‘Sì!’
Sarah was a little flustered. ‘Just the usual here. People checking in. Some checking out. Beds to make. Bread to bake. Why?’
Margherita’s lips formed a petulant pout. ‘I need help, and I was hoping you might be interested.’
‘Of course, Marghe. Anything. What’s going on?’
‘I need to go to Florence to pick up a dress, I was looking for some friendly company,’ she said shyly. ‘Just a few hours on Saturday afternoon. We would drive down. Don’t worry. My car hasaria-condizionata.’ She pulled back her fringe and gently fanned herself.
‘That sounds great. I’d love to go with you. What’s the dress for?’
Margherita finally took a seat on the end of the bed. ‘It’s my wedding dress.’
Sarah suddenly rose from her chair. ‘Yourwedding dress? And you’re asking me so casually?!’
Margherita shrugged her shoulders. ‘It’s not a big deal.’
Sarah waved her hands to silence Margherita. ‘Hang on. Please don’t downplay this moment. This is so incredibly special.Yourwedding dress!’ She threw her arms around the tiny-framed Margherita, winding her with the force of her enthusiasm.
Trying her best to shield a sheepish smile, Margherita said, ‘I guess itisspecial.’
‘When are you getting married?’
‘In two months. Nothing big, just at Chiesa dei Fiori with Padre Ugo.’
‘And your reception? Are you having a party or celebration after?’
‘No, no.We don’t want the attention. Just us. The church. That’s it.’
Sarah’s heart dropped. ‘Why’s that?’
‘We are missing many people, Sarah. Mymamma, ournonni. It doesn’t seem right to have a large party without them.’
Sarah sat next to her and held her by the shoulders. ‘This. Is. Your. Wedding. Day. The most special day of your lives. Please, let me plan something for you. I can do it with my eyes closed, honestly.’
Margherita shrugged her shoulders. ‘I don’t know . . .’
‘How about a lunch or dinner here? Something super small. Just really lovely and elegant.’
‘There will be only ten people.’
‘That doesn’t matter in the slightest.’
‘Twelve, if you and Matthew would like to join us.’
Sarah clapped her hands in delight. ‘Of course we would! Let me do this for you.Per favore!’
‘We need to talk to Riccardo.’
Sarah waved her hand through the air. ‘Don’t worry about that. That’s the easy part!’
That Saturday afternoon, Sarah and Margherita were strolling through the back streets of Florence, grateful for the shade. The ever-present view of Brunelleschi’s famous dome peeked over the palazzi and made its presence known through the gaps between rooftops across the skyline.
‘Eccoci qua!’ Margherita announced as they arrived at a quaint little shopfront a few streets back from the Arno. She pushed open the door and the friendly chime of the overhead brass bell rang.
It was the studio of a seamstress, or dressmaker. Paper patterns were clipped in bunches and suspended from the vaulted wooden ceiling in perfect rows along the left-hand side of the narrow store. At the rear was a large mirror and from the ceiling in front was a U-shaped track for a modesty curtain. To the right was a small door, from which an elderly woman in her early eighties suddenly appeared. Wearing a lace-trimmed apron and pin-cushion on her wrist, she greeted Margherita with an air of formal familiarity, then disappeared through the door once again.
‘She is just getting the dress for me to try.’
