It is better this way, I reminded myself. Better not to pull anyone else in. Anyone else but the three people willing to be witnesses to our exchange of vows.
A knock came at the door before it creaked open. Atta stuck her head in before she fully came in. She was wearing a copper-colored dress, and it pulled out the amber in her eyes and made it pop. She looked me up and down, her hands coming to her mouth, before she almost knocked me over with a bear hug.
“Sistine!” She took a step back, eyeing me again, this time closer. “You’ve always been gorgeous, but right now, you’re ethereal. Glowing.”
I hugged her tight in thanks. I could not speak past the lump in my throat.
She gently patted my back. “I know,” she whispered, fighting back a strong emotion. “I love you too.” We fully pulled apart, and she smiled at me, tears running down her face. “You ready?”
“Sì.” I grabbed my bouquet.
“Good.” She nodded. “Because if you’re not out there in the next three minutes, your groom is going to explode in here like a super villain and tear the place apart. He has ants in his pants!”
I smiled. “I have them in my heels.” I pulled the hem of my dress up and showed them to her.
By unspoken agreement, we started forward, Atta helping me every step of the way. A woman met us at the door, set a camera against her face, and began taking pictures.
“This is Shelby,” Atta said. “She arrived for our wedding, and Mariano hired her for today.”
Shelby had us pose together, but she told me that, though she would be around, she would fade into the background for the ceremony.
Everything and everyone faded into the background when I stepped out on the porch and Mariano was waiting for me. A rose and buttercup, both made from silk, were attached to his suit. He had taken them from my hair clips. The ones he had stolen from me in Venice—his good luck charms.
My eyes burned with tears. Everything this man did for me had meaning. It had meaning from the very beginning.
His eyes met mine, and it was the most intense moment of my life. Nothing could stop us from moving toward each other. Each step we took felt deliberate and full of conviction and love.
He met me halfway, taking my hand, lifting it to his mouth before he bowed to me. After he breathed me in, he stood, looking into my watery eyes. “The world is not glowing,” he said in Italian. “You are.” He placed my hand over his heart, allowing me to feel the cadence of it. Fast. “If my heart was a chisel, it would be carving this moment into my bones. It has gone even further. My soul. The one part of ourselves we take when we leave this world.”
“Ah,” was all I could get out, tears running warm and fast along my cheeks, but before they could turn cold, he used his thumbs to dry them, his fingertips running along his bottom lip before he rolled it in with his beautiful teeth. His lip glistened when he released it.
He wasted no time helping me down the steps of the porch, guiding me toward the back of the property, Atta right behind us, keeping my veil in check.
An old cream stone surface still stood behind the cabin. It was in the shape of an arch. It almost reminded me of a horseshoe. A mixture of red buttercups and deep red roses, along with copper-colored flowers, covered it. The sun was low and broke around the woods, setting us between the break, beams of light on each of our sides.
The worldwasglowing around us—concentrated between us.
It was present for the words we would speak next to each other. Words that for him, for me, would live on past a lifetime. They were traditional with a new feel. Just as the world around us was.
This was our own space.
Our own time.
Even when we spoke the words that would be chiseled on his bones, inside of his soul and mine, the sun did not go down on our love. It bore witness to a moment in time that could never be changed. As a wintry sun had when our eyes first met in my family’s jewelry store in Venice. The winter had formed a protective layer around it, while the sun warmed it enough from the inside not to freeze.
This was our love.
The fall.
How it all began.
“A moment worth dying for,” Mariano whispered. “Worth living for.” He pounded a fist over his chest, as if he were making a vow to himself.
Or the heart he claimed I owned in his chest.
The officiant pronounced us as man and wife. Instructed Mariano that he could kiss his bride.
He grinned at me, cradling my face in his palms, the smoothness in contrast to the callouses making me shiver when his thumbs caressed my skin. “The first and last time anyone gets to tell me when to kissmywife.”
