“I know, I just wish I could make brodo with you.”
Zia stares at me and to my horror, her brown eyes gloss over.
Zia Teresa hates weakness. She finds art pretentious, music sentimental and she scoffs at romantic comedies. We’ve spent thousands of hours together and I’ve never seen her cry. “Zia…”
She raises her fingertips, squashing the tears away. “Tell me the recipe for brodo.”
“But—”
“The recipe,bella. Now.”
I swallow. “Boil three osso bucco and two chicken breasts in salt water. Skim the fat and add garlic, onion, celery, carrot, potatoes and Roma tomatoes. Simmer for an hour then strain the broth and serve it with pastina. When everyone is done with pasta, you serve the meat.”
She gives me a curt nod. “You can use gravy beef if you can’t find osso bucco, but the marrow is better for colds.”
“Yes, Zia.”
“And buy fresh parmigiano. None of that disgusting supermercato cheese.”
“Of course, Zia.”
“You should make brodo in your new home, just like I showed you.”
“I will.”
We look at one other and I want to say that I love her, that she is my mother and that she taught me everything I know. But we both already know it and a better gift to Zia would be to stay strong. I lift my chin. “I’ll see you soon.”
“Of course.” Zia digs into the pocket of her heavy brown coat and pulls out a gold coin. “This is for you.”
I take the coin and see a little man engraved into the side. There’s a bubble on top, a place for a necklace to thread through. “Is it a medallion?”
“Si. A St. Christopher. Protection for whenever you journey from home. I gave one to all my girls when they went to Foggia for the first time. It should be on a chain, but…” Zia shrugs.
But then my mom would see it.
I tuck the medallion into my bodice. I’ll have to find somewhere safe to hide it later but for now I need it with me. I take Zia’s hand again. “I’m so sorry you can’t come today.”
Zia shakes her head. “Do not blame yourself for what other people do. Just focus on your own survival.”
My own survival? That seems a little melodramatic, even for Zia Teresa. “What do you—”
Another tap on the shoulder. Fabrizia’s mouth is a thin line. “Miss Whitehall, we need to leave.”
“Okay.”
I turn to hug Zia Teresa but she’s already slipping out the door, her hand fumbling in her purse for her menthols. I watch her leave, heaviness washing over me.
“You ready?” Fabrizia asks.
“Of course.” I throw my shoulders back. I will be a flawless bride. I will make Mr. Parker happy, and he’ll give me permission to bring Zia Teresa from my stepmother’s household into my own. Then I’ll pay Zia to drink espresso and watch E! entertainment news and tell me my hair is getting too long. I touch the medallion resting against my right breast. I don’t know what I’m scared of, but I hope Zia is right and the St. Christopher will protect me anyway.
Chapter Two
January Whitehall
St. Michael’s Cathedraltowers above me, rising into the light blue sky. I feel like an ant quivering before God. The air is icy and the maple trees lining the street are bare. Margot and my other bridesmaids stumble out of Cadillacs behind me, shivering and huddling close to each other.
Penelope moans. “Who gets married in winter?”
