Chapter 18
Chapter eighteen
Ginni
Iwake up feeling absolutely wonderful, like sunshine and rainbows and everything beautiful in the world has been distilled into pure energy and injected directly into my bloodstream.
The projector is displaying a gorgeous spring morning scene, complete with blooming cherry blossoms and birds singing in animated trees. Perfect for such a glorious day.
Carlo is already awake beside me, watching me with an expression I can’t quite read. Something soft and concerned that makes my heart flutter with happiness. He’s so attentive, so focused on me. What more could a new bride ask for?
“Good morning, my darling husband,” I chirp, bouncing up to sit cross-legged on the bed. “Isn’t it a beautiful day? I have so many plans for us!”
“Ginni,” Carlo starts, his voice gentle in a way that makes warmth spread through my chest, “about last night...”
“Last night was perfect,” I interrupt brightly, already climbing off the bed to start our day properly. “You were so wonderful, so tender. I’m still glowing from it. But today is a new day, and I have the most marvelous ideas!”
I practically dance around the room, my silk nightgown swirling around my legs like I’m the heroine in a romantic movie. Everything feels heightened, more vivid, like someone has turned up the color saturation on the world. The air itself feels sparkly, charged with possibility and joy.
“First, breakfast,” I announce, clapping my hands together with excitement.
“Not just any breakfast, but a proper celebration meal. Eggs Benedict with hollandaise made from scratch, fresh croissants from that divine bakery in South Kensington, that heavenly jam I ordered from France, and coffee made with beans from that little plantation in Jamaica that only harvests during the full moon.”
Carlo blinks at me, clearly trying to process my enthusiasm. There’s something in his expression that looks almost worried, but that’s probably just lingering wedding nerves. All new husbands feel a bit overwhelmed at first.
“Ginni, we should talk about...”
“And then,” I continue, spinning around to face him with my arms spread wide like I’m embracing the whole world, “we need to plan our proper honeymoon! I’ve been thinking about it all night, and I have the most incredible ideas.
The Maldives, obviously, but not just any resort.
I found this private island that you can rent entirely for yourselves.
Just imagine, Carlo, our own little paradise where we can walk on the beach naked and make love under the stars without a care in the world. ”
I hurry to the dresser and start pulling out the travel brochures I’ve been collecting for months, my movements quick and excited.
Glossy magazines full of crystal-clear water and white sand beaches, luxury resorts that only special people like Carlo can afford.
I spread them across the bed like a feast, each one more beautiful than the last, creating a rainbow of tropical paradise across the white sheets.
“Look at this one,” I gush, pointing to a stunning overwater bungalow that looks like something from a dream.
“Private butler, infinity pool, direct access to the lagoon where we can swim with tropical fish. And this one has a spa where they do couples massages with oils made from rare tropical flowers that only bloom once every seven years. We could spend weeks there, just the two of us, learning every inch of each other’s bodies. ”
The images blur together in my mind, becoming one perfect fantasy of endless blue skies and Carlo’s hands on my sun-warmed skin. I can almost feel the ocean breeze, taste the salt air, hear the gentle lapping of waves against our private dock.
“Sweetheart,” Carlo says softly, reaching for my hand with movements that are careful and deliberate, so elegant that the chains barely rattle. “Can we please slow down for a moment and...”
But I’m already moving on to the next exciting topic, my mind racing ahead like a thoroughbred at the starting gate. There’s so much to plan, so much to organize, so many beautiful dreams to make reality.
“Oh, and we absolutely must discuss our children! I’ve been thinking about names all morning.
For boys, I quite like Alessandro or perhaps Matteo.
Strong, classic Italian names that will suit them whether they’re artistic like me or formidable like you.
They’ll grow up bilingual, of course, and I’ll make sure they appreciate culture and beauty from the very beginning. ”
I grab a notebook from the nightstand, one I’ve been keeping for years with lists and plans and dreams carefully organized by topic. The pages flutter as I flip through them, showing Carlo all the careful planning I’ve done, years of preparation for exactly this moment.
“For girls, I’m thinking Isabella or Sofia.
Elegant names for elegant daughters who will grow up knowing they’re loved and valued for exactly who they are.
And we’ll need to start thinking about schools, won’t we?
I know it’s early, but the best nurseries have waiting lists that are years long.
I’ve already put our names down at several, actually. Just to be safe.”
Carlo’s eyes widen slightly, something that might be alarm flickering across his features. “You’ve put our names down at nurseries?”
“Of course!” I beam at him, delighted that he’s showing interest in the practical details.
“I believe in being prepared. The Montessori school in Chelsea has an excellent reputation for fostering creativity while maintaining proper nurturing. And there’s a lovely bilingual program in Kensington that would be perfect for raising properly cultured children.
They’ll speak Italian and English flawlessly, maybe French too if we hire the right nanny. ”
I can see it all so clearly in my mind, like watching a movie of our perfect future.
Our beautiful children playing in manicured gardens while we watch from a sun-drenched terrace, sipping coffee and planning family holidays to Tuscany.
Christmas mornings with perfectly wrapped presents under an enormous tree, birthday parties with all the right people, school plays where our talented offspring shine brighter than all the other children.
“And we’ll need a bigger place, obviously,” I continue, the ideas flowing out of me like water from a burst dam, each one more exciting than the last. “This basement is lovely for this phase of our honeymoon, but it’s not suitable for raising a family.
I’ve been looking at houses in Hampstead and Primrose Hill.
Somewhere with a proper garden where the children can play, and enough bedrooms for guests when your business associates come to dinner. ”
I grab my laptop and start pulling up property websites, showing Carlo the listings I’ve been bookmarking for months. Grand Victorian houses with period features and modern amenities, elegant Georgian terraces with private gardens, contemporary mansions that scream success and sophistication.
“Now, don’t get me wrong,” I add quickly, not wanting him to think I don’t appreciate what he’s already accomplished.
“Your current house is absolutely magnificent. That beautiful place in Mayfair with the stunning kitchen and the garden that looks like something from a magazine. I’ve always admired it.
It’s exactly the kind of home that shows how far you’ve come. ”
“But darling,” I continue, turning back to the laptop screen with renewed enthusiasm, “our new life together should begin in a new home, don’t you think?
A fresh start for our fresh beginning. Somewhere we choose together, somewhere that’s ours from the very first moment.
We can pick out every paint color, every piece of furniture, every beautiful detail together. ”
“This one is my favorite,” I say, pointing to a stunning white villa with floor-to-ceiling windows and a swimming pool that looks like it belongs in a luxury resort.
“Six bedrooms, five bathrooms, a wine cellar for your collection, and the most divine kitchen I’ve ever seen.
The estate agent says it has the best natural light in all of North London, and just look at that garden.
Perfect for children to play in, with enough space for a proper vegetable plot and maybe even a greenhouse. ”
Carlo is watching me with increasing concern, his dark eyes tracking my movements as I flit from topic to topic like a butterfly in a garden full of the most beautiful flowers. But that’s just because he’s not used to having someone who plans ahead so thoroughly.
“Ginni,” he says gently, his voice carrying undertones I can’t quite identify, “I think we should...”
“Oh, but first we need to plan the move itself!” I interrupt, already three steps ahead in my mental planning.
The logistics are going to be fascinating to organize.
“I’ll need to coordinate everything properly.
The packing, the cleaning, the redecoration.
We can’t just throw our things in boxes like common people.
Everything must be carefully wrapped and labeled and arranged in the new house exactly as it should be. ”
I start making lists in my head, categorizing our possessions by room and importance. It’s going to be a beautiful melding of two homes into one.
The good china will need special acid-free boxes, Carlo’s suits will require cedar-lined garment bags to protect them from moths, my book collection will need to be organized by subject and author before being packed in climate-controlled containers.
It’s going to be a magnificent project, the kind of domestic challenge I was born to tackle.
“We’ll need the very best professional movers, obviously,” I continue, my excitement building with each detail.
“Not just any company, but specialists who understand how to handle valuable items. I know a firm that moves art collections for museums. They have temperature-controlled trucks and insurance policies worth millions.”
The more I think about it, the more perfect it becomes. Every detail falling into place like pieces of an intricate puzzle that’s been waiting years to be assembled.
“And we’ll need to throw a housewarming party, won’t we?
Nothing too elaborate for the first one, just close friends and family.
Dario and Molly, obviously, and Nicolo and Liam if they’re not too busy with their own wedding plans.
Maybe thirty or forty people, with proper catering and flowers from that divine shop in Mayfair that creates arrangements that look like living sculptures. ”
I can already see it unfolding in my mind like a scene from the most beautiful movie ever made.
Elegant people in beautiful clothes wandering through our perfect home, admiring our taste and commenting on how well we’ve done for ourselves.
Carlo looking handsome and proud in a perfectly tailored dinner jacket as he shows off our accomplishments, his arm around my waist as we accept congratulations on our marriage and our new life together.
“The menu will need to be carefully planned,” I continue, already mentally composing the perfect balance of flavors and textures.
“Nothing too heavy, but substantial enough to satisfy your business friends. Perhaps that divine lamb with rosemary and garlic that everyone always raves about, and a selection of fresh seafood for the ladies who are watching their figures. And we’ll need vegetarian options too, of course, because everyone has dietary restrictions these days. ”
Carlo reaches for me again, his movements gentle but insistent, like he’s trying to anchor me to something. “Ginni, please. Stop for just a moment.”
But I can’t stop. The words keep pouring out of me like champagne from a shaken bottle, effervescent and unstoppable. Everything is so clear, so perfectly planned, so absolutely meant to be. It’s like the universe has finally aligned all the stars in exactly the right configuration.
“And we’ll need to establish proper traditions, won’t we?
Sunday dinners with all the family, holiday celebrations that become legendary, anniversary parties that people talk about for years afterward.
I want our home to be the kind of place where everyone feels welcome, where love is so obvious that it fills every room like the most beautiful perfume. ”
I grab Carlo’s hands in mine, squeezing them with all the excitement and joy bubbling up inside me like the finest Italian prosecco. His skin is warm and real and perfect against mine.
“We could have a different theme for each anniversary,” I continue, the ideas cascading over each other in my eagerness to share them all.
“The first year could be paper, so we’ll do everything in beautiful handmade papers from Japan.
The second year is cotton, so maybe a garden party with white linens and cotton flowers.
By the time we reach our silver anniversary, we’ll have created so many beautiful memories that people will beg us to write a book about entertaining. ”
His expression is so tender, so full of something that might be love or might be concern or might be both. But it doesn’t matter because we’re here, we’re together, we’re married, and our whole beautiful future is spread out before us like the most magnificent feast imaginable.
“And the children will help us plan the parties when they’re old enough,” I add, spinning another beautiful thread into the tapestry of our future.
“They’ll learn proper hospitality from watching us, and by the time they’re adults, they’ll be the most sought-after hosts in all of London.
People will compete for invitations to events planned by the Benedetti children. ”
The name sounds so perfect, so right. Our children will be Benedettis, carrying Carlo’s name and my love into the future like the most precious gifts.
“It’s all going to be perfect,” I whisper, leaning in to press a soft kiss to his lips. Carlo tastes like morning and possibility and everything beautiful I’ve ever dreamed of. “Everything is going to be absolutely perfect.”
And it is. It has to be. Because I’ve planned it all so carefully, down to the smallest detail, and nothing in the world is going to stop us from having our happily ever after.
Nothing at all.