The Star-Crossed Sisters of Tuscany by Lori Nelson Spielman

Author:Lori Nelson Spielman [Spielman, Lori Nelson]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group
Published: 2020-11-17T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 29

Emilia

Fading sunlight dapples our tiny room, and Lucy softly snores on the bed beside mine. Smells from the kitchen drift up the old staircase. I lower my notebook, grab my phone from the charger, and rise.

I find Gabe at the kitchen island, his shirtsleeves rolled up as he chops tomatoes. It’s probably my imagination, but his face seems to brighten when he sees me.

“There you are.” His full lips part, and I’d bet my life he was voted “best smile” in his senior class. He lifts a glass filled with a pretty red liquid. “Can I interest you in an aperitif?”

A cocktail now? Didn’t we just have wine with lunch? “I’d love one!” I say.

“I shall make you our famous Negroni, created right here in Tuscany by Count Camillo Negroni, one hundred years ago.”

“Perfect.” I perch on a barstool and try not to stare at his tanned forearms, with just the perfect smattering of dark hair, as he mixes gin and Campari.

“Did you enjoy a little siesta?” he asks, adding a jigger of sweet vermouth.

“I’m not much of a napper.”

“Nor am I. It used to frustrate my nanny.”

“You had a nanny?”

He lowers his gaze while he slices an orange, and an errant lock of dark hair spills onto his forehead. “My father was a successful jeweler. He and my mother traveled a great deal. My sister and I were left at home with any number of nannies. I describe my childhood as calm, cool, and neglected.” He gives a sardonic laugh. “I often wondered why they even had children.”

Despite his effort to sound lighthearted, there’s an aching undercurrent in his tone. At once, I feel a certain kinship with this man who grew up without his mother, like me.

“I’m sorry. You must have been lonely.”

He carries the drinks to my side of the counter and takes the stool beside mine. “You should not feel sorry for me. Look around. I am living in paradise. I could not have bought this inn without my inheritance.” He raises his glass. “Salute.”

I sip my drink and mentally bombard him with questions. Are you married? Do you have children? How do your lips taste? “Delicious,” I say—and quickly point to my Negroni.

“How about you, Emilia? You had a happy childhood, sì?”

“Yes,” I say, reflexively. But today, I take a moment to examine it. “My mother died when I was two. I have a recurring memory of her.” I look out the kitchen window, where the setting sun ignites the fields in orange and gold. “She was at the stove, stirring something. I remember her eyes, gazing down on me with pure kindness. She set down the spoon and scooped me into her arms and hugged me so tightly I could feel her heart beating against mine, as if we were one person, not two.” I look up and shake my head. “Of course it’s probably not a real memory at all.”

“But it is real, Emilia.” He’s turned to me now, his face so close that I can see a tiny scar on his jaw.

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