CHAPTER 31
"I always knew I'd marry, but I didn't know I'd walk in alone to meet two mothers at the altar."
Valentina ROSSI
The church smelled of incense burned for centuries.
I stopped at the back door, with Donna Beatrice adjusting the veil one last time, taking it all in from a distance.
Luca was to the right of the altar. Black three-piece suit, white shirt, black silk tie. His posture locked the way it locked when he didn't know what to do with his hands.
He'd combed his hair back. I'd never seen him with his hair combed.
He turned before he should have and looked at me.
My heart skipped a beat.
Francesca was on the altar step, on my side, in the midnight-blue dress she'd picked out herself in Palermo. A small black clutch at her waist, a cigarette tucked inside it, because Francesca couldn't go an hour without a cigarette, and I knew it.
When she saw me, she pressed her lips together, but she didn't cry. Almost.
The organ began. It wasn't the standard wedding march. It was Schubert—Ave Maria. Adelina had chosen it.
I walked.
I walked slowly, alone, no best man, no father, no brother—mine was in the south cellar of the Villa Moretti, with books and a pitcher of water, and I carried the nonna's words against my chest: he gave himself up to save your mother.
I walked the twenty-four steps of the church aisle with the two emeralds—one at my ear, the other on my right ring finger. I walked with eleven kilos of ivory fabric. I walked with Nonna Adelina in the first pew on the right, absolute black dress, cane against her knee, her black eyes fixed on me.
In the second pew on the left—empty. My father's place.
The Neapolitan society press would notice. The nonna had ordered it left empty anyway. Let them see, she'd said the night before. Let them see the dead man's place.
I reached the step and Francesca squeezed my hand lightly over the bouquet.
"You look gorgeous, you bitch," she whispered.
I almost laughed. Almost.
I went up the step and stopped beside Luca.
He leaned in—just a centimeter, no one saw it—and whispered in my ear so low that only I heard:
"Bella mia."
The priest spoke in old Italian.
I didn't understand all of it, and I didn't need to. I knew what he was saying; the phrases passed through me the way they pass through the bride and groom in every church in the world—not understood and understood at the same time.
When he got to the vows, Luca went first.
He turned to me and took both my hands in both of his. His hands were cold.
Madonna, I thought. The man has cold hands.
"I, Luca Vincenzo Moretti," he said, low, "take you, Valentina Rossi, as my wife."
I swallowed hard.
"I promise to be faithful to you. In joy and in sorrow. In sickness and in health. All the days of my life."
His black eyes didn't leave mine for a second, and then the priest looked at me.
"Signora."
"I, Valentina Rossi, take you, Luca Vincenzo Moretti, as my husband."
My voice didn't shake. My mouth did. But not my voice.
"I promise to be faithful. In joy and in sorrow."
"Sì, bella mia," he murmured, so low that only I heard.
"In sickness and in health. All the days of my life."
Francesca, beside me, let out a breath.
The priest held out the silver tray. Two gold rings. Thin. No stone. Identical.
Luca took mine and lifted my left hand—ring finger—and slid it on. And for a second I felt the two emeralds shine together: Marta's on the right, Lucia's at my left ear.
Two mothers. I'm not marrying in the dark.
I took his ring.
His hand was enormous. The finger thick, the veins standing up under the tanned skin.
I slid the ring on.
"Ció che Dio ha unito," Don Alessandro said, "l'uomo non lo separi."
Luca leaned in.
His hand came up to my face, his whole palm on my cheek, the way he did it, and then he kissed me.
It wasn't a short kiss of courtesy. It was a Luca Moretti kiss—three whole seconds, three, with the church breathing around us and no one daring to move.
I closed my eyes, felt the heat of his body through the heavy wool jacket.
When he pulled back, I laughed. For the first time all day, I smiled.
The applause of the whole church filled everything.
We went out.
Grains of rice in my hair, on the veil, on the shoulder of his jacket. Photographers on the step below, shouting in Italian and English at the same time. Francesca behind us with the bouquet in her hand.
The nonna waited on the second step, leaning on the cane. When Luca passed her, he stopped and kissed her hand. She kissed his forehead, then looked at me.
"Signora Moretti."
"Nonna."
I saw her first smile in all the time I'd known her.