Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Chapter 1
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, "Puttana," 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.
"For you, Leo." She smiles and holds the daisies in front of her.
My grandmother gives a little huff, like a territorial goose, hissing at anyone who so much as glances at her baby gosling. Never mind that the "gosling" is her sixty-six-year-old son-in-law who's been widowed for almost three decades.
My balding father takes the daisies, his cheeks flaming. He thanks Mrs. Fortino, as he does every week, and sneaks a peek at my nonna. Nonna stirs the marinated mushrooms, making believe she's paying no attention whatsoever.
"Have a nice day, Leo," Mrs. Fortino says and gives him a pretty little wave.
"Same to you, Virginia." My father's hand searches for a vase beneath the counter, but his eyes follow Mrs. Fortino down the aisle. My heart aches for them both.
The bell chimes again and a tall man saunters into the store. It's the guy who came in last week and bought a dozen of my cannoli, the elegant stranger who looks like he belongs in Beverly Hills, not Brooklyn. He's talking to my dad and Nonna. I huddle near the door, catching snippets of their conversation.
"Hands down, best cannoli in New York."
A tiny chirp of laughter escapes me. I tip my head closer to the wall.
"I took a dozen to a meeting last week. My team devoured them. I've become the most popular account manager at Morgan Stanley."
"This is what we like to hear," my father says. "Lucchesi Bakery and Delicatessen has been around since 1959. Everything is homemade."
"Really? Any chance I can thank the baker personally?"
I straighten. In the past decade, not one person has asked to meet me, let alone thank me.
"Rosa," my father says to Nonna. "Could you get Emilia, please?"
"Oh, my god," I whisper. I yank the net from my hair, releasing a thick brown ponytail that I instantly regret not washing this morning. My hands fumble as I untie my apron and straighten my glasses. Instinctively, I put a finger to my bottom lip.
The scar, no thicker than a strand of thread, is smooth after nearly two decades, and faded to a pale shade of blue. But it's there, just below my lip. I know it's there.
The stainless double doors push open and Nonna Rosa appears, her short, stout frame intimidating and officious. "One box of cannoli," she says, her lips tight. "Presto."
"Si“, Nonna. Good thinking." I grab three freshly filled cannoli and slip them into a box. As I head for the double doors, she grabs the box from my hands.
"Get back to work. You have orders to fill."
"But, Nonna, he-"
"He is a busy man," she says. "No reason to waste his time." She disappears from the kitchen.
I stare after her, my mouth agape, until the swinging doors slow to a stop. "I am sorry," I hear her announce. "The baker has left early today."
I rear back. "What the hell?" I didn't expect romance. I know better than that. I simply wanted to hear someone gush about my pastries. How dare Nonna rob me of that!
Through the back-kitchen window, I watch the man chat with Daria as he pays for a bottle of Bravazzi Italian soda. He lifts the little white box that I—Nonna—gave him, and I get the feeling he's praising my cannoli again.
That's it. I don't care what Nonna says, or how narcissistic it seems, I'm going out there.
Just as I remove my apron, my sister's eyes dart to the window. She can't see me, but I can tell she knows I'm watching. Our eyes meet. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, she shakes her head no.
I step back, the breath knocked from me. I lean against the wall and close my eyes. She's only trying to protect me from Nonna's wrath. I'm the second-born Fontana daughter. Why would Nonna waste this decent, cannoli-loving man's time on me, a woman my entire family is certain will never find love?
Chapter 2
Emilia
It's a four-block walk from the store on Twentieth Avenue to my tiny third-floor apartment on Seventy-Second Street, which I call Emville. As usual, I'm clutching a bag of pastries today. The late August sun has softened, and the breeze carries the first hint of summer's end.
Located on its southern edge, Bensonhurst is Brooklyn's stepchild—a modest neighborhood wedged between the more gentrified communities of Coney Island and Bay Ridge. As a kid, I dreamed of leaving, setting out for somewhere more glamorous than this tired ethnic community. But Bensonhurst-the place where my grandparents, along with thousands of other Italians, settled in the twentieth century—is home. It was once called the Little Italy of Brooklyn. They actually filmed the movie Saturday Night Fever on our sidewalks. Today, things have changed. For every Italian shop or restaurant, you'll find a Russian bakery, a Jewish deli, or a Chinese restaurant—additions my nonna calls invadente—intrusive.
I spy our old brick row house—the only house I've ever known. While my parents honeymooned in Niagara Falls back in the 1980s, Nonna Rosa and Nonno Alberto moved all of their belongings down to the first level, allowing my parents to make their home on the second floor. My dad has lived there ever since. I wonder sometimes what my father, who was over a decade older than my mother, thought of his in-laws' arrangement. Did he have any choice? Was my mother just as strong willed as her mother, my nonna Rosa?
I have only faint memories of Josephina Fontana Lucchesi Antonelli, standing at the stove, smiling and telling me stories while she stirred bubbling pots that smelled of apples and cinnamon. But Daria says it's my imagination, and she's probably right. Daria was four and I was only two when our mother died from acute myelogenous leukemia—what I've since learned is the deadliest form of the disease. My memory surely was of her mother, my nonna Rosa, at the stove. But the smiling storyteller doesn't jibe with the reality of my surly nonna, the woman who, for as long as I can remember, has seemed perpetually irritated with me. And why wouldn't she be? Her daughter's illness coincided perfectly with her pregnancy with me.
"Afternoon, Emmie." Mr. Copetti, dressed in his blue and gray uniform, stops before turning up the sidewalk. "Want your mail now, or should I put it in your box?"
I trot over to him. "I'll take the Publishers Clearing House winner's notification. You keep the bills."
He chuckles and sorts through his canvas bag, then hands me a taco-like bundle, a glossy flyer serving as its shell.
"Just what I was hoping for," I say, giving it a cursory glance. "Credit card applications and Key Food coupons I'll never remember to use."
He smiles and lifts a hand. "Have a nice day, Emmie."
"You, too, Mr. Copetti."
I move next door to another brick building, this one beige, and step into the entryway. Patrizia Ciofi belts out an aria from La Traviata. I peer through the glass door. Despite the opera thundering from his 1990s CD player—the newest item in his shop—Uncle Dolphie is sound asleep in one of his barber chairs. Strangely, it's the jingling of the bells when I open the door that always startles him. I pull the handle and, as expected, he jumps to life, swiping at the drool on his chin and straightening his glasses.
"Emilia!" he cries, with such gusto you'd swear he hadn't seen me in weeks. My uncle is more cute than handsome, with a head full of downy white curls and cheeks so full you'd swear he'd just had his wisdom teeth extracted. He's wearing his usual barber smock, solid black with three diagonal snaps on the right collar, and Dolphie embroidered on the pocket.
"Hi, Uncle Dolphie," I shout over the music. The younger brother of Nonna Rosa, Dolphie is technically my great-uncle. But Fontanas don't bother with these kinds of distinctions. I hold out the bag to him. "Pistachio biscotti and a slice of panforte today."
"Grazie." He teeters as he snags the bag, and I resist the urge to steady him. At age seventy-eight, my uncle is still a proud man. "Shall I get a knife?" he asks.
I give my usual reply. "It's all yours, thanks."
He makes his way over to his CD player, perched on the ledge of a mirror. With a hand peppered in age spots, he lowers the volume. The opera quiets. I set my mail beside the cash register and step over to an old metal cart, littered with magazines and advertising leaflets, and pour myself a cup of coffee with cream.
We sit side by side in the empty barber chairs. His rectangular wire-framed glasses, similar to mine but twice as large, slide down his nose as he eats his treat.
"Busy day?" I ask.
"Si“," he says, though the tiny shop is empty, as always. "Extremely."
When I was a little girl, my uncle would have three men waiting for cuts, another for a hot shave, and two more drinking grappa and playing Scopa in the back room. Dolphie's barbershop was the neighborhood hub, the place to come for opera and boisterous debate and local gossip. But these days, the shop is as vacant as a telephone booth. I guess I can't blame anyone for no longer trusting a shaky old man to hold a razor to his neck.
"Your cousin Luciana scheduled a haircut today. I promised to fit her in." He glances at his watch. "She is late, as usual."
"She's probably tied up at work," I say, instantly regretting my choice of words. My impetuous cousin Lucy—second cousin, if I were being precise—makes no pretense of her active "social life." This, together with the fact that her boyfriend du jour is her coworker, makes it entirely possible that Lucy really is tied up at work. "How's Aunt Ethel?" I say, changing the subject.
Uncle Dolphie raises his brows. "Last night she saw her sister. She's always happy when she sees Adriana." He chuckles and dabs his mouth with his napkin. "If only I could get that woman to appear more often."
My aunt Ethel and uncle Dolphie live above the barbershop in a two-bedroom apartment my aunt has always believed is haunted. Sweet Ethel claims she sees the ghosts of her relatives from the old country, which, I suspect, is one of the reasons my uncle continues to keep regular hours at the empty barbershop. Everyone needs an escape, I suppose. I used to ask my aunt if she ever saw my mother. She always said no. A few years ago, I finally stopped asking.
Uncle Dolphie drops one last bite into his mouth and brushes the crumbs from his hands. "Delizioso," he says and shuffles over to his barber station. He returns with the pages I gave him yesterday.
"I am liking this story, la mia nipote talentata."
My talented niece? I bite my lip to hide my glee. "Grazie."
"You are building momentum. I sense conflict coming."
"You're right," I say, remembering the plotline I imagined today at work. I pull last night's pages from my satchel and hand them to him. "I'll bring the next installment on Thursday."
He scowls. "Nothing tomorrow?"
I can't help but smile. It's our secret, my little writing hobby. "Never underestimate the blueprint for a dream," he likes to say. Uncle Dolphie once told me he had a dream of writing an opera when he was young, though he refuses to share his notes with me, or even his ideas. "Silliness," he always says, and he turns fifty shades of red. But I love that he once had the blueprint for a dream. I only wish he hadn't underestimated it.
