One Italian Summer - Lori Nelson Spielman Page 0,4

counter, “Luce seems to like her new job.”

“Waiting tables in that slinky getup?” He shakes his head. “Tell me, Emilia, why would a smart girl like Luciana choose to work at this place—Rudy’s?”

“Rulli’s,” I say. “It’s the hottest bar in town.”

“Something wrong with Homestretch? Irene and Matilde have worked there for years—wearing respectable blouses and sensible shoes, mind you.”

My great-uncle, who emigrated from Italy a year after my nonna and great-aunt Poppy, is a traditionalist. The Homestretch was already two decades old when Dolphie arrived in Bensonhurst at the age of twenty-one. Fifty-seven years later, he’s still loyal to the old pub.

“Uncle Dolphie,” I say, “sometimes new is good.”

He lifts his chin. “New cheese? No. New wine? No. New art? No.” He takes my face in his hands. “Dolce nipotina mia, new is not good. Old is good. And you, of all people, should understand.” He lifts my thick ponytail. “We have kept this same haircut for what? Twenty years now? And these glasses, they are the same spectacles you wore in your senior photograph, sì?”

“I wish,” I say. “My prescription has changed three times.” I whip off my small wire-rimmed glasses and bend them backward. “But luckily, these frames are pretty much indestructible, just like the optician claimed.”

“Good for you, cara mia,” my uncle says. “Why change the tires if they are still rolling, sì?”

“Exactly.” I plant my glasses on my face and kiss his cheek. “See you tomorrow with another pastry delivery.”

“Grazie,” he says. He shuffles over to the cash register. “Do not forget la posta.” As he lifts my mail, a purple envelope spills from the bundle, one I somehow missed earlier. He captures it beneath his suede Hush Puppy.

“A letter,” he says, staring down at it. “The real kind.”

I squat down to retrieve the mysterious envelope, but my uncle’s foot doesn’t budge. He bends down for a closer inspection. His eyes narrow. Then they widen. Finally, they cloud. He lifts his trembling fingers to his lips.

The hand-addressed envelope stares up at us, postmarked Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. My smile vanishes and I freeze. In flamboyant script, her name and address are splashed in the upper left corner. Poppy Fontana. Nonna and Uncle Dolphie’s estranged sister, Paolina. The enigmatic great-aunt who has always fascinated me from afar. The curious woman Nonna insists is un problema—trouble. The only living relative I’m forbidden to see.

Chapter 3

Emilia

I clutch my satchel protectively, as if it holds a concealed weapon rather than a simple letter, and force myself to slow down when I reach the sidewalk. Nonna Rosa stands at her bay window, peering past the heavy damask curtains. Though her eyes are small, Nonna boasts of 20/20 vision, something that comes in handy for a woman who, I’m convinced, can see around corners. I wave, hoping to appear nonchalant. With her typical flush of annoyance, she turns away. It’s horrible for me to say, but I often wish she were the one who lived in the cozy space beneath the eaves. Or even in my dad’s apartment on the second floor. That way she wouldn’t hear my steps each time I cross the porch; she wouldn’t be able to peek from the bay window and keep tabs on me, a woman of twenty-nine. But I’m not giving her enough credit. My nonna would naturally find a different window from which to spy.

I step through the beveled glass door and cross the terrazzo-tiled foyer, peeking into my satchel to make sure it’s still there. A rebellious thrill shimmies up my spine.

I take the walnut stairs two at a time and throw open the unlocked door to my apartment. My tiny kitchen—basically a trio of cupboards and a small fridge covered in photos of my nieces—is dappled with afternoon sunlight. I dump the contents of my satchel onto the counter and snap up Aunt Poppy’s letter.

Savoring the anticipation, I study the purple envelope, trying to guess the occasion. It’s not my birthday. Christmas is four months away. My great-aunt Poppy—a woman I’ve met only once but who never misses a holiday—is getting older, after all, and must be confused.

Claws, my long-haired tuxedo cat, rounds the corner. I scoop him up and kiss his adorable grumpy face. “Shall we see what Aunt Poppy has to say? You must promise not to tell Nonna.”

I position him over my shoulder and slash a finger through the seal. My heart thrums as I remove a sheet of linen stationery the color of lime sorbet. I smile at Poppy’s purple