Summer in Tuscany Read Online Free PDF Page A

her. “Madonnina mia!” Nonna snapped. “All these years, Olivia, and you still haven’t learned to close a screen door properly?”
    “Sorry, Nonna.” Livvie slumped into a chair and hauled Sinbad onto her lap. “Poor kitty, did Nonna shout at you then?” she asked in a loud whisper, giggling as her grandmother snorted.
    I carved the lamb while Jeff and Nonna and Patty served up the ravioli in that famous sauce and the vitello tonnato and the baked eggplant with mozzarella and the little potatoes roasted with fresh rosemary and the salad and that crusty bread I loved so much. More wine was poured and Cokes were popped open. Conversation rattled around, about the usual things—work, food, wine, school, boy bands, neighbors—while Livvie surreptitiously fed Sinbad under the table.
    Then the torta della nonna , the “grandmother’s cake” with the special chocolate filling, which I think Livvie still believed was a cake only her Nonna made, was placed on the table, on the same gaudy red-and-green-flowered plate we had used for at least thirty years. Ice cream was fetched from the freezer, the coffee set to brew, and the vinsanto poured.
    Everything was exactly the same as it always was. You could print out a scenario of our Sundays at Nonna’s and use it every week of the year. Nothing ever changed. At least, not until now.
    “Allora, bambini,” Nonna said.
    I glanced suspiciously at her. She only ever called us bambini when she was up to something.
    “I have a surprise for you.” She pulled a crumpled pale-blue airmail envelope from her apron pocket and held it up for us to see. “A letter,” she said, as though we hadn’t already guessed. “From Bella Piacere,” she added, smiling proudly.
    Livvie and I glanced at each other, brows raised. Bella Piacere was Nonna’s old village. We didn’t even know that she knew anyone there anymore.
    “Attenzione!” She adjusted her glasses and looked sternly over the tops to make sure she had our attention. Then slowly and carefully she unfolded The Letter and began to read.
    “Signora, sono Don Vincenzo Arrici, Parroco della Chiesa di Santa Caterina nel vostro Paese e mi onoro di scrivervi queste notizie—”
    “Mom,” I said, “we don’t speak Italian.” She threw me an irritated glare.
    “Huh,” she said. “Maybe I should have married an Italian after all. Then you would have spoken. And Livvie, please remove that cat from the table.”
    Livvie grabbed Sinbad. “Oh, go on, Nonna,” she said.
    “‘I am Don Vincenzo Arrici, priest of the parish of Santa Catarina in your home village,’” Nonna read. “‘It has taken several years for us to find you, signora Sophia, and I am the one chosen to have the honor of telling you the good news about your inheritance. You have been left some property by an old family acquaintance. It is in your interest, signora Sophia, to come to Bella Piacere immediately and collect what is rightfully yours. Before it is too late.’”
    We looked at each other, amazed. Then Livvie said, “Does that mean you’re going to be rich?”
    Nonna smiled back at her. “Possibly,” she said, and my heart sank, because somehow I knew she thought this was true.
    Nonna refolded The Letter carefully, but I could tell from its crumpled state she had read it many times. She pushed up her glasses again and looked at us.
    “I came to New York when I was thirteen years old,” she said. “Before that, I had never left Bella Piacere. I had never seen Florence, let alone Rome or Venice. Allora . Now I am going home. I’m going to Italy to collect my inheritance. I intend to see Bella Piacere one last time. Before I die.”
    We stared at her, stunned into silence, as she put The Letter safely back in its envelope. And then she threw out the second bombshell. “And you, Gemma and Livvie, are coming with me.”
    Was she crazy ! She knew I had a demanding job. She knew I needed that job. I had responsibilities. I didn’t even have