Page 57 of My Big Fat Italian Break-Up

‘What the hell areyouthree doing here?’ she snapped.

‘Marcy, don’t start now, honey,’ Dad urged, as gently as ever, while Marcy jumped to her pretty little feet.

I looked down at my size nines. It was hard for me to believe that I took after Marcy’s twin, yet I didn’t look an iota like either of them.

Dad put a hand on her shoulder. ‘They’re here to see their niece. Behave yourself.’

But she was way beyond behaving. Ho, boy. I should have known this visit would bring no good. Who was I kidding? I only wanted the attention focused away from me. But it really wasn’t working, because I was caught up in the oncoming storm and there was nothing I could do to avoid it. Oh, to be with Paul in Florence for the day, looking for wedding tableware!

Marcy’s chest puffed out, like a bird ruffling her feathers to look bigger and menacing. Julian slanted me a preoccupied glance and I almost snorted. He hadn’t seen anything yet.

‘Oh, honey,’ Dad said. ‘Never mind them. You know I live for you and only you.’

And that was exactly what Marcy had needed to hear.

‘You do?’ she asked, then got a hold of herself in front of her audience. ‘Of course you do. Damn lucky to have me, that’s what you are.’

We all glanced at each other furtively and busied ourselves with our chores. Her insecurity was at sky-high levels lately and I wondered why. Was it because she was back in Tuscany, where she’d lived in the shadow of her sisters, particularly my mother? I knew that there had always been bad blood between them, but, putting myself in her shoes, I couldn’t help but wonder if she and I really were that different, after all. But what was eating at me most was why she thought it was even remotely necessary to go to our rival B & B. Dressed as the Madonna to boot.

So, later that afternoon, I asked her. In a non-aggressive way. Politely, while she lounged by the pool, her favorite place.

‘Marcy, what… uhm, were you doing at Tasting Tuscany?’

She looked up at me from her magazine, her lithe form hugged by the luxurious hammock. Her eyes darted away from mine – just one fraction of a second.

‘Whatareyou talking about?’ she asked innocently.

Oh, so we’re doing it that way, as usual, are we? You see? Even if I was as non-threatening, as non-confrontational as possible, she’d always clam up. Never once would she admit to anything.

The only thing that she and Mother Mary had in common was that they’d both ended up with a baby they hadn’t banked on. Only Mother Mary’s was cool, became a cult and performed miracles. Me, a little less…

So, done with the humble stepdaughter who always walked on eggshells so as not to annoy her, I crossed my arms and flashed her my famous hairy eyeball.

‘Well, hard to deny it, when the entire province of Siena thinks you were an apparition of the Madonna. Only we know who you really are.’

She sighed. ‘Oh, alright. Yes, it was me. It wasn’t planned or anything. I didn’t know anyone was filming me. I just wanted to see the place where I grew up.’

My eyebrows rose. ‘I thought you hated it and never wanted to go back.’

She shrugged. ‘I do. But I wanted to see something with my own eyes.’

Now that got my attention. ‘What? What did you want to see?’

Silence, then a soft puff of breath lifted a strand of her soft hair off her cheek. Why, oh why, couldn’t I be as delicate as her? And why, most of all, could I and this woman whom I did love at the end of the (very long) day, never build a lasting relationship of some sort? Why did we always have to keep starting from scratch every single time?

‘Marcy? What is it you wanted to see?’

Again she huffed and shifted slightly on the lounger. ‘I-I wanted to see the tree where your father carved his three Es.’

How had she found out about that? ‘Marcy, that was such a long time ago,’ I lied for her benefit.

She smirked. ‘You’re wrong. It’s a fresh marking.’

Oyoy, I thought, smelling trouble. ‘Maybe it’s another E,’ I suggested lamely. Who was I kidding?

She shook her head, tears streaming down her cheeks. ‘Another E+E=E on our old property? No. All these years and your father is still in love with Emanuela. Even in death, she beat me.’

‘Oh, Marcy, don’t say that. He had two kids with you. He loves you. He even left his fishing trip to come and be with you now.’

---