The Star-Crossed Sisters of Tuscany by Lori Nelson Spielman EPUB & PDF – eBook Details Online
- Status: Available for Free Download
- Authors: Lori Nelson Spielman
- Language: English
- Genre: Sibling Fiction
- Format: PDF / EPUB
- Size: 2 MB
- Price: Free
Emilia
Present Day
Brooklyn
Seventy-two cannoli shells cool on a baking rack in front of me. I
squeeze juice from diced maraschino cherries and carefully fold them into a
mixture of cream and ricotta cheese and powdered sugar. Through a cloudy
rectangular window in the back kitchen, I peer into the store. Lucchesi
Bakery and Delicatessen is quiet this morning, typical for a Tuesday. My
grandmother, Nonna Rosa Fontana Lucchesi, stands behind the deli counter,
rearranging the olives, stirring stainless steel containers of roasted peppers
and feta cheeses. My father pushes through the double doors, balancing a tray
heaped with sliced prosciutto. With tongs, he transfers it into the refrigerated
meat case, creating a stack between the pancetta and capicola.
At the front of the store, behind the cash register, my older sister, Daria,
rests her backside against the candy counter, her thumbs tapping her phone.
No doubt she’s texting one of her girlfriends, probably complaining about
Donnie or the girls. Dean Martin’s “That’s Amore” streams through the
speakers—a final reminder of my late grandfather, who insisted Italian music
created an aura of authenticity in his bakery and delicatessen—never mind
that this one’s an American song sung by an American singer. And I have
nothing against my deceased grandfather’s musical taste except that our
entire repertoire of Italian music spans thirty-three songs. Thirty-three songs I
can—and sometimes do—sing, word for word, in my sleep.
I turn my attention to the cannoli, piping cream into the six dozen hollow
shells. Soon, the music fades, the smell of pastry vanishes. I’m far away, in
Somerset, England, lost in my story . . .
She waits on the Clevedon Pier, gazing out to sea, where the setting
sun glitters upon the rippling waters. A voice calls. She spins around,
hoping to find her lover. But there, lurking in the shadows, her ex—
I jump when the bell on the wall beside me chimes. I hitch up my glasses
and peer through the window.
It’s Mrs. Fortino, bearing a bouquet of orange and yellow gerbera daisies.
Her silver hair is pulled into a sleek chignon, and a pair of beige slacks shows
off her slim figure. From behind the meat counter, my father straightens to
his full five-foot, ten-inch frame and sucks in the belly protruding from his
apron. Nonna watches, her face puckered, as if she’s just downed a shot of
vinegar.
“Buongiorno, Rosa,” Mrs. Fortino chirps as she strides past the deli
counter.
Nonna turns away, muttering, “Sgualdrina,” the Italian word for floozy.
Mrs. Fortino makes her way to the mirror, as she always does, before
approaching my father’s meat counter. The mirror doubles as a window,
which means that unbeknownst to her, Mrs. Fortino is gazing into the same
window I’m peering out of from the kitchen. I step back while she checks her
lipstick—the same shade of pink as her blouse—and smooths her hair.
Satisfied, she wheels around to where my dad stands behind the meat
counter.
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