One Italian Summer - Lori Nelson Spielman Page 0,39

you.” I take hold of her hand. “But Poppy’s right. This Fontana curse is nothing more than a self-fulfilling prophecy, an old-world myth that’s been perpetuated for years, devaluing us single women, making us feel subordinate. And you’re just living up to your expectations.”

Lucy scowls and pulls her hand from mine. “I haven’t a fucking clue what you just said. All I know is that for generations, second daughters have been screwed.”

“Or have not been screwed, as the case may be.”

She grins. “Well, what do you know? The girl made a funny.”

The waiter arrives with our second liter. Lucy goes to fill my glass, and I cover the rim with my hand. She shoots me a look.

“C’mon, Em. Can you, like, try to be cool for one afternoon?”

Like a wimpy teen caving to peer pressure, I remove my hand, allowing her to fill my glass.

“I’m sorry I got your hopes up, Luce. It’s obvious Poppy only wants to talk about Rico.”

“Right?” Lucy says. “It’s like we’re her captive audience. We’re only here so she can relive the one and only love the old coot’s ever had—and now we learn he was a player.”

“It’s so sad. He could be dead for all we know.”

“Sad? It’s pathetic. And manipulative.” Lucy leans in. “She bribed us, Em. She lied to us. And we fell for it. How friggin’ stupid were we? This trip is a total waste.”

“Not necessarily.” I run a finger over the rim of my glass. “Uncle Dolphie thought maybe we could help reunite Poppy and Nonna.”

Lucy chokes. “Oh, please! Like that’s going to happen. Coming here was a huge mistake.”

“She promised to tell me about my mom.”

“Well, that’s not happening, either. Sorry, Em, but think about it. Poppy left Bensonhurst in the sixties. Your mom was just a baby. Sure, she visited on holidays, but that’s, what—maybe sixty days with your mom, total? She doesn’t know shit.”

I rub my temples. I risked my family, my job, my life for this trip. My aunt lied. We’ve been set up.

I can’t say I wasn’t warned. Nonna’s probably back home right now, ranting to Daria about how I betrayed her. My stomach churns. For the first time, I understand why Nonna has nothing to do with her sister.

“She sounded so sincere.”

Lucy shakes her head. “They always do.”

Forty minutes later, Lucy drains the last drop from the carafe and I collect the bill.

“So much for the all-expenses-paid trip.” Lucy’s words slur, like a record playing at the wrong speed.

I fish into my purse for my wallet. “It’s fine. I’ve got it.”

“Stuck with the bill and stuck here for eight days.” She stares at me with glassy eyes, and then her face changes shape. “Unless we leave.”

“Yeah, right.”

“Seriously. She knows her way around Italy. She doesn’t need us. She’s using us. I say we head back to the hotel and pack our bags.”

“That’s ridiculous. We’ve come all this way. We’re in Italy.”

“Yup.” She rises, and her body sways. “And now we can say we’ve been here.” She staggers toward the door. I grab my purse and follow.

“You’re drunk, Luce. The trip will get better. We haven’t even seen anything.”

Lucy steps into the street and gazes in both directions. “Old buildings. Italian restaurants. Italian bakeries. Looks pretty much like Bensonhurst.”

Nonna was right. This was a mistake. But leaving isn’t an option. I know this. Still, I can almost understand Lucy’s drunken stance. The floating city that delighted me this morning has lost its magic.

Lucy marches down the street and I struggle to keep pace with her. Twenty minutes later, we’ve miraculously found our way back to Ca’ Sagredo Hotel. The filmy white curtains billow when we let ourselves into the room.

“I thought she wanted a nap,” Lucy says, pointing to the balcony. Poppy stands with her hands on the balustrade, staring out at the canal, unaware that we’re watching her. She’s changed into a loose caftan, and her silver-threaded hair blows in the breeze.

Lucy charges into the room and grabs her suitcase. She throws open drawers and begins stuffing clothes into her bag. But I stand transfixed by the slip of a figure on the balcony, the tiny woman in the floral dress standing against a blue-gray sky.

“Get packing,” Lucy whispers. “We’ll call her from the airport. Or at least, you will. Someone poached my phone.”

“I’m not leaving,” I say. “She’s lonely. Look at her, Luce.”

Lucy rises. Together, we secretly watch our aunt as she savors the view of Venice. She turns in profile and smooths