“Come back with me to Ravello,” I say, my voice soft now, pleading. Every word matters. Somehow, someway, I must convince her of the urgency. “Your sister has brain cancer. And she’s sorry for what she did. She wants to make peace with you. Go see her, Nonna. Please. Before it’s too late.”
Her nostrils flare when she draws in a breath. “That woman is dead to me. Get back to work.” She turns away and slides the peppers into a stainless steel pan. “You are not on holiday.”
I clench my fists. “You stubborn—”
She whirls around. “You have something to say to me?”
My heart bangs against my rib cage. I force myself to look her straight in the eyes, and speak the same words she once said to my father, when he wanted to have my lip examined. “Perché preoccuparsi?” Why bother?
She glares at me for a full ten seconds. Finally, she marches from the kitchen, the double doors snapping behind her.
Carmella looks on, her hand over her mouth. Without a word, I pivot toward the counter and crack an egg against a bowl, cursing as I pluck broken shells from the goo. My hands are still shaking when the store bell chimes. I look out the back-kitchen window. Mrs. Fortino waltzes in for her Tuesday morning visit. She checks herself in the mirror. My father sucks in his gut. Nonna hisses. A fog settles in my chest.
“My life has become Groundhog Day,” I say to myself.
Carmella lets out a laugh, more from relief, I suspect, than humor.
The bell chimes again. I rise up and see the Cannoli Man. “Carmella,” I say. “Check out this guy. He came in last August, raving about the cannoli.”
She peeks through the window. “Yup. He was in last week. Aunt Rosa dragged me out to meet him.”
“Really? Nonna wouldn’t waste his time on me.”
“She told him I was Bensonhurst’s bella pasticciera.” She laughs. “As if the guy gives a shit whether his baker is beautiful.”
I watch him cross to the bakery counter. I turn to Carmella. “Is he here to see you?”
“Oh, heck no. I only met him that one time.”
Before I have time to talk myself out of it, I yank off my hairnet and untie my apron. Then I step through the double doors, my shoulders squared.
“Emmie?” Carmella calls after me.
From behind the bakery counter, Rosa scowls. “Get to work,” she hisses.
The truth hits me: she doesn’t want me to find love. But why? So she can continue to control me? So she will always have one person in this world to take care of her when she needs help?
Ignoring her narrowed eyes, I stroll down the aisle. The Cannoli Man stands at the register now, handing Daria his credit card. He’s wearing an expensive-looking suit, and his hair is perfectly cut. He glances over when I approach. My heart beats double time. I come up beside him and extend my hand.
“I’m Emilia Antonelli. I hear you’re a fan of my cannoli.”
His hand is warm in mine, his nails trimmed and buffed. “You’re the baker?” He spins around, as if expecting to see Carmella. “I thought …”
“Nope. It’s me. I’m kind of the family secret.”
His blue eyes sparkle. “The best-kept family secret, I suspect. It’s nice to meet you, Emilia Antonelli.” His gaze drops, giving me an agonizingly slow once-over. “I’m Drake,” he finally says, pulling a business card from his Hermès wallet. “Call me. I’ll trade you lunch at Luke’s Lobster for a dozen cannoli.”
He squeezes my hand and strides away. The door closes and I glance at the card. Drake Van Buren III. I smile and slip it into my pocket.
“What the hell?” Daria says.
I hear the swish of nylon stockings and turn to see Nonna marching toward me. Her face is pinched and pink, and she’s wheezing louder than ever. She shakes a finger at me. “You make me to be a liar! How could you do that? Now we have lost this man’s trust!”
“You’re right. I shouldn’t have done that.” I step closer to her. “I should have walked out of that kitchen last August, when he first asked to speak to the baker. But I was fully indoctrinated back then.”
Rosa bats a hand at me, dismissively. My blood pressure soars. Behind her shoulder, Mrs. Fortino and my father stand watching us. But right now, I’m too angry to care.
“For all of my life, I’ve let myself believe I wasn’t worthy of love. You—and generations of Fontanas—have created a myth, and I bought into it. The truth is, there is no curse. There never was.”
My hand moves to hide my lip, but I catch myself. I lower it and look Nonna straight in the face, my scar—and my courage—beautifully visible. “For years, this little line made me feel ugly and ashamed. But it’s a powerful reminder now. My spirit was never broken by you, Nonna, no matter how hard you tried.”
She gasps.
“Emilia!” my father says.
I lift a hand to silence him. “I will not be manipulated any longer. I’m finished here. I’m going back to Italy. I was hoping you’d join me, Nonna. Your sister loves you. She needs your forgiveness. She’s longing for one last reunion.”
Nonna sneers. “That woman is evil.”
Blood surges past my temples. “No. Your sister is kind and loving and forgiving.” I jab a finger at her. “Everything you’re not.”
As I march toward the back kitchen, I catch a glimpse of my father. His mouth is agape, like a cartoon character who has just been clobbered with a bowling pin.
“And you,” I say to him. “Are you going to spend the rest of your life kowtowing to your mother-in-law? Jesus, Dad, get a backbone!” Beside him, Mrs. Fortino stifles a smile. I drape an arm around her shoulders. Together, we face my dad. “You’ve got a chance at love,” I tell him. “Here’s a woman who’s sweet and generous. And she likes you. Take a chance, for God’s sake! Be the man that my mother fell in love with.”
His eyes mist. I draw him into a hug, trying to ignore Rosa’s frosty glare from down the aisle. “I love you, Dad,” I say, the long-unspoken words awkward on my tongue. And I realize how much I do.
“Love … you,” he whispers, barely loud enough to hear.
But I do hear. And I smile.
My chest heaves and I throw open the kitchen double doors. Carmella grabs me into a hug and spins me around. “Oh. My. God!” she bellows. “That was, like, a five-star Netflix performance! I never knew you were such a badass!”
I let out a breath. “Can you take over?”
“Yes. Absolutely. Take a break. You deserve one.”
“No. I’m leaving, Carmella.” I grab my phone from beneath the counter. “I’m not coming back.”
A slow smile blooms on her face. “It’s about time.”
“Know anyone who’d want to sublet Emville? Someone who’d be willing to cover the utility bills?”
Her eyes go wide and she nods. “Is Claws included in the deal?”
“Only until I figure out how to get him to Italy.” I pull Drake Van Buren the Third’s business card from my pocket and toss it in the trash.
“Wait!” Carmella cries. “What are you doing?” She rushes over and plucks the card from the trash bin. “Call him, Em. He wants to have lunch. You never know what might—”
“Not my type.” I take the card and tear it in two. “But it felt good, all the same.”
I trot down the back hallway. As I pass the cement-block break room, I catch sight of the souvenirs I bought for Daria and the kids, on the table where I placed them this morning. Daria’s box is open, the gloves splayed on the table.
I step into the room and lift the gloves, breathing in their rich leathery scent. My sister didn’t tell me she’d opened her gift. Or that she liked it. Or even say thank you. I slide my hands into the gloves. They feel heavenly. I turn from the room and nearly collide with Rosa.
“Such a disrespectful girl,” she says, her arms akimbo. “You go away, and return thinking you are better than us?”
I study her, my mind whirling. This angry woman who has belittled me since I was a c
hild, this bitter, broken caricature of a grandmother … and a sister.
“You break my heart, Emilia,” she continues. She lifts her apron to dab her dry eyes, the same dramatic stunt she’s used my entire life. “A disappointment, that is what you are.”
What kind of a grandmother would say such things? What kind of a grandmother would treat her granddaughter …? Rico’s words call to me. Meine schöne Enkelin. My beautiful granddaughter. Goose bumps rise on my arms. Am I off base? Might my hunch be wrong?
I step forward. My heart thunders. Without warning, I yank the apron from her face. “Enough, Rosa.”
Her head snaps to attention. Her scowl deepens.
“That’s right. Rosa.” I look her straight in the eyes, my chest heaving. “You are not my nonna. You never were.”
Her mouth goes slack. The color drains from her face. My premonition is confirmed, as clearly as if she’d confessed the words aloud. Her eyes narrow and fill with venom. I force myself to hold their gaze, knowing, without a doubt, I’ve uncovered the truth.
It was Rosa who stole my mother from Poppy, not the other way around.
Chapter 52
Emilia
I told my family there was no curse. But that’s not entirely true. The Fontana second-daughter myth was very much alive. But it was never about being single. Like all stereotypes, the real curse was the sense of hopelessness the myth created, the erosion of self-confidence, the failure to believe in one’s dreams … and oneself.
I race up the cement stoop and pound on the screen door. “Lucy! Open up. It’s me. I’m going back to Italy.”
The door swings open and I take a step back. My perky aunt Carol slumps against the doorframe. Her face is barren of makeup, her eyes red rimmed. My heart sinks. Lucy has told her family. And I wasn’t there for moral support.
“Aunt Carol,” I say, inching closer. “Are you okay?”
“No,” she says, pinching her nose. “I am not okay.”
I place a hand on her arm. “Please, Aunt Carol, try to—”
“For twenty-one years I have prayed,” she says, interrupting me. “But the curse is too strong. Luciana will never find love.” She gives me a sad little smile. “Nor will you.”
“Oh, hell,” I mumble aloud. “Why quit when I’m on a roll?” I plant my fists on my hips. “Lucy is not cursed. I swear. She’s found herself at last. I know, because I witnessed it firsthand. This might not be the relationship you envisioned. It might take a bit of getting used to. But your daughter is happy. She’s met someone special, someone she cares for. It’s beautiful, and it’s real, and it’s pure. And nobody—not you or Uncle Vinnie or that damn curse—can deny her of that.”
She begins to weep. I soften my voice. “The way I see it, you have two choices. You can be a super-cool mom and accept your wonderful daughter as is. Or—”
She finishes the sentence for me. “Or be a narrow-minded, miserable homophobe, as Lucy says, and lose her forever.”
I give a weak smile. “Yeah. That’s pretty much it.”
She drops her face into her hands. “She’s asking too much. I’m afraid it’s im—”
“Possible,” I say, interrupting. I sling an arm around her shoulders. “You’ll find life is much more interesting when you learn to say ‘It’s possible.’”
From behind my aunt, Lucy appears, a new phone in her hand. Aunt Carol scurries away, as if she cannot bear to be near her daughter. Lucy rolls her eyes and waves me inside. “Hey, Pops,” she says into the phone. “Guess who’s here?” She points the phone at me.
I smile into a bright yellow screen, imagining my nonna and nonno on their rooftop deck, not realizing that their phone is aimed at the afternoon sun. “Hello, Aunt Poppy.”
My stomach flutters with joy. I’m desperate to call her “Nonna,” to blurt out the truth and claim her as my grandmother. But I’ll wait for her to tell me, once we’re together again in Ravello.
“Hello, my sunshine!” Poppy’s face finally appears on the screen. She’s not on the rooftop. She’s sitting inside, on the sofa next to a lamp. Rather than her wig, her head is covered in a pink knitted cap with kitten ears. Did she really bring that hat to Italy? My smile fades. Something is wrong. She’s wearing her robe, and her lips aren’t painted.
“Are you okay?”
“Dandy,” she says, for my benefit, I’m certain. She tips her head. “Aren’t you supposed to be at work?”
I huddle beside Lucy so she can see both of us. “Lucy and I are coming back to Ravello.” I glance at Lucy. “Right?”
Lucy cranes her neck toward the kitchen, as if hoping her mom hears. “Damn right!”
Poppy claps her hands. “You’ve already found someone to take over your lease, Emilia?”
I lower myself onto the arm of the sofa. “Yes, and I’m ready to be out of here.”
She gives me a sympathetic smile. “Oh, dear. I had a hunch things might go awry once you found your voice.”
From behind her, Rico—my opa—steps into the room, balancing a cup of tea on a saucer. Where’s her wine? Or even coffee? Italians drink tea when they’re ill.
He bends down. “Guten Tag, Emilia.” His face is too close to the screen, and I can’t help but laugh.
“Guten Morgen—it’s still morning here, Rico. How are you?”
“I am fine,” he says in his gravelly German accent. “It is this one I am worried about. She woke with a migraine.”
I jump to my feet. “Lucy and I will be on the next flight.”
Poppy’s face returns to the screen. “My sister.” She looks me in the eyes, her voice urgent now. “Have you talked to her?”
My heart breaks. Poppy is still hoping for absolution from the one person who refuses to give it. Her clouded eyes plead with me, waiting, hoping to hear of her sister’s love.
I want nothing more than to tell her the truth. That she doesn’t need her sister’s love, that her sister is evil and manipulative and will never, ever make peace with her. Instead, I force a smile.
“Yes,” I say. “She wants me to tell you …” I try to steady my quivering voice. “She regrets what happened with the two of you.”
“She forgives me?”
I nod, barely able to produce the words that she longs to hear. “All is forgiven,” I whisper.
She squeezes shut her eyes, and a soft moan escapes her.
“Your sister loves you,” I say.
She lowers her head and a tear spills from the tip of her nose. Rico comes up beside her. “What did I tell you?” he says, dabbing her cheek. “You are loved. You are forgiven.” He looks at me through the screen. “Thank you, Emilia. Finally, she can rest.”
Maybe I shouldn’t have lied, but I like to think that somewhere inside Rosa’s rusty heart, she would want her dying sister to hear the words she’s too terrified to voice.
My open suitcase hunkers on my bedroom floor. I add one more sweater before snapping it shut. I’m pulling cat treats from the cabinet when I hear a knock at my door.
“It’s no use, Dad,” I call, dropping fish-shaped kibbles onto the window seat. “I don’t care what you say. I’m finished at the store. I’m going back to Italy, where I belong.”
“Emmie, it’s me. Open the door.”
Daria? I turn. What’s she doing here? I throw open the door and step back, my arms crossed over my chest. “You’re here for your gloves, I presume?”
My sister, who never cries, puts a hand over her mouth. I step forward.
“Dar? Are you okay?”
She closes her eyes and shakes her head.
All my anger vanishes. I take her by the arms. “Come in,” I say, leading her to my kitchen table. “Sit down. Can I get you something? Water? Coffee?”
“No. Stop. Just … listen to me.” Her voice is choked. “I am a bitch, Emmie. That’s … what I came to tell you.”
The old me would have protested. I would have spent thirty minutes reassuring my sister that she is a doll, an angel, a ray of
sunlight.
“Yes,” the new me says. “You have been a bitch. For about ten years, if you want to quantify it.”
“More like eleven.”
She’s right. “You changed when I went off to college. You resented me. And you lied to me all those years. You actually believed in the curse.”
“No, Emmie.”
“My entire childhood, you claimed you didn’t believe, but you really did.”
“That’s not true.”
“You were feeding me a line of bullshit. You’ve been lying to me since—”
“I wasn’t lying! I didn’t believe the curse!” Her voice bellows, and the little vein in her forehead bulges. She takes a deep breath. “Not back then. Not when we were girls.”
“So what changed?”
“Nothing.” Her eyes dart to the wall.
I pound my fist on the table, startling us both. “What?”
“It changed when you met Liam!” She props her elbows on the table and massages her temples.
I wait, hoping she’ll fit the missing piece into the puzzle that’s been lying unfinished for years.
“Nonna was furious when she found out you had a boyfriend at Barnard. She told me the curse would never allow you to love.”
I’m tempted to blurt out the truth, to expose Nonna as the impostor she is. But Rosa is the only mother figure my sister has known. If, or when, I choose to tell Daria, the conversation needs to be handled with sensitivity, and right now, I don’t have it in me. “She’s crazy,” I say.
“That’s what I told her. But she insisted the relationship would end badly. And then winter break rolled around and I let you borrow my Jeep. Nonna was livid that you’d gone to Liam’s for New Year’s Eve, and royally pissed at me for being your accomplice. She paced the floor in the back kitchen, clutching her rosary beads. She swore something bad would happen, the curse would never allow you to love.”
I picture Liam’s lifeless body. Goose bumps pepper my arms.
“We got into a huge fight. I told her the curse was bullshit.” She looks up at the ceiling and takes a deep breath. “And then you called me from Delaware, hysterical, saying you’d been in an accident.” She shakes her head and looks away.
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