“A basilica in Naples.”
My mouth works. How did they transport it? In pieces? Are they allowed to do this? Is it even legal? “It looks exactly like it came from a basilica.”
His lips quirk. “Because it did. They lent it to us temporarily. It’ll go back Sunday morning.”
“How did you get a basilica to lend you an altar?”
His eyelids drop to half mast, and he shrugs. “They owed me a favor.”
“Why would a church in Naples owe you a—you know what? I don’t want to know,” I say.
“Nothing nefarious, love. I promise.”
“I adore that I married a man who uses the word nefarious unironically.”
Beside me, Henry rakes the altar with a single assessing glance. “We needed something with no way for a cat to make its home inside it.”
I know the grooms have arrived when a small, broken sound ekes out of Noah.
“Spencer. Dante.” Henry dips his head toward the altar. “Crisis averted.”
Henry is a creature of habit. The fact that I call his PA by his first name in no way changes years of Henry calling him by his last name.
Dante squeezes Noah’s shoulder, looks at the altar, then visibly decides this is not a hill worth dying on. “Thank you, Henry.”
Henry inclines his head. “You’re welcome.”
The officiant clears his throat, and I move into the position Noah indicates.
“Elliot, you’ll stand next to Franki,” Noah calls.
I turn to find the young man jogging across the terrazzo to join us.
“Henry and Gabriel,” Noah continues, “you’re on the opposite side with Dante. We’re not walking down an aisle. The wedding party will be in place, then Dante and I will each enter from opposite sides when the quartet plays and meet in the middle.”
Elliot, around six inches shorter than my six-foot-four husband, lopes into his position beside me and plants his palms on his knees as he catches his breath.
I recognize the family resemblance to his brother immediately, though he’s a bit more gangly. His trousers are a little short, as though he’s gone through a recent growth spurt. I smile in friendly welcome.
He grins back and straightens to his full height, ginger curls flopping into his eyes and dimples appearing in both cheeks. He doesn’t have a hint of stubble or whiskers on his face. He looks sweet. Oblivious. A misunderstood soul.
“You almost whiffed it back there,” he says.
A laugh startles out of me. “You saw that, huh?”
“From my balcony. That’s what the Americans say, isn’t it?” he asks. “Or is it biffed it?”
“Either one works, I suppose.”
“What’s wrong with you?” He indicates my cane.
I don’t hide my RA, but his demanding, almost accusatory, tone catches me off guard.
I force a smile. “I tripped because I wasn’t watching where I was going.”
I also have one leg slightly shorter than the other and skipped my shoes with an orthotic lift to wear cute sandals with this dress. But I’m not admitting that out loud. It sounds vain.
I continue. “The cane is to offer a little help when my RA acts up.” Sometimes I need it. Sometimes I’m fine without one. It depends completely on how I’m feeling on any particular day.
