“Please take her back to the hotel,” I say. “I’ll wait here for Rico.”
“Forget it, Em. She won’t budge. We have to let her wait it out.”
“He’s not coming,” I say. “She’s getting sicker by the hour.”
“I know,” Lucy says, biting her lip. “But how do you make someone give up on something they’ve been waiting for their entire life?”
Her eyes are filled with sympathy, and something else … wisdom. It occurs to me that Lucy understands my aunt’s determination far better than I do. My cousin knows what it’s like, waiting a lifetime for a dream that others desperately want you to abandon.
The twelfth bell chimes. We three make our way across the empty piazza. We reach the hotel. Poppy stops. She turns to face the cathedral one more time, as if still expecting to find Rico, as if somehow she had missed him.
Chapter 41
Emilia
The next morning, we drop our bags in the hotel lobby and settle Poppy onto an oversized sofa. We’ve got ten minutes before our driver arrives to take us to the airport.
“Anyone want coffee?” I ask.
Lucy lifts a finger. “Double espresso, grazie.”
“How about you, Aunt Poppy?” I squat in front of her. “Can I get you an espresso?”
She looks lost among the sofa pillows, a different woman from the one I watched just weeks ago, bustling around her house with a martini shaker. She’s ditched her wig for the first time, and turbaned a silk scarf around her bald head. Her skin is colorless today, her eyes sunken. Still, her beauty is unmistakable.
She shakes her head and raises a hand. A knot of sadness cramps my throat. Earlier this morning, Lucy and I discovered our aunt had not booked a return flight. She’d expected to remain in Ravello, with her love, for the rest of her life. We purchased her a ticket online. She hasn’t spoken a word since.
Unlike yesterday, I need sunglasses today, and from the east, a warm breeze laps my skin. I take a deep breath, hoping to shake the ashes from my heart, and trot across the cobblestone piazza toward Piacenti’s Bakery. Flowering trees and rosebushes scent the air. Below, the mountain dips to the sea, where foamy white waves lick the shore, a view so spectacular it stops me in my tracks. If only Rico had been at the cathedral yesterday. Instead, Poppy will live the rest of her short life absent a dream, knowing she’ll never see the man she spent her entire adult life yearning for.
“American girl!”
I spin around. A man in a white Panama hat rises from a table at an outdoor café. It takes a moment before I recognize him. He’s wearing dark sunglasses today … and a grin that could melt the polar ice caps.
“Avocado!” I say. “Buongiorno.”
He waves me over. “Come join us, won’t you? Meet my grandfather, Benito.”
An old man sits across from him, one side of his face droopy. His hand trembles as he tries to extend it.
“Piacere di conoscerLa,” I say, taking his limp hand.
He mumbles something incoherent.
“My grandfather is the smartest man I know,” the younger man says, gazing down at his nonno. “He taught me everything I know about law … and life.”
Benito lifts his misshapen face, his misty eyes brimming with love. He can’t speak, but he understood his grandson perfectly. Avocado squeezes his shoulder and calls to the waiter.
“Giorgio! Un altro caffè, per favore.” He begins folding his newspaper to make room for me.
“Thanks,” I say. “I’d love to join you, but I’m about to leave. I’m making a quick stop for coffee, and then I’m off.”
“Tomorrow, then?” His face is so hopeful that I almost believe he’ll be crushed.
“I’m flying home today, back to America.”
He seems to deflate. “No. Extend your stay. You must. I will show you the beautiful town of Amalfi, where I live and work. It is not far.”
I laugh and wave as I walk away. “Enjoy your day, Avocado.”
I arrive at Piacenti’s and place my order, all the while recalling Avocado’s beautiful smile, the compassion he showed to his grandfather, his disappointment when I couldn’t stay. After yesterday’s bitter defeat, the fleeting encounter feels like a sliver of hope. Maybe I’ll actually find love one day, a love like Poppy and Rico’s. And maybe, just maybe, the old memories that have surfaced during our trip, however bittersweet, will allow my dear aunt some closure.
Five minutes later, I turn to leave. I fumble with my sunglasses, trying to balance my latte and Lucy’s espresso, and practically collide with a woman entering the store.
“Mi dispiace,” we say in unison. We laugh and she points at me.
“You are the woman who came to the apartment yesterday.”
“Yes,” I say, recognizing the rings on her fingers. “And again, I’m sorry for being so bold.”
“I spoke to my boyfriend. He said I should have allowed your friend to see the apartment.”
“My aunt,” I correct her. “Please thank him for me.”
“He is there now, if you would like to see it.”
I shake my head. “Thanks, but we’re leaving this morning. The driver’s probably waiting now. But thank you. You’re very kind.”
How nice to be recognized, twice in one morning, almost like I’m part of this small Ravello community, like I belong. I breeze into the hotel lobby and stop when I spot Lucy in a chair, engrossed in … No. No way. Not my notebook!
I march over, plop the coffees on the table, and snatch it from her hands. “What are you doing? I told you, that’s private.”
She shrugs. “Why? I mean, it’s not going to win any prizes or anything, but I’d read it.”
I blink several times, bracing myself for a cutting remark. But her eyes hold no malice. And she’s grabbing her coffee now. My jaw unclenches ever so slowly.
“You would read it? Seriously?”
She blows on her espresso. “Hell, I’d even buy it. This new story’s a hundred times better than the one you were working on in Venice. This one has soul.”
Joy breaks free and I laugh out loud. “Thank you!” I hug her neck and she pretends to choke.
“Jesus, kill me, why don’t you? Hey, let’s grab breakfast.”
“Breakfast? We don’t have time.”
“The driver called. Our flight’s delayed. He’s picking us up at noon.”
My heart quickens and my thoughts scurry. “Forget breakfast. I have a better idea.” I turn to Poppy and quickly explain that we’ve been invited to tour the apartment. “The owner is there now. Shall we go?”
Poppy’s ambivalence surprises me. I expected her to be excited. Instead, she drags her feet as we walk.
“You really think this is a good idea?” Lucy whispers to me. “I mean, it could totally bum her out.”
“She’s already bummed out,” I say.
We enter the shady courtyard. Poppy pans the space, then moves to an iron bench beneath the lemon tree.
“Need a minute before we go up?” I ask.
She doesn’t answer. Is she afraid of the memories hidden in this place where she last loved? Or worse, is she doubting Rico’s love, wondering if the man she devoted her heart to for the past fifty-nine years was a fraud?
Chapter 42
Poppy
1961
Ravello, Amalfi Coast
My body was thin to the point of gauntness. But even so, there was no denying the fullness of my breasts, the widening of my hips. No longer could I ignore the tenderness in my nipples, the nausea. Or the two cycles without one drop of blood.
The startling news, the effort of the bath, exhausted me. I had to lie down. Rosa helped me into a dress. Once I was on the sofa, she ran downstairs to beg the baker for three more days off work.
When she returned, I was sitting up. I had two lines written. My dear Rico, Our love has multiplied. You are going to be a father. The thought that terrified me only an hour before now thrilled me. I was carrying Rico’s child! We were
going to be parents.
“What are you doing?” Rosa asked, coming up beside me.
I leaned my throbbing head against the sofa. “This changes everything. Rico will want to be with me and our baby. I will go to him. We will live in Germany with his parents and his sister. Even if it is a poor existence, we will be together.”
“In a place he calls prison? You think this is what he wants for his child? No, Paolina. You heard what he said in the letter. He wants you to go to America.”
“Maybe his father is not so ill,” I said, ignoring her, along with my every rational thought. “Maybe he will choose to escape, and he will come back to us.”
She planted her fists on her hips. “And get killed trying to cross the border? How could you live with yourself?”
A shudder rolled over me and my eyes grew heavy. “I know him. He will want to be with his child.”
Rosa perched at my side. Very gently, she took the pen from my hand.
“La mia sorella testarda. If you are certain this is what he would want, I will help.” She touched the pen to the paper. “You talk, I will write.”
It felt awkward, revealing my deepest thoughts to Rosa. I longed for a private conversation with Rico, an intimate penning of my joy, sharing the news of our child. But my sister was right. I hadn’t the strength to write.
By the time I finished dictating, I was spent. When Rosa held the pen in my fist and helped me sign my name, it was everything I could do to keep my eyes open.
When I woke, Rosa was coming through the door. “Rest easy,” she said, perching beside me and stroking my forehead. “The letter is in the mail.”
I closed my eyes, grateful for my sister’s help, and drifted off to sleep again. My news was on its way to Rico. Soon, we would be reunited.
Rosa was a godsend. I am certain I would have died had she not arrived. She stayed another week, nursing me back to health. While I slept, she negotiated a reduced rent with my landlord and begged my employers to keep me on. She helped me write three more letters to Rico. She shopped at the market each morning and filled my cupboards with fresh fruits and cheeses, hard rolls and meats. When I was able to keep food down, she cooked my favorite dishes.
“You must eat. The baby needs nutrition.”
I put a hand to my stomach, loving the feel of the tiny bulge in my belly, the beautiful oval shape of our child.
I cried when we had to say good-bye. “You saved my life,” I told my sister at the train station. “You saved my child’s life. I shall never, ever forget it.”
She hugged me tightly. “I am happy I could help. And now you will do me a favor.” She patted my belly. “Promise to take care of my niece … or nephew.”
My sister, who was hoping for a child of her own, could not have been more gracious.
“I will make an excuse to come back in six months, before you deliver.” She cupped my cheek. “I would come more often, but you know we do not have the extra money.”
“It is okay,” I assured her. “Rico will be back before the baby comes.”
Her eyes clouded, and she nodded. “In case he is not, I will be here.”
A wave of anxiety rolled over me. The idea of being alone during labor made me shudder. I clutched Rosa’s hands, struck with homesickness I’d not expected. “Will you tell Mamma?”
She shook her head. “I think it would kill her.”
I reared back. “But I am married.”
“Not according to Mamma’s rules, and God’s. Your marriage is not legal, Paolina. You have nothing from the church that says you are man and wife. I think it is better to keep this our secret, sì?”
The following week I woke without nausea. It was as if a switch had been flipped, and I was healthy again. No, not healthy … radiant! I had a newfound energy, more ambition than ever before. I found a small bassinet at a junk shop and spent a day painting it white. The following afternoon, I added red and blue and green polka dots. That weekend, I splurged on a ball of yarn and knitting needles. When I wasn’t working, I was preparing for our child. I chose names—Erich if it was a boy, and Johanna for a girl, after Rico’s mother and sister. The future would be kind to our little family of three, I was certain.
Chapter 43
Emilia
A leaf falls from the lemon tree, landing on Poppy’s lap. She looks up, her eyes bright. I wrap her in a hug. “You don’t need to tell the rest. I know what happens. And I am so very sorry.”
She pulls back and looks at me quizzically.
“Uncle Dolphie told me you lost the baby. I’m so sorry. I know how hard that was for you.”
“I went full term.” Her voice is shaky and she looks down at her hands. “I delivered Johanna. I held her. She even suckled my breast.” She puts a hand to her mouth. “I loved her instantly. It was a magical time. I never dreamed it could end so abruptly.”
I’m rubbing Poppy’s back, the three of us in tears, when the woman with the rings on her fingers rounds the corner.
“Buongiorno!” she says, her voice bright. Her gaze travels from my weepy aunt to Lucy’s red nose. She freezes.
I stand up and swipe my cheeks. “Sorry. We’re … reminiscing.”
“You have time to take the tour?”
I turn to Poppy. “Shall we do this?”
She covers her chin and nods.
We introduce ourselves while climbing the steep staircase. “I’m Elene,” the woman says. She holds the apartment door open with her hip and waits until Lucy and I finally reach the landing, Poppy wedged between us.
The space is bright and cheerful, with large windows and whitewashed wooden floors. Though it’s small, the high ceilings create an airy feel. Poppy lifts her chin, taking in the place. The walls are painted a soft shade of gray and covered with bold colorful paintings.
Poppy gasps. I follow her gaze to a large painting hanging above the sofa—a giant bouquet of orange poppies. “Papaveri,” she says. My body erupts in gooseflesh. What are the odds?
Footsteps fall, and a handsome young man with a striking face enters the living area. His hair is thick and blond.
Poppy gasps. “Mein Ehemann,” she whispers. Ever so slowly, she steps forward and extends her arms. “Mein Ehemann!”
The man—a twenty-something who obviously is not Rico—looks at her, his brow knit. I can barely stand to watch. He crosses the hardwood floor and gives her an awkward hug. “Hello. I am Jan.”
His accent is unmistakably German. I rub the chill from my arms.
“This is my aunt Poppy—Paolina Fontana,” I say. “She once lived here … with a man named Rico.”
He gives Poppy a sympathetic smile. “I am sorry. There is no Rico here.”
Poppy shakes her head. “But you look …”
“This place belonged to my grandfather Erich.”
“Erich?” She clutches her chest, her eyes imploring. “Erich Krause?”
We sit on a modern cream-colored sofa across from Jan, while Elene retreats to the kitchen to make coffee. Jan explains how his grandfather purchased this pied-à-terre the year his wife died.
“Last March, he gave up his home in Germany and came here permanently, to this tiny place, to live out the last of his life.”
I swallow hard. They missed each other by only a few months. “Oh, Aunt Poppy,” I whisper. “He wanted to be here.”
She nods, her chin quivering. If there was ever a doubt, it’s gone now. She was loved.
“He kept the place exactly the same—the tiny kitchenette, the scarred wooden floors.”
“Really?” Lucy says. “Because I’m thinking it looks awesome.”
“You should have seen it two months ago,” Elene says, entering the room with a tray of coffee. She places it on a teak coffee table. “We’re selling the building now, so we’ve updated.”
“Come,” Jan says. “I will give you a tour.”
By tour, he means moving from the combined living room/kitchenette, poking our heads into a sleek marble bathr
oom, and stepping into the small bedroom overlooking the piazza. Immediately, Poppy turns to the door and lifts her head.
“Do you see it?” I ask, standing beside her, helping search the freshly painted wall for Rico’s inscription.
“No,” she says, her voice thick. “But it’s there. It will always be there.”
She steps into the hallway. Without asking permission, she opens a door. A staircase beckons us, presumably to the rooftop deck. She peers up at it before gently closing it again, either too weak or disappointed to climb the dozen steps.
We return to the living room sofa. Jan leans forward and plants his arms on his knees. “So tell me, Poppy, how do you know my granddad?”
I try to read Jan’s face as Poppy reveals the tale of their love. Is he upset? Angry? Embarrassed? It can’t be easy, hearing that your grandfather had a wife in another life, a woman he loved so deeply that he purchased the place where they once lived, just to feel her nearness.
“So that’s why we’re here,” I say. “Your grandfather and my aunt promised they’d meet on the steps of the Ravello Cathedral on their fifty-ninth anniversary.”
“Incredible,” he says. “This explains a lot.” He rubs the stubble on his face. “My grandfather’s health was failing quickly. We knew he had to get back home to Germany. But he insisted he had to be here on his wedding night, to meet his wife. We thought he was losing his mind. You see, Grandmother Karin had already passed.”
“He married Karin,” Poppy says, mostly to herself. She stares off into the distance, as if trying to digest this information.
“They were married forty-seven years. My father was the eldest of four children. His name is …” He looks up, as if surprised. “… Paul.”
My throat swells. Had Rico named his son after his love, Paolina?
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