Celia sorted that out for us, too, even though I was just kidding at the time. Tino Morelli has been serious as hell about the whole thing, and we’re going to spend two weeks in the Bahamas on Tino’s own boat, theMaddalena,once the ceremony’s done.
But first we have to make it through the ceremony.
I barely saw Luca between what I thought of as The Proposal and The Wedding. I was kept tucked away in an apartment in Central Park West, not my preferred side of the Park, and nowhere near Luca as far as I could tell. There were two big muscly guys with guns guarding the door at all times, one inside and one outside. I saw a whole lot of Celia, though, and of my three sisters, who were allowed in to see me, although Pops wasn’t.
Or at least, he didn’t come around.
When I asked how Pops was taking the whole thing, none of my sisters would tell me. “He’s just happy you’re okay,” Maggie, my oldest sister, finally said. Then she started talking floral arrangements with Celia. The two of them are new BFFs, or so it seems.
Maggie’s got ten years on me. She was twenty-three when Mom died, and I guess she handled it better than the rest of us. Better than me, that’s for sure. I was a mess. Pops was a mess, too. Maggie was the one who kept her shit together, pulled the rest of us through. But she’s never been what I’d callwarmtowards me. No, Maggie’s the ice maiden type.
Thank God for Celia, though, who smuggled in uppers and downers as needed. I’ve never really been one for soccer mom prescriptions, but it was better than facing those four boring walls sober.
And now the big day has arrived.
I’ve been dressed, primped and cooed over by my four attendants: sisters Maggie, Róisín and Tara, and of course Celia. They’ve spent the morning shrieking, drinking, and having their hair and makeup done by a YouTube star Celia hired for the occasion.
I’ve been too out of it to take much in. Maggie comes over to me now and puts her hand on mine, and I think it might be the warmest gesture she’s ever made to me. She looks so much like Mom: pale orange hair, smooth white skin, but Maggie has the deep blue Donovan eyes rather than Mom’s green ones, and she doesn’t have Mom’s warm disposition. Well, it’s not like we ever had much in common. But right now she’s half-tipsy on champagne.
“How are you holding up?” she asks.
“Dandy,” I say, because it’s the only word I can think of. “Where’s Pops?”
“He’ll be in the limo with you,” she says, and when I shudder, she adds, “It’s armor-plated.”
“I wonder what Mom would think of all this.”
“Don’t think about that,” she advises. “It’ll just make you maudlin.”
“It’s my wedding day. What better time to think about Mom?” Think about Mom’s brains splattered all over me. We were in a limo when it happened, too. “You like Celia?” I ask, to change the subject.
“She’s sweet. A littledéclassée, maybe. I believe you’re marrying down, sweetheart, but as long as you’re happy. Celia loves you already. But then, who wouldn’t?”
Maggie, for one. Pops, for two. Luca D’Amato for a third. But Maggie’s comment about my happiness makes me wonder what story’s been spread around about the wedding. No one’s asked how long Luca and I have been dating, or why they’ve never met him before today. My fiancé appeared fully-formed out of the ether and everyone seems to be ignoring the lack of backstory.
There’s a silentunderstanding, I guess.
“It’s time!” Celia squeals from her position in the window seat. She’s staring down at the street. My sisters flock, chattering like seagulls, in a flurry of brandy-colored satin and lace. I come over too and look down at two white stretch limos, both decorated with wide satin ribbons, and watch as the driver hops out of the one at the back to open the rear door.
It’s Pops. I didn’t realize how much I wanted to see him until I do, my heart giving a painful squeeze.
When he comes into the room, it’s like a storm has swept in. The female twittering and tittering stops. But when I see him, I’m shocked by howsmallPops seems. The last time I saw him in person was a while back, so maybe it’s just my imagination, but he seems to have shrunk. My Pops is just as powerful a man in his own domain as the Mob Bosses here in New York, but you wouldn’t think it to look at him here and now, despite the three-piece suit.
Any power he might have is also tempered by the Italian heavy trailing behind him. I guess we’ll have Mob company in the limo, just in case I try to make a break for it.
Pops looks around the room, catching eyes with Maggie, who frowns at him. Then he turns to me and gives me a stilted nod. “Howie.”
“Hiya, Pops.”
“Ladies, you can leave us now. Your car is waiting.”
They all kiss me goodbye and then rub their lipstick off my cheek. “See you at the church, honey,” Celia whispers, even though it’s not what I’d call a Church wedding. Not atallsanctioned by the Church, in fact; we’ll have a celebrant waiting for us in a non-denominational chapel downtown.
I’ve been told by Celia that my future husband insisted on Episcopalian vows if he couldn’t have the Catholic ones. I don’t care much either way. I just hope he won’t expect me to go to Mass with him. I stopped after Mom’s death. If God was so jealous of her earthly family that he took her from us for his own, like a whisker-chinned great-aunt whispered to me at the funeral, what use do I have for Him?
“Give us a minute?” Pops asks the Italian guy. I recognize him from Luca’s crew—Marco, I think he’s called. Marco shakes his head and Pops looks furious, but turns back to me without another word. “Well,” he says. “Here we are.”
“Here we are,” I echo.
