“Me? Up front?”
“Please.”
I avoid Lucy’s eyes as I climb into the passenger seat. I’m sure she’s annoyed, but what am I supposed to do? I fasten my seat belt and turn to the backseat, offering her an apologetic smile. She rolls her eyes.
Soon, the city falls quiet. Traffic slows and the congested street morphs into a country road. Gabe slows the SUV each time we come to a hairpin turn.
“I say this road has more curves than Aphrodite.”
I smile. “I was thinking Beyoncé.”
He laughs and I puff with pride.
I gush at the landscape, a bucolic scene that makes me long to run through the fields. We pass hills and terraced vineyards, fields dotted with spools of hay, and, every now and then, a pasture with grazing cows or sheep. Tiny stone farmhouses spew smoke from their chimneys, and I conjure up a fictitious family, enjoying a meal at a long wooden table.
We come upon a quartet of cyclists. I roll down my window and wave, breathing in the fresh scent of straw and lavender. Gabe grins and lowers his window, too.
“I love the smell of this land, the feel of the breeze on my face.”
I spy a band of horses, lazily grazing on clover. I turn to the backseat to tell Poppy, but her eyes are closed. She looks so vulnerable with her chin against her chest and her wig slightly askew.
“You are a—?” Gabriele’s voice startles me, and once again I jump. He chuckles and reaches out a hand to me. “Please, Emilia, I am not dangerous.”
I laugh. “I know! I’m sorry. What were you asking?”
“I wonder if you are a country girl.”
“No.” I grin. “But I am today.”
“You must come back in the spring, when the fields are ablaze with red papaveri. It is spectacular to see them in the early morning, sprinkled with dew. And this field,” he says, pointing to our left. “In the summer it is a blur of smiling sunflowers. It is impossible to be moody when you see their happy faces gazing up at the sun.”
I smile, impressed with this masculine man’s poetic descriptions.
We ride in silence, making our way up and down and around the voluptuous hillside. “What are those mountains called?” I ask, pointing to the horizon.
Gabe’s eyes crinkle at the edges. “We call them hills.”
I groan and shake my head. “Right. Hills. I’m from Brooklyn. Every hill looks like a mountain to me.”
He nods. “I understand. Some people see the grandeur in ordinary things. I sense you are one of those people.”
I mull it over, wondering if I am, and whether that’s a good thing or a bad thing.
He reaches over a hand and pats my arm. “It is a wonderful trait,” he answers for me.
Soon, the vehicle veers down a long dirt driveway. A shaggy black dog greets us midway, barking and wagging its tail as it races alongside the car.
“Ciao, Moxie,” Gabe calls out the window.
We come to a stop in front of a charming two-story home built of irregular stones and occasional terra-cotta bricks.
“Here we are,” Gabe says.
“It’s beautiful,” I say, and twist in my seat. Poppy sleeps with her mouth agape, looking childlike and frail. Lucy gently pats her cheek.
“Poppy, we’re here.”
She doesn’t stir, and a surge of alarm goes through me. I watch, relieved when I see the soft rise and fall of her chest. “Maybe we should let her nap.”
Lucy nods, and together we stare at Poppy. I suspect we’re thinking the same thing. The traveling is too much for her. Our vibrant Poppy is fading.
Leaving the windows open, we quietly step from the car.
Terra-cotta roof tiles add a splash of color, and everywhere, bright flowers spill from clay pots. We wander down a path of cobblestones bordered with fragrant red roses. Above an old wooden door, a painted plaque announces Casa Fontana. I point to it.
“Fontana. That’s my family name.”
Gabe nods and opens the door. “Sì. This is Poppy’s childhood home.”
I stop short. “It is?”
“I did a complete renovation when I purchased it from her eight years ago.”
“Wait … Poppy owned this place?”
“She bought it almost forty years ago, when the landlord was raising the rent yet again, and her papà could no longer afford it.”
I rear back. “She bought it for her father?”
“That is right. She risked a great deal, taking a bank loan that size. If it had not been for Poppy, he and Signora Fontana would have had to live with relatives. She allowed them to stay in their home until they died.”
I blink. “So she made peace with him.”
Gabe nods. “She even paid for a nurse to live here during Signor Fontana’s final months.”
Do Rosa and Dolphie know that Poppy saved their parents from homelessness? I gaze out at the cascading fields, more thoughtfully this time. I imagine young Rosa bringing water to Alberto and Bruno as they tilled the soil. I take in the creeping red rosebushes, the same flowers my great-nonna Fontana may have tended decades ago. But this house harbors ugly memories, too, memories that would be impossible to forgive. This is the farmhouse where Poppy’s father forbade her from seeing Rico. Why would Poppy choose to return here now?
We enter through the kitchen, just as Rico did that fateful Sunday. The floors, probably the original stone, are polished to a glossy sheen. Cheery yellow and red tiles cover the walls, but double gas stoves, a Sub-Zero fridge, and chic new light fixtures give the room a modern, upscale feel. Even so, I can’t help but picture my great-grandmother at her old stove, warning Poppy and Rico they’re making a big mistake. A shudder goes through me.
“This way,” Gabe says.
We pass through an arched doorway into the living room. The high ceiling, supported with rough-sawn beams, gives the spacious room a rustic feel. A stone fireplace hunkers in the corner. Modern oil paintings cover one wall, and a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf another. Gabe’s weathered leather furniture and overlapping rugs create a coziness I’m guessing was absent in the 1950s. My eyes land on a chair near the fireplace, and I picture Poppy’s father rising from it, the Sunday when Rico came to call.
I turn when I hear footsteps, and gasp when Poppy creeps into the room. She looks like a caricature of the vibrant woman who appeared unannounced on my telephone two months ago. Her shoulders sag and blue-black circles hover beneath her eyes.
“Spettacolare!” She casts her gaze upon the room, taking in the modern art pieces alongside beautiful antiques. “The old place is looking meraviglioso, Gabriele.” She pats down her wig. “Which is more than I can say for myself at the moment.”
She laughs, but I can’t manage a smile. How can she be so cheerful, standing in the home that once betrayed her, clinging to a body that’s doing the same?
Poppy insists on climbing the stairs to her old attic bedroom, where Lucy and I will sleep the next three nights. The door squeaks when Gabe opens it, and all four of us manage to squeeze into the small space beneath the eaves. A tiny bathroom sits to the left, probably an addition. The polished wooden floors boast years of wear, but the colorful rugs brighten the place. Between a set of twin beds, an old casement window allows for much-needed sunlight and air. I imagine Poppy and Rosa staring out this very window, wishing on stars and sharing secrets.
Poppy studies the place but says nothing. Finally, she turns and makes her way back down the stairs. We drop our bags and follow.
Gabe holds Poppy’s hand, leading her down the first-floor hallway to a bright orange bedroom he calls “the Poppy Suite.” Fresh wildflowers adorn the bedside table. The tile floor is covered with a sisal rug, and a white down comforter hosts a flock of colorful pillows. A perfect room for my colorful aunt.
Poppy takes Gabe’s face in her hands and kisses his cheeks. “Grazie,” she says, then lowers herself onto the side of the bed. She lets out an exhausted sigh.
“Dinner will be at eight,” Gabe says. “Is there
anything I can get you? A cup of tea?”
She looks at Lucy, at Gabriele, at me. “I’ve got all I need.”
I wait until Lucy’s and Gabe’s voices disappear down the hallway. “Aunt Poppy,” I say, helping her off with her shoes. “I don’t understand. You bought this home for your father? The same man who tried to ruin your life?”
She removes her wig and takes a bottle of water from the bedside table. “That’s what families do—we take care of one another.” She points to her purse. “My pills. They’re in the side pocket.”
I remove an orange vial, catching sight of the warning label. Do not drive or operate machinery while taking this medication. I shudder and shake a red capsule onto my palm, then hand it to Poppy.
“Did your papà ever apologize? Did your mother?”
“It wasn’t necessary. I had forgiven them years ago.” She swallows down the pill, and I help her settle against the pillow. “Love. Forgive. Love again. Forgive again. That, my dear girl, is the circle of love.”
I’m stunned at her grace. “Did they ever try to come to America?”
“That was their plan. But you see, my father’s sister, your great-great-aunt Blanca, died unexpectedly from a burst appendix.”
I lift a blanket from the foot of the bed and cover her. “Still, their children were in America. Why did his sister’s death change their plans?”
“Papà’s mother—my nonna Fontana—was still alive. Aunt Blanca was expected to care for her.”
“But Blanca died suddenly,” I say. “So your papà had to care for his mother?”
“Sì. And their dream of America vanished. It never once occurred to them that Blanca wouldn’t be around. She had a budding relationship with a widowed farmer, but nobody thought much of it. She was healthy and six years younger than my father. They assumed she had nothing else to do besides care for her mother. After all, she was the single second daughter.”
Chapter 29
Emilia
Fading sunlight dapples our tiny room, and Lucy softly snores on the bed beside mine. Smells from the kitchen drift up the old staircase. I lower my notebook, grab my phone from the charger, and rise.
I find Gabe at the kitchen island, his shirtsleeves rolled up as he chops tomatoes. It’s probably my imagination, but his face seems to brighten when he sees me.
“There you are.” His full lips part, and I’d bet my life he was voted “best smile” in his senior class. He lifts a glass filled with a pretty red liquid. “Can I interest you in an aperitif?”
A cocktail now? Didn’t we just have wine with lunch? “I’d love one!” I say.
“I shall make you our famous Negroni, created right here in Tuscany by Count Camillo Negroni, one hundred years ago.”
“Perfect.” I perch on a barstool and try not to stare at his tanned forearms, with just the perfect smattering of dark hair, as he mixes gin and Campari.
“Did you enjoy a little siesta?” he asks, adding a jigger of sweet vermouth.
“I’m not much of a napper.”
“Nor am I. It used to frustrate my nanny.”
“You had a nanny?”
He lowers his gaze while he slices an orange, and an errant lock of dark hair spills onto his forehead. “My father was a successful jeweler. He and my mother traveled a great deal. My sister and I were left at home with any number of nannies. I describe my childhood as calm, cool, and neglected.” He gives a sardonic laugh. “I often wondered why they even had children.”
Despite his effort to sound lighthearted, there’s an aching undercurrent in his tone. At once, I feel a certain kinship with this man who grew up without his mother, like me.
“I’m sorry. You must have been lonely.”
He carries the drinks to my side of the counter and takes the stool beside mine. “You should not feel sorry for me. Look around. I am living in paradise. I could not have bought this inn without my inheritance.” He raises his glass. “Salute.”
I sip my drink and mentally bombard him with questions. Are you married? Do you have children? How do your lips taste? “Delicious,” I say—and quickly point to my Negroni.
“How about you, Emilia? You had a happy childhood, sì?”
“Yes,” I say, reflexively. But today, I take a moment to examine it. “My mother died when I was two. I have a recurring memory of her.” I look out the kitchen window, where the setting sun ignites the fields in orange and gold. “She was at the stove, stirring something. I remember her eyes, gazing down on me with pure kindness. She set down the spoon and scooped me into her arms and hugged me so tightly I could feel her heart beating against mine, as if we were one person, not two.” I look up and shake my head. “Of course it’s probably not a real memory at all.”
“But it is real, Emilia.” He’s turned to me now, his face so close that I can see a tiny scar on his jaw. “That feeling is primal, as if instinctually, we are born knowing of this mother’s love. And when it is absent, it leaves us with a thirst that can never be quenched.”
He lowers his eyes and shakes his head. “I am sorry. I did not mean to get philosophical.”
“No,” I say, touching his arm. “It’s fine. It’s good. You’ve articulated so beautifully what I’ve felt my entire life.”
His gaze falls on mine, refusing to budge. His dark eyes are shadowed, and I have to resist the urge to run my hand over the dark stubble on his beautiful cheek.
“Need any help?”
I leap from my stool, my heart thundering. Lucy stands at the kitchen entrance, dressed in black jeans and red heels, wearing the most curious look on her face, as if she’s stumbled onto a mystifying experiment and she’s hypothesizing about the smoking electrical current she’s witnessing.
A jazz ballad floats on the warm evening air. Lucy and I prepare a table in the courtyard beneath a pergola of twisted wisteria vines. We set out the first course, antipasto. Cured meats and fresh cheeses, artichoke hearts and Leccino olives dress the table. Poppy comes out just as Gabe opens a bottle of Chianti.
“Lovely,” she says, but her voice is strained. And she’s moving so slowly, even after her nap.
My phone chimes. It’s Daria again. I’d missed an earlier call, too, when my phone was dead.
Lucy holds out her glass. “Cheers to you, Gabriele,” she says, in her most seductive voice.
I send Dar a quick text before turning off my phone. Call u tomorrow. Xo
“Salute,” Gabe says. When he clinks his glass to mine, my hand trembles. He winks.
“No need to be nervous, Emilia.”
I turn away, clutching my glass with both hands.
“Where is Sofia?” Poppy asks, looking around. “She is here tonight, yes? And the boys?”
My heart skids to a halt. Sofia? Kids?
“Sì,” Gabe says. “You will see her tomorrow. She insists we dine in peace tonight.”
My face flames, and I’m grateful for evening’s cover. I was flirting with him. How could I not have known?
“Nonsense!” Poppy says. “Go get them. Remind her that age trumps beauty.”
Gabe shakes his head and laughs. “You are as stubborn as ever, Poppy.” He rises and travels down a flagstone path to a tiny cottage.
A moment later he returns, his arm draped around a twenty-something woman with a short, funky haircut, wearing high-waisted jeans and a sleeveless blouse. Two curly-haired boys let go of her hand, and the oldest runs to Poppy.
Poppy grabs the boy in a hug.
“Franco! Look how you’ve grown.”
“I am four and a half,” Franco says.
“A boy who is almost five deserves a lucky coin.” A shiny penny seems to appear from out of nowhere. Poppy tucks it into Franco’s pocket.
“Dante is only two,” he says. “He has to wait for his coin, right, Mamma?”
“Sì, Franco,” his mother says, rubbing the little one’s head.
Poppy opens her arms. “My beautiful Sofia!” She kisses both the woman’s cheeks,
then looks down at the younger boy, who’s clutching his mother’s leg, his thumb in his mouth.
“Hello, my friend.” She goes to lift him, but can’t get him off the ground. She’s too weak. My heart breaks. I look away, hoping to spare Poppy her dignity.
“Meet Sofia,” Gabe says.
Lucy reaches out a hand. “Nice to meet you, Sofie, I mean Sofia.”
Sofia laughs. “I like this name, Sofie. You may use it, if you like.”
“Cool.” Lucy leans in to examine Sofia’s bare upper arm, where a wreath of roses forms the feminist symbol of Venus. “Nice tat.”
“Grazie,” Sofia says and lightly touches the symbol. “A reminder that females are strong and capable, something women in America accept naturally.”
“Not all of us, I’m afraid.” Lucy’s introspection surprises me. Then she jabs me in the ribs. “Meet my cousin Emmie, a perfect example of a timid American woman.”
“Thanks, Luce,” I say, and roll my eyes. I take Sofia’s hand in mine, my head still trying to come to terms with my silly heart. Of course Gabriele is married. Of course his wife’s a natural beauty, with big dark eyes and a pretty smile. And she’s young. And nice. Damn her. “It’s lovely to meet you. Your inn is beautiful.”
She smiles. “My brother’s inn. But thank you.”
“Brother?” The word charges from my mouth before I have time to censor it. Over Sofia’s shoulder, I see Gabe’s eyes twinkle with humor. I turn to Sofia. “So you—you’re Gabe’s sister?”
She nods.
“Shall we eat?” Gabe says and winks at me again.
My heart grows three sizes. Whatever made me think winks were creepy?
Gabe lights a fire in the stone pit and the night becomes golden. The seven of us gather at the long wooden table for our antipasto. Lucy sits between Franco and Dante, teasing them by stealing their noses. They squeal each time she displays their nose—her thumb caught between her fingers.
“Do it again!” Franco insists.
Sofia pats his head. “Enough, little man. Let Lucy eat in peace.”
Gabe clears the dishes and returns with steaming bowls of homemade ribollita, a delicious Tuscan soup made with beans and bread and fresh vegetables. More wine is poured. Voices overlap. Stars collect in the sky. The breeze carries the scent of grapes and lavender and smoke from the fire. I soak in the sweet scene, knowing this day … this moment … is one I shall re-create many times, both in memory and on paper.
One Italian Summer: The perfect romantic fiction read for summer 2020 Page 17