Page 42 of My Big Fat Italian Break-Up

Wedding Bells

It was mid-June and waiting for the impending NAS inspection any day now was like being on death row. Every day, I whizzed round the property to blitz and blast any specks of dust that had managed to form in the twelve-hour time frame that I’d been away, in my own house, trying to live, love and be happy with my family.

‘Life is like a mirror,’ Julian always said. ‘If you smile into it, it’ll smile back.’ So I did my damned best to follow that simple formula. And, apparently, sending out positive vibes had produced an effect.

‘Hey,’ he whispered as he came out of his study and into the kitchen where I was preparing dessert. ‘Chin up. I have good news.’

I looked up from my chestnut, chocolate and rosemarycastagnacciobatter and he grinned.

‘I have a huge staying-home window in July – three weeks. Maybe we can avoid postponing the wedding.’

I gasped.

‘Really…? You mean get married in July?’

‘Let’s say mid-July. The earlier the better. It would leave us more time for the honeymoon.’

That would mean marrying this wonderful man, the love of my life, in four weeks? Where do I sign? But, hmm that also meant that Marcy would stay the four weeks until the wedding. But, on the other hand, it would also mean that she wouldn’t have to come back in September for what was the original wedding day. Which was a huge bonus in my book. I was already mentally paper-whiting out all those big black Marcy squares from my calendar that had practically blotted out the entire summer and making room for the big pink one. There was a God after all!

‘I’d love to! I do have to check with Paul, provided we do a small wedding. Would that be OK with you?’

‘Dum, dum, du-dum…’ he sang as I launched myself into his arms, getting batter all over his face and in his hair.

‘Oops, sorry.’

He grinned his sexy look, the one he only gave to me. ‘Time for a celebratory shower?’ he whispered, his lips caressing my ear, making my skin tingle.

*

When I called Paul, he was with Chef Alberto and having, it sounded, the time of his life. Good for him. I explained the situation. ‘Can we do it?’

‘If we work double time and hire someone with incredibly good taste and organizational skills to help, i.e., not your stepmother, I think so,’ he answered.

Good taste? Organized? Easy-peasy. ‘I have three someones.’

So I called my zia Maria in Boston to tell her the good news and actually felt her grin across the Atlantic Ocean.

‘That’s amazing news! I’m so happy for you! But… all three of us in the same building as Marcy? Are you sure, Erica?’

Good question. Was I really going to start World War Three with this ceremony, just when Julian and I had reached a sort of even keel and things seemed to be going better? Now, if you think I’m exaggerating, you need to know that every time Marcy encountered her sisters, there were fireworks. Although, my aunts were the least intrusive, the classiest and most upbeat people in the world. There was no problem they couldn’t face. And they were a laugh – a real pleasure to have around, always telling me stories about my real mom. As opposed to Marcy, who hadn’t been much help – or for some reason preferred not to be – with her vague memories and I don’t knows whenever I happened to ask her a question.

All I personally remember is that my grandmother, Nonna Silvia, had been my rock in the storm during my childhood, followed by my aunts in ranking. And when she died, my three aunts all did their best, leaving us wanting nothing in terms of affection and attention. Homework, advice, making us pretty dresses and good old sturdy support through our (mostly mine) growing pains. Judy, Vince and I adored them shamelessly.

All I had to do was convince them to leave Boston for a bit and be in the same country with Marcy. Which was a tall order.

‘Absolutely it’s a good idea,’ I answered. ‘I’ve got a plan.’

‘Oh?’ She sounded intrigued.

‘I’ve asked Dad to come down and take Marcy away until the wedding day. That way, you guys can come over and help Paul and me organize beforehand. The wedding is in four weeks. Can you do it?’

I knew I sounded crazy. No bride would act this quickly unless she was trying to bag her groom before he escaped. Which wasn’t all that far from the truth.

‘Four weeks?’ Zia Maria said. ‘We can organize a war in that time, don’t you worry.’

‘You might have to if Marcy doesn’t collaborate and buzz off.’

‘She doesn’t scare us. Plus, we get to spend some time together. We miss you and your family so much.’

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