“Right, right, okay.” Vanessa rolls her eyes, smiling back. Her lip wobbles, eyes brimming with tears. Nate’s too, as he looks up at his wife with so much love. “Mary, you have an extreme sense of duty and are the most loyal person I’ve ever had the joy of being related to. Everyone used to call you his shadow because you’re the most like Dad of any of us.”
I glance at my fiancée, her own eyes glassy, a rare softness on her features.
“He would be so, so proud of you,” Vanessa says. “And Maxim, I know you’ll take care of her. You’d hate to see what would happen if you didn’t.”
The party chuckles at this, but everyone knows the truth behind the threat. Vanessa holds her glass of water up, and everyone follows suit with their water or wine.
“Per cent’anni,” she says, and all the Morellis repeat it in cheers.
Marianna leans closer to me, her low private voice surprising me. “For a hundred years. That’s what it means.”
“That’s a long time,” I whisper, and can’t help but smile down at her.
8
MARY
Despite my protestations,on the day of my wedding, I wear white.
I thought maroon might be good if my sisters wouldn’t consider black, or bright red even. A red dress is traditional for some cultures, and I thought I had a good chance with this argument because Google told me that Russian brides traditionally were all about red. Willa and Vanessa said that would be great if I were Russian, but since I’m Italian and this wedding is all about appearances, we’re sticking to white. I managed a very red bouquet, at least. And these deep red heels which I like so much I might wear them to every formal occasion for the rest of my life.
They both cried at my dress fitting, pregnancy hormones making them a mess, and Mom cried too, but she always cries, she can’t help it. I thought I looked strange, but I’ve been in Willa’s costumes every week since this engagement was announced, so might as well go all the way for the wedding.
In my bright, luxurious bridal suite now, I step into the simple gown and pull the thin straps over my shoulders before letting my mom help with the zipper and the many, many buttons down the back of the dress. The fabric is exquisite,smooth satin that feels too fine beneath my finger tips. I am forced to stand taller as Mom pulls the bodice into place.
“You don’t have to do this,” she whispers. I look at her through the mirror, and her eyes are on mine. I smile softly at her.
“I know.”
“There’s still time,” she says, even as her fingers still deftly slide every little button into place. “I’d help you.”
Once she finishes the row of buttons, she turns me by the shoulders and looks so earnest, so genuine in her promise to help me be a runaway bride if I needed. The nervous part of me craves to take her up on the offer, but that thought is quickly squashed when Angel waltzes into the room wearing her own white dress, hers knee-length with wide purple ribbons tied in bows at the tops of her shoulders.
She’s turning fourteen this year, the age I was when she was born, and my chest squeezes at the memory of her tiny head in my hands. She never wanted to be put down, a Velcro baby, and my tiny best friend.
I meet my mother’s tearful stare again and offer as honest a smile as I can. “Thank you, Mamma.”
She exhales, sets her shoulders, and accepts my decision. I’ve always appreciated this about our mom, ever-willing to let us make our own choices. She kisses both of my cheeks and squeezes my hands three times before wrapping Angel in her own hug.
“What are we crying about?” Angel asks.
Mom laughs, and gently pats under her eyes. “Your auntie just looks so pretty. I wish her papa could see her now.”
“Ma?” Vanessa calls from the door, obviously in transit somewhere else. She and Willa have been scurrying from one place to the next all morning. My job is easy in comparison; I just have to get married. “Can you help with the cake delivery?”
“Of course,” Mom says. She kisses Angel’s head and leaves me and my niece in the bridal suite. Willa has already done Angel’s hair into a sophisticated braid down her back, but I bend slightly and push some baby hairs behind her ears before I squeeze her cheeks.
“You’re going to mess up my makeup,” she protests.
“You’re the one eating mini donuts, Menace.”
“Blame Artie, he got them from Nate!”
“So we should be blaming Nate,” I conclude. “Well, chocolate fingers and all, you’re stunning.”
“You look weird in white,” she whispers, and we both break into a fit of giggles.
“That’s what I said!” I wrap her in a side hug and then tickle her. She laughs louder, drawing the attention of Willa in the hallway who has planned this wedding like a military operation despite the fact her water could break any day now.
