my waist, the golden flecks in his blue eyes.
When he finally set me down, he brushed past me and clicked off the stove. Then he handed me the box. “For you,” he said, his eyes mischievous.
I removed the bow. Inside was the prettiest dress I’d ever seen, a gauzy white linen I knew we couldn’t afford.
He lay on the bed with his hands behind his head, smiling as he watched me change. The fabric was so soft, so fine. I felt like a princess. I couldn’t believe it. In all my life, I’d only worn hand-me-downs from Rosa, or an occasional dress stitched by my mother or me.
“I love it,” I said. “But it is too expensive.”
“Nothing is too grand for you, my beautiful Poppy.” He bounded from the bed and took me by the hand. “Come with me.”
“Where are we going?” I asked, laughing as Rico pulled me down the stairway and out the door.
The evening air was crisp, and Rico wrapped his arm around my bare shoulders. Above, a slice of the moon played peekaboo with the clouds, creating shadows on the streets. While the city prepared for sleep, he led me up the steps of the Ravello Cathedral.
“We’re a little early for church,” I joked. Rico silenced me with a kiss. When our lips finally parted, he bent down on one knee.
“Paolina Maria Fontana, will you marry me?”
Chapter 28
Emilia
Day Four
Firenze—Florence
The train glides to a stop at the Firenze Santa Maria Novella station. Poppy sits up and looks around, as if she’s forgotten where she is.
“So what happened?” Lucy asks, clutching Poppy’s arm. “Did you marry him? And break the curse?”
“Rico was not an Italian citizen,” Poppy says. “And I had no birth certificate. I’d left everything behind when I walked out of my papà’s house.”
Lucy groans. “So what does that mean? Did you break the curse or not?”
Poppy gives her a wistful look. “I shall continue the story later.”
Lucy drops her head on the tray in front of her and gently bangs it.
The station is swarming with tourists, and everywhere I see posters taped to the walls, encouraging fair wages for the train workers and announcing an upcoming sciopero, whatever that means. Poppy searches the platform for the driver she’s arranged to take us to Trespiano. Her face lights up and she waves her hand.
“Gabriele!” she cries, moving stiffly down the platform in her suede flats. She’s not running today, or even trotting. I watch as a tall Italian man wearing jeans and a white shirt lifts Poppy into the air. She plants kisses on his cheeks. I can’t help but smile. How has she managed to collect so many friends in this country, four thousand miles from home?
“Come,” she says, waving Lucy and me over. “Meet Gabriele, our driver. He is all ours for the next three days.”
Lucy does her usual dip and flip. First, she bends at the waist, so Gabriele can check beneath her hood. Then she flips her hair so that it covers one eye, something I’m sure is meant to convey sexiness but only makes me want to search my purse for a hair clip.
“Hey,” she says, her voice breathy. “I’m Lucy.”
To his credit, Gabriele looks directly into her eyes … or eye. “Pleasure to meet you, Lucy.” His deep voice is perfectly gilded with a sexy Italian accent. He turns to me, and for some reason, I startle. He laughs. “I do not mean to frighten you.”
I shake my head and lift a hand. “No. You don’t.” But my racing heart tells me a different story. He does scare me. Those dark eyes are too penetrating, that wry smile too seductive.
“I am Gabriele Vernasco,” he says, his warm hand pressing mine. “Please, call me Gabe.”
He leads us out of the station, our bags slung onto his back like a pack mule. Lucy trots alongside him, chatting. Poppy and I trail behind, both of us, I suspect, admiring his broad shoulders, his unruly dark waves, his tight round—
Poppy elbows me in the ribs, interrupting my thoughts. “He’s scrumptious, isn’t he?” She winks. My face heats and she laughs. “Perhaps you are coming to life, learning to be Emilia.”
When Poppy announced Gabriele was ours for the next three days, I assumed his duties were limited to travel. But apparently, he’s not only our driver—he’s also our tour guide and innkeeper.
He loads the bags into a black SUV and closes the trunk. “I thought we would have lunch in the city before going to the inn.”
Poppy claps her hands. “Marvelous!”
Together, we walk the streets of Firenze—Florence—the very town where Poppy gave tours and met Rico. This gorgeous medieval city, divided into two sections by the River Arno, has a different vibe from Venice, sacred yet cosmopolitan, hip while holding fast to its old-world charm. I catch whiffs of roasting meat and fresh bread, and my stomach growls.
“Ah, my favorite trippaio,” Gabriele says, coming to a stop at a street-side kiosk, where the awning reads Lampredotto. “Would you like to try our version of the American hot dog?” he asks me.
“Sure,” Lucy answers, elbowing her way to his side.
“It is a soft bread filled with meat.”
“I’m all about meat,” she says.
“Lampredotto is made from a cow’s fourth stomach,” Poppy says. “It’s named after the lamprey, which it resembles.”
Lucy gags. “How do you say W.T.F. in Italian?”
Gabriele smiles. “I take it that is a no?”
“It’s a hell no,” Lucy says.
He laughs. “How about pizza?”
We enter the heart of Florence, the lively Piazza della Signoria. Young men sell selfie sticks and trinkets. Tourists mill about with their cell phones poised, snapping photos of the replica statue of David and the Palazzo Vecchio—once the old palace, now the town hall. I turn in a circle, slowly panning the L-shaped square, barely able to believe I’m here, in the cradle of the Renaissance, surrounded by historical relics I’ve only read about and masterpieces by geniuses from Michelangelo to Michelozzo.
“Look,” I say, pointing to a sign with an arrow. “The Uffizi must be that way. That’s where you worked, right, Aunt Poppy?”
“Yes,” she says. But she’s staring in the opposite direction. I follow her gaze to the Fountain of Neptune, the place where her Rico performed. The octagonal fountain hosts a marble statue of Neptune, surrounded by laughing satyrs and bronze river gods and marble sea horses rising from the water. How strange it must feel, coming back to a city that seems impervious to change, a place that looked the same back in the sixteenth century as when she strolled the piazza, hand in hand with her Rico. Every statue, every fountain, in this town must remind her of her love.
Gabriele points us to a small café and we settle into a table beneath a giant red umbrella. As we drink wine and devour an amazing pizza topped with fresh mozzarella and basil, he tells us about his first job, selling high-end automobiles at a private dealership off Via Valfonda.
“There is no sexier vehicle than the Lamborghini Diablo. But soon I tired of the job. I was making good money, selling luxury items to wealthy people. But it was corrupting my sou
l.”
I nod, appreciating his honesty, admiring his integrity and, I admit, his muscular forearms. I think of my own job. I’m not getting rich selling pastries, and my clientele certainly isn’t wealthy. So why is it that today, it feels as if the little kitchen at Lucchesi’s Bakery and Deli is corrupting my soul?
“Did anyone famous ever come into the store?” Lucy asks, completely missing the point.
Gabe laughs good-naturedly, as if he’s humoring a young child. “Several. I once sold a Ferrari to Sting.” He returns his focus to me. “I found my true calling when I stumbled upon the inn. Of course it wasn’t an inn at the time. It was a dilapidated farmhouse that had been vacant for two years. But still, I saw the potential.”
His eyes twinkle as they penetrate mine, and it feels like he’s sending me a cryptic message, telling me he sees the potential in me. I should probably warn him, I tried to find my potential last night and ended up puking on a guy.
“I knew that with the right love and care, the crumbling old house could become a jewel.”
He smiles and Poppy’s words return to me: You don’t have to die as that woman. For the first time ever, I realize how much I want to find that woman I just might be.
It’s four in the afternoon when we return to the SUV. Gabe opens the back door and Poppy steps forward.
“No, Aunt Poppy,” I say. “You sit up front.”
“Nonsense.” She climbs into the backseat. “I’ve seen this land before.”
Gabe helps buckle her seat belt, then opens the front passenger door.
“Shotgun!” Lucy calls.
Gabriele’s eyes grow wide, as if he’s expecting to find an actual shotgun on one of us American tourists.
“It’s a figure of speech,” Lucy says. “It means I’m going to sit—”
“Emilia?” he says, interrupting her. He makes a sweeping gesture with his arm.
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