Leo nods. “You make a far more attractive plus-one than your dad would have,” he says, as we head out onto the driveway and he stuffs his phone into the pocket inside his jacket. I admire the way his shirt clings to his body, the belt hugging his hips.
And then I hear theclip, clip, clippity clipof horses’ hooves coming down the road, just out of view. I look back at Leo, confused, as the breeze blows the soft layers of my skirt. It’s slightly cooler today.
“Is that what I think it is?”
“I’m afraid so,” he says, nodding as four chestnut horses pulling an old wooden wagon appear around the bend. It’s gorgeous—the canvas cover is decorated with ivy and little white flowers, and it’s filled with women in pretty, colorful dresses and men in their best summer suits.
The driver yanks back on the reins and calls out to us.
“Benvenuti a bordo! Potete sedervi dietro!”
Leo grabs my hand and pulls me toward the wagon, where we climb aboard and join the dozen other guests, making our way to the only available seats at the very back facing the road behind us.
Holy shit, I mouth to Leo.This is so cool.
I take a seat, holding on to an iron post for balance, as Leo shyly chats to a couple of the guests before joining me.
“Sorry I didn’t introduce you,” he says, sitting. “I don’t know their names. I need Chiara.” And then we’re off. Swaying down the gravel road.
The seating is tight, and Leo and I sit thigh to thigh, rocking into each other as we move.
“Thismight be good inspiration for your Tuscan story,” he says, as we turn down a lane and make our way through a woody area, the canopy of trees thick with the pungent smell of earth.
“How about no cookbook talk today?” I say, gazing out across the hazy fields to two horses lazily chewing on grass. Both lift their heads to look our way before resuming their meal. “We’re so on top of it. What about a day off?”
I turn to Leo, and he nods, lifting his hat and running his hand through his hair.
“And no Nicky’s,” he says, grinning. “Got it.”
The church is a humble eleventh-century stone structure flanked by a small cemetery on one side and a row of poplars on the other. It’s tiny, really, compared to the great cathedrals of Florence or Sienna. It has only two windows high up on the left side, above a line of medieval paintings, which are deep brown with bloodred accents; images of men either sacrificing stuff or receiving their tax bills, I presume, by the anguish on their faces.
The wood bench seating is old, full of grooves from worms, and on each place is a folded order of service fixed with a ribbon down the spine.
We are the last group to arrive, and we take a seat in the back row, with a few guests opting to stand.
“Gianna and Alessandro,” I whisper. “How do you know them?”
“Alessandro is a third cousin,” he whispers back.
“I don’t think I even know a single third cousin.”
“On average, apparently, everyone has a hundred and ninety third cousins,” Leo says, laughing.
“How do you know that?” I ask, nudging him.
“I looked it up when I lived here with my mum,” he replies.
“Now, why on earth did an eighteen-year-old Leo need to lookthatup?” I ask playfully.
“Country-life hazard,” he says, laughing. “Youcandate your third cousin, though.”
“Right,” I say, giggling enough to elicit a shush from a buttoned-up lady in a pink fascinator, who stares at the pulled-down puffed sleeves of my dress with such outrage that I quickly pull them up onto my shoulders, much to Leo’s amusement.
“Church sleeves,” I explain.
Leo only glances sideways at me, raising an eyebrow.
The service takes about an hour, and by the time they are kissing, I’m crying. The bride looks unbelievable in layers and layers of white silk fitted to an intricate lace bodice with little cap sleeves. Her eight bridesmaids are wearing pale gray dresses in different designs. The men wear black suits with suspenders and bow ties.
