One Italian Summer - Lori Nelson Spielman Page 0,67

for evening’s cover. I was flirting with him. How could I not have known?

“Nonsense!” Poppy says. “Go get them. Remind her that age trumps beauty.”

Gabe shakes his head and laughs. “You are as stubborn as ever, Poppy.” He rises and travels down a flagstone path to a tiny cottage.

A moment later he returns, his arm draped around a twenty-something woman with a short, funky haircut, wearing high-waisted jeans and a sleeveless blouse. Two curly-haired boys let go of her hand, and the oldest runs to Poppy.

Poppy grabs the boy in a hug.

“Franco! Look how you’ve grown.”

“I am four and a half,” Franco says.

“A boy who is almost five deserves a lucky coin.” A shiny penny seems to appear from out of nowhere. Poppy tucks it into Franco’s pocket.

“Dante is only two,” he says. “He has to wait for his coin, right, Mamma?”

“Sì, Franco,” his mother says, rubbing the little one’s head.

Poppy opens her arms. “My beautiful Sofia!” She kisses both the woman’s cheeks, then looks down at the younger boy, who’s clutching his mother’s leg, his thumb in his mouth.

“Hello, my friend.” She goes to lift him, but can’t get him off the ground. She’s too weak. My heart breaks. I look away, hoping to spare Poppy her dignity.

“Meet Sofia,” Gabe says.

Lucy reaches out a hand. “Nice to meet you, Sofie, I mean Sofia.”

Sofia laughs. “I like this name, Sofie. You may use it, if you like.”

“Cool.” Lucy leans in to examine Sofia’s bare upper arm, where a wreath of roses forms the feminist symbol of Venus. “Nice tat.”

“Grazie,” Sofia says and lightly touches the symbol. “A reminder that females are strong and capable, something women in America accept naturally.”

“Not all of us, I’m afraid.” Lucy’s introspection surprises me. Then she jabs me in the ribs. “Meet my cousin Emmie, a perfect example of a timid American woman.”

“Thanks, Luce,” I say, and roll my eyes. I take Sofia’s hand in mine, my head still trying to come to terms with my silly heart. Of course Gabriele is married. Of course his wife’s a natural beauty, with big dark eyes and a pretty smile. And she’s young. And nice. Damn her. “It’s lovely to meet you. Your inn is beautiful.”

She smiles. “My brother’s inn. But thank you.”

“Brother?” The word charges from my mouth before I have time to censor it. Over Sofia’s shoulder, I see Gabe’s eyes twinkle with humor. I turn to Sofia. “So you—you’re Gabe’s sister?”

She nods.

“Shall we eat?” Gabe says and winks at me again.

My heart grows three sizes. Whatever made me think winks were creepy?

Gabe lights a fire in the stone pit and the night becomes golden. The seven of us gather at the long wooden table for our antipasto. Lucy sits between Franco and Dante, teasing them by stealing their noses. They squeal each time she displays their nose—her thumb caught between her fingers.

“Do it again!” Franco insists.

Sofia pats his head. “Enough, little man. Let Lucy eat in peace.”

Gabe clears the dishes and returns with steaming bowls of homemade ribollita, a delicious Tuscan soup made with beans and bread and fresh vegetables. More wine is poured. Voices overlap. Stars collect in the sky. The breeze carries the scent of grapes and lavender and smoke from the fire. I soak in the sweet scene, knowing this day … this moment … is one I shall re-create many times, both in memory and on paper.

A star slips from the sky. “Make a wish!” Poppy cries. “Ask for it, whatever it is your heart desires.”

Tonight, my cousin doesn’t argue. She lifts her face to the sky and closes her eyes.

I make my wish for Poppy and Rico. And then, for the first time, I make a wish for myself, too.

Later, when we’re sipping sweet iced wine, I whisper to Lucy in the moonlight, “What did you wish for, on the falling star?”

She pretends not to hear.

Chapter 30

Emilia

Day Five

Trespiano

I wake Friday morning, surprised to see Lucy pulling a shirt over her head. She looks especially pretty this morning, with her hair gathered in one of my clips. Her face, barren of makeup, shines.

“You’re up early,” I say.

“Why waste the day?”

She disappears into the tiny bathroom and I burrow beneath the covers, expecting she’ll spend the next thirty minutes applying makeup. I’m stunned when she slips from the room two minutes later with only a touch of gloss on her lips, smelling of toothpaste.

“See you downstairs,” she says. Just before the door closes, she pokes her head into the room. “And