Page 6 of My Big Fat Italian Break-Up

We all laughed. What a wonderful group of easygoing, intelligent and independent women this was. We were on the same wavelength. So far from Marcy or Judy or my sister-in-law, Sandra.

‘I have my aunts to thank for their big buckets when the family boat started leaking,’ I finally said. ‘And my best friends Paul and Renata. They keep me sane. Or at least looking sane.’

‘I love my mom,’ Christine said as she downed her vodka. ‘But hell, she tends to rule with two iron fists. A toast to all moms.’

We laughed and I toasted to both of mine, the larger-than-life stepmom and the faded but beloved memory of my real mother, Emanuela. And with that, I left them to it.

I loved seeing people having fun and relaxing. Julian was right. It was time for the good life.

In September, after the wedding, I could start to take it easy. A new shuttle bus service would ferry Maddy and Warren to their schools so I wouldn’t need to throw my clothes on and hop out the door to do the school run and get back to work without having a stroke first. Yes. Soon I’d be living the good life. But even as the evening breeze caressed the fields, carrying with it the fragrance and the whispers of swaying, unripe green wheat, I couldn’t help but wonder exactly how much had changed in my own personal pace of life. If I was still worried about the B & B and always running around like a headless chicken when instead I should be, as Julian always said, chilling, what exactly had improved in my life in the past two years? Well, for one thing, I was slowly learning to love myself, even. And my body? Well , I was no Angelina Jolie. But I was a work in progress. Weren’t we all, in some way? So it seemed to me that I was the only obstacle to our happiness.

2

If It Ain’t Broke…

So who, you might ask, did my first wedding call (or cry for help) go to? Why, to my partner in crime, my BFF of a thousand years and costume designer Paul Belhomme, of course. He’d seen me through thick and thin (well, almost thin) and knew everything about me, as I him. He’d know what to do.

‘Woo-hoo! About time, sunshine!’ he hollered over the phone all the way from Boston while Julian stood behind me, hands on my shoulders, listening in and grinning.

Julian was no fool. He knew that if he had Paul Belhomme’s stamp of approval, he was home free. Paul is my alter ego, my friend, my family, my insides.

‘I can’t believe you finally said yes to the poor guy!’ he cried. ‘I’ve only been waiting for this moment like forever!’

‘You and me both, mate,’ Julian said into the mouthpiece.

I grinned. ‘Well, get your ass over here pronto, then. I need you.’

‘I’m on the first flight, sunshine!’

My lifeline was on his way. And that was all I needed to know.

When I called Renata, my BIFF (Best Italian Female Friend), she was over in a flash.

‘Hello,bride! I’ve brought you some fresh bread from Fernando’s, Nutellacornetti(croissants), strawberry jam and a couple of bottles ofFragolinodessert wine to celebrate!’

As far as gluttony was concerned, I’d met my match. Only she, of course, was half my weight.

Crazy as a nuthouse, Renata hadn’t changed since I met her one early morning two years ago. We’d only been in the farmhouse one night, when a tap-tapping had woken us. I’d honestly thought it was a woodpecker knocking away on a nearby tree at the crack of dawn. But no. The tap-tapping had become a pound-pounding and with a groan, Julian had flipped back the coverlet and jumped into his jeans before padding downstairs.

‘It had better be the bloody milkman,’ had been his first words on his first morning in Italy.

I remember sitting up. Who the hell could it be? Apart from thenotaio, the notary officer, who had overseen the sale transaction, I’d thought that no one knew about us. We hadn’t even been to the supermarket yet. But I was so wrong. The word had gotten out that we, theAmericans(although Julian is English), had bought the Colle d’Oro farmhouse to open a B & B.

And they’d poured into my kitchen, a gazillion beautiful, friendly kids followed by a couple in their late thirties, as Julian stood in total confusion.

‘Ciao,Erica.Come stai?’ she’d said throwing herself at me. How are you?

I’d immediately dubbed them The Sunshine Family – Renata, her husband, Marco, their twins, Chiara and Graziano, and their youngest, Andrea.

She was a pretty, petite woman with huge turquoise eyes. Her husband was tall and good-looking in a wholesome way, and they were both easygoing and genuine. Renata wore a simple flower-print dress that did nothing to hide a generous bosom. Her blondish hair had been swept up in a hasty, harried ponytail, but I caught a glimpse of the tattoo on the back of her neck and the way Marco held her by the waist even as they all piled in. I liked them instantly.

Before we could speak, they introduced themselves as our neighbors and whipped out a large basket containing a pretty tablecloth, cutlery, crockery and the most colorful food I’d ever seen. Julian had rubbed his face and grinned at me, and I’d shrugged my shoulders. That’s what I loved most about him – his naturalness.

Now normally, I hated early birds, especiallyhappyearly birds, chatting away as if they were on speed. But when the early birds bring you fantastic food and even hot coffee in multiple thermoses, how can you hold a grudge?

So I’d gone with the flow and bit into acornettoand almost swooned on the spot as Nutella chocolate enveloped my tongue.

‘Do you like?’ she’d asked while feeding her youngest a cookie, her pretty eyes lighting up, searching mine.

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