stopped reading. He studies me with knit brows. “I remember your face, those eyes.” He vaguely lifts his hand toward my face. “I have thought about it many times. I believe we met at Giardini Caffè? Am I right?”
I shake my head. “Never heard of it.”
His eyes twinkle. “Perhaps you would allow me to take you to dinner sometime, so we can uncover this mystery?”
I get it. You’re incredibly charming, and lines like this probably work on many an unsuspecting signorina. But let’s cut the bullshit.
“Shall we sign the papers?” I say, pulling a pen from my purse.
I roll my suitcase up the cobblestone walk, greeting a couple as they pass. Ravello is cast in bronze now, and the thrashing sea croons in the distance. Poppy’s old Welsh word hiraeth springs to mind. She predicted one day I’d understand its meaning, and she was right. It feels as if this seaside town, half the world away from the city where I was raised, is the home I’ve been yearning for my entire life.
I stop when I reach the pink stucco building. A dim light shines in the old bakery, and I imagine my young nonna inside, some sixty years ago, making bread before sunrise. A faded sign sits in a clouded window, marking the business Affittasi—For Lease.
I gaze through the large window, taking in the tin ceiling, the wall of ovens, the uneven plaster walls. Instead of a bakery I see the perfect bookstore, a cozy shop with shelves up and down the center, and a small reading area in the back.
My mind wanders as I move around back. Does Ravello need a bookstore?
The hum of the piazza quiets when I step into the wonderfully rebellious courtyard, overgrown with vines and tangled roses. A café table and a pair of chairs are housed beneath the sprawling lemon tree—the perfect spot for writing.
I catch sight of the staircase and my smile fades. Will I ever climb these steps without thinking of my pregnant nonna Poppy, collapsed and near death? What strength she had, what resilience and grace. Just like my scar of courage, these steps will remind me that I can endure anything, that nothing is impossible. After all, I am Poppy Fontana’s granddaughter.
I fit the key into the lock. The old wooden door creaks when I open it. I step into Rico and Poppy’s old apartment—my new home in Ravello, the place I’ll launch memories and write my next novel. Yes, it’s possible.
I flip on a light switch. The colorful poppy painting comes to life, along with a new piece of art, my favorite. I move into the living room, my eyes already misty. Hung in a thick, contemporary frame, it’s the photo Lucy snapped almost a year ago in the hospital courtyard. Printed in a cool black-and-white, giving it an artsy vibe, the picture covers much of the wall. I’m sandwiched between my grandparents, laughing, as Poppy kisses my cheek and Rico gazes at me with a tenderness I only now understand.
I travel from room to room, giggling, saying prayers of thanks to my nonna and opa. The place is gorgeous. How did they know this is where I was meant to be planted?
I spot a note on the kitchen counter, written in Italian.
Welcome home, Emilia. Best wishes settling in. I trust you will love this place as much as your nonna and I did. Remember us at dusk, when you take a glass of wine to the rooftop and bid farewell to the sun, before it ducks beneath the sea.
Elene and Jan send their best wishes. They would love to see you, once you are settled. We will all have dinner when I visit next month. Until then …
All my love,
Opa
P.S. I hope the signing with the lawyer went well. Mr. De Luca has been a godsend to us during this transaction.
My eyes fix on the Italian word for “lawyer.” The hairs on my arms stand erect.
At once, I remember.
I glance at my watch. It’s almost seven. Is he still there, reading his novel perhaps?
A memory finds me. It’s time we found you someone … I’m thinking someone cerebral. A dreamer … a lover of books. My arms erupt in gooseflesh, and I know for certain my nonna has led me here, to this moment.
I fumble through my paperwork. Finally, I find his number. I lift my phone. My heart batters in my chest. He answers on the second ring.
“Nico De Luca.”
“I remember now.” A smile overtakes my face. “I called you an avocado.”
He is silent for a moment, and then deep, rich laughter pours over me. “Yes! That is right! It wasn’t Giardini Caffè. We were in front of Piacenti’s Bakery.”
I smile as I meander down the hall. “I think you were wearing sunglasses that day. And a hat, too, if I’m not mistaken.”
“If you tell me I was without a beard, you are completely forgiven.”
I laugh. “The beard! That’s what threw me off!” I step into Poppy and Rico’s—my—bedroom. In the distance, the bells of the Ravello Cathedral chime. I pull back the gauzy white curtain and gaze across the piazza at the beautiful church, aglow with the last rays of sunlight. “I can’t believe you remembered me, after all that time.”
“It was an unusual encounter. You were like an angel who appeared out of nowhere, reminding me of my dream.”
“You had a plan for the bakery,” I say, recalling our conversation.
“Sì. And now you own that building.”
I freeze. “I do? I own this entire building? Including the bakery?”
“Sì. I explained this before you signed.”
My chest floods with gratitude and excitement … and anxiety.
“So I need to find a tenant? I don’t know the first thing about commercial real estate.”
“Do not worry. My father can help you. Or my uncle.” He pauses, and when he speaks again, his voice is tinged with hope, and trepidation, and seduction. “Or perhaps you will choose me?”
My breath catches. I know, somewhere in my heart, that his simple question comes loaded with possibilities. But I am happy now. I own this beautiful pied-à-terre, in a place that feels like home. I have a wonderful opa, and my sister’s love again, along with my cousins’, Lucy and Carmella. Matt Cusumano is my future cousin-in-law—or would that be my second-cousin-in-law? Whatever the title, he’s my best friend again. And I have a new family in Germany, too, one I’m excited to meet. And on top of everything, I’m a soon-to-be published author. Do I dare risk the happiness, the genuine joy I feel now, for the possibility of love … and heartbreak?
His offer stretches between us like a bridge, waiting to be crossed … or circumvented. I can almost see my nonna Poppy, feel her soft hand enfolded in mine. If love comes to you, if you find it within your grasp, promise me you’ll pluck it from the vine and give it a good lookingover, won’t you?
“I am sorry, Emilia,” Nico says. “I did not mean to be so forward.”
I let go of the curtain and turn back to the room. The day’s final shaft of sunlight follows me, landing on a scratch etched above the door. I step closer, squinting up at it. It’s been painted over, but I make out one letter … and then another. Shivers blanket me. A word comes into focus, then an entire sentence.
We chose love.
PF & EK
“I won’t need your father,” I say. “Or your uncle.” I close my eyes, gathering all my courage. “I choose you.”