The Guncle Abroad

Chapter Seventeen

The rehearsal dinner was on the lawn of the Villa del Balbianello, a breathtaking estate once home to Franciscan friars that was left by its most recent owner, the Italian explorer Count Guido Monzino, to the Fondo Ambiente Italiano, the National Trust of Italy, upon his death. The house sat on the very tip of the peninsula of Dosso d’Avedo, and was famous for both its terraced gardens and stunning views of the lake. It had also been a filming location for the Bond film Casino Royale (it stood in for a hospital, where Daniel Craig convalesced just before the film’s climax) as well as for Star Wars: Attack of the Clones, largely regarded as one of the worst entries in the series, which meant that it was Grant’s favorite.

“The Clone Wars happened here?” Grant asked breathlessly as they stepped off the private water taxi that had shuttled them from the hotel.

“Not really, mind you,” Patrick said, stifling a yawn, as if there had been actual skirmishes with clones. Over the last few weeks they had seen a lot of historical landmarks and Patrick didn’t want the boy confusing fiction with fact. Star Wars may have taken place a long time ago, but in this moment it was only Patrick wishing he could transport himself to a galaxy far, far away. “But, according to Livia, they filmed the movie here.” Livia had given them a rundown on the property that morning at breakfast, but Patrick was still exhausted after his night and had only been half listening while popping espressos like pills.

“Not even the Clone Wars part,” Maisie informed her brother. “The romantic scenes. The parts you usually skip.” Patrick perked up; if Maisie had been listening to Livia that morning and was now passing along her observations as unassailable fact, it might mark a thawing in their relationship. She was even wearing the Prada outfit that Livia had selected.

“Oh,” Grant said, disappointed. That was obviously much less interesting.

“Is that one of the movies with Natalie Portman or Carrie Fisher?” Patrick asked as another yawn escaped.

“Why are you so tired?” Maisie asked with a slight air of disgust. Now was not the time to drift off.

“I’m not tired, I’m relaxed.” Patrick had spent the afternoon at the hotel spa getting a treatment called the Sleep Ritual, which he’d hoped would afford him a nap before the evening’s festivities. The Ritual was described on the spa menu as a total body experience that calms the mind as well as soothes the body by incorporating the plants that grow naturally on the shores of Lake Como. Exfoliation with everlasting flower, soft packs of lavender, sage, and mint—that sort of thing. Patrick was promised the sensation of pure wellness. What he received instead was sudden-onset narcolepsy; he felt in danger of falling dead asleep on his feet.

“Are you going to get through this?”

Patrick steeled his posture. “You know me. As long as I get near-constant attention I’ll be fine.”

Maisie gave her uncle a push and Patrick realized he’d been blocking the steps. He trudged ahead, following members of Livia’s family, who had mostly ascended the steep embankment on their way to the lawn, where dinner would be.

The wedding party was given tours of the property in shifts as everyone waited with bated breath for the bride and the groom to arrive. Since the property had once been a monastery, two towers stood near the villa marking what remained of the original church. The estate passed hands a number of times before Count Monzino, who had led the first Italian expedition to Mount Everest, acquired it. He was buried along the shores of the lake, and there was even a little museum on the property of the count’s many things, including dogsleds from his 1971 expedition to the North Pole.

“That’s pretty cool,” Patrick said of the sleds, trying his best to get Grant to reengage.

“Meh,” was the kid’s reply, not finding any of this notebook-worthy. None of them had been to the North Pole, but sleds and toboggans were a dime a dozen in Connecticut and Grant himself had been the owner of several. He didn’t perk up until their tour guide showed them several secret passages that were added to the estate after the assassination of Prime Minister Aldo Moro in 1978. Patrick leaned on Monzino’s desk in an attempt to keep himself upright. The tour guide scolded him immediately when he emerged from a second hidden door.

“Sir!”

Patrick snapped awake and removed his hands from the desk. Touching in museums was a no-no.

“Why did he need secret passages?” Grant asked his uncle.

Patrick whispered in case he was wrong. “Because he was worried about pirates.”

Grant’s eyes widened and he produced his notebook at last. “The ARGH kind?”

Patrick meant the terrorist kind who might storm the properties of the rich from the water, but it was no skin off his back if Grant wanted to imagine the Jack Sparrow variety. It might even elevate his report from a B to an A. “Sure.”

The kid spun in a complete circle with a look that could best be described as “Dinner is looking up.”

The water taxi made several additional trips and more and more guests arrived. Patrick resisted champagne offered to him from a caterer with a tray, announcing proudly he was not drinking tonight, but ordered the kids two Shirley Temples. “Seven maraschino cherries each,” Patrick instructed, as some things never change. They walked across the plush green lawn, which was made for croquet; it was flat and level, free of weeds and divots. It was so comically perfect it reminded Patrick of the queen’s garden in Alice in Wonderland, where they played croquet with hedgehogs for balls and flamingos for mallets.

“You have to talk to Dad tonight,” Maisie implored. There was new urgency in her voice. “We’re running out of time.”

“Off with their heads!” Patrick cried, still lost in his Wonderland dream.

“Now we’re talking!” Maisie replied. “Although, maybe just Livia’s.” She was willing to extend a pardon to her dad.

“We’re not decapitating anyone. Did you read Alice in Wonderland?” Patrick asked, and Maisie looked at him doubtfully.

“Did you?” Maisie challenged. Since she was the bookworm, he thought it best not to press; Patrick was pretty certain the Queen of Hearts only threatened to behead the losing players save for Alice, but maybe he wasn’t remembering the scene correctly. He wasn’t even sure why it popped into his head at all, beyond his drowsy state, although perhaps there was some metaphor there. He was the nearest queen in a seat of power, and Maisie was pressing upon him to act. But the rules in this land were maddening and didn’t make much sense, just like they hadn’t for Alice. Patrick led them over to a stone wall overlooking the lake, where the waiter found them and gave the kids their drinks.

Patrick fussed with the collar on Maisie’s blouse until it was just perfect. “You really want to stop this wedding? I’m not joking anymore. After all we did and saw, after all our talks about love, after the nice evening you had with her in Milan?” Just the previous night Greg had asked for his brother’s support and he wanted very much to honor the request. But Patrick was being pulled in too many directions to keep up. “You can’t envision happiness with Livia at all?”

Maisie stood silently, crossing her arms in defiance at the foot of a large stone statue depicting a friar wearing a hood, lifting his robes just enough to expose sandaled feet. His beard was impressively detailed, but his hand didn’t have any fingers—whether they were never chiseled or worn down by time, Patrick didn’t know. He stepped into its long, thin shadow, hoping to disappear. But there was no slipping into the shadows with Maisie; she was holding her ground.

“What if she wasn’t your stepmother. What if she was just your father’s wife. You couldn’t imagine a way to make peace with her? Over time. Even for the sake of your dad?”

“Dad’s not going to be happy with two miserable kids.”

“Grant?”

Grant was conspicuously silent.

Patrick had no choice but to concede the point. Greg would never be happy if Maisie and Grant were not. This would hurt, but maybe in the long term it was what was best. There would be drama, there would be raised voices, there would be humiliation (frankly, under slightly different circumstances, all things gay men thrived on), but then it would be over, and they could all start rebuilding their lives.

Again.

“Okay, you’re right. I have been distracted by Palmina. And I kept thinking you’d come around. I mean, you’re kids. Kids don’t know what they don’t know. I thought you would listen to me. Except, you two have experienced things. You’ve been forced to grow up faster than most. I didn’t take into account that you might listen to me and still disagree.”

Maisie tapped her foot impatiently. What was Patrick trying to say? Even Patrick wasn’t quite sure.

“Okay.”

“Okay, what?”

Patrick yawned again, then closed his eyes in defeat. “I’ll talk to your father.”

“Now?”

“Is he here?” Patrick forced his eyes open and scanned the lush lawn, where a long banquet table was being set. He hated to ruin a beautiful dinner. Last night he had come around to his brother’s way of thinking, but perhaps Maisie was right all along. Livia was like a rejected organ transplant—they could apply bandages and try medication and monitor the situation closely, but in the end she just wasn’t going to take. Their engagement was on life support. “Tonight.”

“Good.” A wave of relief washed over the girl’s face, and getting what she wanted, she excused herself to explore the grounds.

Patrick took Grant by the shoulders and placed the boy between him and the awkwardness to come.

“GUP?” Grant’s voice was reedy and thin. He had to ask for his uncle again before Patrick replied.

“I’m sorry. What?”

Grant hesitated as he took everything in. A soft pink dyed the late afternoon sky and a gentle breeze tickled the tall olive trees that grew and twisted like stately guards across the vast property. “I like it here,” he confessed. “This trip has been the best time. I don’t want it to end.” He threw his arms around Patrick’s waist, hugging his uncle tightly. For the first time Patrick recognized daylight between Maisie and Grant. Their whole lives they’d been one unit in his mind, where one went the other was not far behind. But they were growing up, growing into different people, it should not have been a surprise that they’d have different needs. Grant was so young when Sara died. Maybe he secretly wanted another shot at a mom. “Grant—” Patrick began, ready to dig into this further. Tonight would be that much harder if he needed to carefully thread a needle.

“Oh, look, there’s SAC!” Grant exclaimed as another water taxi approached shore.

Patrick gripped his temples. “Who on earth is ‘sack’?”

“Straight Aunt Clara,” Grant giggled. “I just made it up.” It had been right under their noses this whole time.

Indeed, Clara was standing in the back of the water taxi, the wind on the lake sweeping her hair like she was on the cover of an eighties romance novel. “Wait, is that Aunt Clara?”

Patrick did a double take, then cupped his hands around his eyes to be sure. Clara was wearing her new Prada dress with sunglasses that were either new or he hadn’t seen. But it wasn’t the dress or the sunglasses so much as an even more startling accessory that transformed his sister’s demeanor—a man in a seersucker suit and mirrored aviators had his hand pressed against the small of her back, protectively, in that intimate way that suggested they were—Patrick almost couldn’t complete the thought—together. How long had he been in the spa?

“Who’s that with Aunt Clara?” Grant asked. But Patrick could only yawn a nonresponse.

“Let’s go see!” Grant said, and he tore off across the lawn like a roadrunner.

“No running!” Patrick called after him, but it was too little, too late, and he wasn’t even sure why he’d said it, as an open lawn overlooking a lake was the perfect place for a kid to run free.

“SAAAAAAAAAAAC!” the boy screamed, and his voice echoed off the retaining wall.

Overwhelmed, Patrick looked up at the friar and said, “You lucky bastard.” The friar, made of stone, did not respond, so Patrick took off in Grant’s direction.

The mystery man held Clara’s hand as they disembarked the boat and was just as attentive as they ascended the stairs. “Grant!” Clara cried as she spotted her nephew. “Where’s Maisie? I want you to meet someone special. This is Gustavo.”

“Gustavo?” Patrick asked as he arrived, out of breath. He braced his hands on his knees while he waited for confirmation that he had heard his sister correctly. He angled one eye up at the man, who appeared to be sixty, with thick graying hair that looked like a tamed Brillo pad and a dark pair of caterpillars over his eyes to match. His skin was red, and Patrick couldn’t tell if it was from the sun, or from skipping his blood pressure medication that day or, god forbid, popping Viagra. The newcomer was not unattractive as older men go, but hardly seemed like his sister’s type.

“Sì,” Gustavo said, and he shook Patrick’s hand vigorously.

“Isn’t he great? He owns a chain of supermarkets.”

“Gustavo,” Patrick repeated.

“Sì, Gustavo,” Gustavo said again, and shook Patrick’s hand like he hadn’t just done that seconds before.

Clara’s eyes grew wide. “It means staff of the gods.” She then nudged Patrick and whispered, “He doesn’t speak a lick of English.”

“Then how do you know his name means...” Patrick struggled to remember what she had just said.

“?‘Staff of the gods.’ I googled it.” Clara sparkled with pride, as if she were the first person on earth to think of googling a paramour. She leaned in even farther, gripped Patrick by his lapels, and said, “And here’s hoping,” before breaking out in a Cheshire grin and making like she was Groucho Marx with a cigar.

Patrick groaned as his face folded in on itself in disgust. “This family needs an HR department.”

Clara laughed. “He was at the valet when I was coming back from the beach.”

“Parking cars?” How desperate had his sister become?

“No! Checking in. I told you he owns supermarkets. Or owned supermarkets. The verb tense is tricky. At least I think he was checking in. He’s very difficult to understand. Where’s Maisie?” She scanned the lawn for her niece. “I could use her app, to be honest. What was it called again?”

“SayHi.”

“Hi. But what was the app called?”

Patrick looked up at the sky, trapped in this “Who’s on First?” nightmare from hell. “No, the app is called SayHi.”

“And where is she?”

“Where is who?”

“MAISIE.”

“Oh, sorry. Auditory recency bias.”

Clara ignored her brother’s antics, unable to peel her eyes from Gustavo’s wide face and bold features. “Not understanding him will eventually be an impediment. Then again, you’re impossible to understand and people seem to like you.” She drank in Gustavo another moment before deciding they needed a cocktail, stat.

Patrick placed a hand on her arm. “Actually, could we talk for a—”

But Clara already had a tight grip on Grant’s hand. “Come on,” she said, pointing them straight toward the action. “Let’s go find your sister.”

Patrick glanced politely at Gustavo, who announced, “Villa del Balbianello!” as if he were offering brand-new information.

Annoyed, Patrick, Clara, and Grant all muttered, “We know.”

Patrick was startled awake by applause. He felt along the bench beneath him with his hands, confused; he must have nodded off. Damn that massage. The ovation was for Greg and Livia, who arrived on the last water taxi—together they made a grand entrance onto the lawn looking absolutely resplendent, and everyone began snapping photographs of the bride and groom like they were movie stars walking the Croisette at Cannes. If he hadn’t been so absolutely exhausted Patrick might have been jealous, not just of the attention they were receiving as the evening’s stars, but also because they looked so damn happy. He scanned the lawn, hoping the kids would see and recognize at last that this was a union to be built up and not torn down. Alas, Grant was arm wrestling with Gustavo and Maisie stood with her arms crossed, looking at Patrick like Drew Barrymore in Firestarter. Disturbed, Patrick watched as Clara pulled Greg aside to point out Gustavo and then the table, where an additional setting would have to be arranged for her spontaneous plus-one. Gustavo stepped forward and said his name as introduction to a stunned Greg, who looked around either for help or to see if he was being pranked. When his eyes landed on Patrick, Patrick shot back his best Don’t look at me. For once, he was the sibling better behaved.

It was then that someone whispered in his ear. “I do the toast.” It was Palmina, clad in another of a seemingly endless parade of jumpsuits, this one a color somewhere between mango and squash, a shade Patrick didn’t consider very wedding-y, although it might come in handy masking stains if the menu offered some sort of gazpacho. The way she made her pronouncement was so seductive and secretive Patrick momentarily thought she was confessing having just had sex with a dry piece of bread.

“You do the what?” And then he understood. He looked around for backup, but Greg was talking to Grant and Livia was deep in conversation with her mother. Even though he had just admitted to Maisie that Palmina had been a distraction of his own making, he couldn’t help but be sucked back into the rivalry. “No, I do the toast,” he corrected. “I’m the best man.” He hadn’t prepared exact words, but that wouldn’t stop him; he wouldn’t cede the spotlight to someone who looked like they were dressed for hang gliding. Actors, after all, were good on their feet.

“I’m the best woman,” Palmina countered.

“I’m Greg’s brother.”

“I am Livia’s sister.” The way she glared made it clear she thought this was some sort of patriarchal spitting contest.

How could Patrick best explain? The difference was not that he was a man, but that he was famous. People wanted, no—expected to hear from him. He was always what made the price of admission worth it. Of course, that might not really serve his cause when the bulk of the evening’s guests were related to her and his fame didn’t necessarily translate overseas, but that didn’t matter, as Patrick also had another motive in mind: he was best suited to deliver remarks that could work on multiple levels, not just for Greg and Livia, should he decide to throw them a lifeline, but for Maisie and Grant as well. Palmina didn’t even understand this to be a requirement of the gig. Since their back-and-forth could easily go on through the appetizer course, Patrick relented and said, “Fine. We both give the toast. Final offer.”

Palmina heaved a heavy, disappointed sigh. “The trouble with men is they think everyone wants to hear what they have to say.”

Patrick didn’t disagree. He looked over his shoulder and flinched, surprised to find Maisie scowling behind him. “Jesus. We should put a bell on you.”

“I need to speak with you,” Maisie said, eyeing Palmina in a way that pleased Patrick: suspiciously. He was winning her back over to his side. “When’s dinner?”

“We rehearse first,” Palmina explained. “Then dinner.”

“Why do we have to rehearse having dinner?”

Patrick jumped in. “Because apparently you aren’t doing it right.”

Palmina fished in her clutch for a cigarette.

“Then I need to talk to you now.” Maisie motioned with her head to one side. “Alone.”

“Later. Let’s not be rude to your launt.”

Palmina’s interest was piqued. “What is this ‘launt’?” Her cigarette bobbled up and down in her mouth as she lit it.

“Lesbian. Aunt.” Patrick mashed his hands together to demonstrate. “Launt.”

“Like a portmanteau.” Palmina blew smoke out the side of her mouth and offered Patrick her pack. He declined, despite the intoxicating scent of her tobacco. He had smoked in college, but he had never looked that cool, like the cigarette was a natural extension of his hand. Holding a cigarette, Patrick always looked pained.

“You speak French?”

“I speak five languages,” she reminded him.

“How many do you speak, GUP?” Maisie asked.

“Just two,” Patrick admitted. “English and Connecticut tween.” He allowed Maisie to pull him away by the arm. Palmina locked eyes with her trio of friends standing in the shade of an olive tree and excused herself to join them.

As soon as they were alone Maisie held up her phone. “I’ve got Livia cold.” She barely tried to suppress a wicked grin. “This wedding is over. She’s so dead.”

Patrick blanched at her word choice. This was all becoming a bit too cutthroat.

“She thought she could sneak one past me in Italian? SayHi, Livia!”

Patrick reached for Maisie’s phone to see what she thought she had heard, but she snatched it away just in time.

“Let me see what she said.”

“Oh, you’ll see.”

“Come on. She at least deserves a chance to defend herself.”

Maisie challenged him with her eyes. “Fine. She can do that at dinner.”

Patrick grabbed a glass of champagne from a passing waiter.

“I thought you weren’t drinking today.”

“Yeah, well, you’ve driven me to it.” Patrick took a large gulp, hoping the bubbles would settle a rapidly growing anxiety. If he was going to insert himself in what was about to go down he would need a little Nerve Clicquot.

At dinner, Patrick was seated next to Groot, which is what he and Grant had taken to calling Gustavo, since all he ever said was his name, and across from Clara, as Livia felt couples—even last-minute additions—should be split to encourage conversation. Some conversation, Patrick thought as Gustavo grinned at him with baseball-sized teeth. On Patrick’s right was Grant, and across from him Maisie and Palmina. Only Greg and Livia were seated together at the center of the table, with Livia’s parents, Lorenzo and Giana, on the far side with Cousin Geppetto and Palmina’s friends. When they were seated at the table there was only water in goblets to drink, so Patrick, still ill at ease, emptied his on the lawn and reached for a carafe of white wine to refill it. He didn’t wait for a toast to start drinking.

Clara, perhaps needing to galvanize herself for further conversation with Gustavo, reached for the carafe after Patrick. “How is the wine?”

“Thick,” Patrick gagged.

“Thick?” Clara asked.

Patrick petted his throat in the way one might when trying to get a dog to swallow a pill. “It’s olive oil,” he managed, struggling to speak.

“We press our own!” Lorenzo bellowed proudly as Patrick tried his best not to retch into a napkin.

“Great. Lorenzo’s oil,” Patrick muttered; no one appreciated this as a dig against Susan Sarandon, who somehow wrangled an Oscar nomination for a forgettable film of the same name. He grabbed for bread from a basket to soak up the last of the slick remnants in his mouth.

“I don’t think I’ve seen you eat carbs,” Greg confessed.

“Italy rules,” Patrick said with his mouth full.

“YEAH, ITALY RULES!” Greg said, misunderstanding, oblivious of his kids’ mood and the Mack truck that was about to hit him.

Patrick stopped a passing waiter and asked, “Could I get like a vase of actual wine?”

Dinner was catered by one of the lake’s five-star cooking schools and they were served bream baked in a salt crust. This was apparently a Sicilian tradition, salt lagoons being abundant on the island, and provided a showy presentation that failed to impress Grant, who, while at first intrigued, was slowly horrified when an entire fish—head and all—was excavated from the mountain of salt. He and Maisie both winced as the fish was filleted, and they stared at their servings when plated in front of them.

“What’s the matter, you don’t like fish?” Livia asked.

Grant did his best to explain that it wasn’t the fish that was the problem so much as the scales and the head.

“They are used to it in the form of sticks,” Greg explained with a wink. As always with new things, he liked his children to have a taste, but they wouldn’t be forced to eat the whole thing.

“Is there any salt?” Patrick joked, doing his level best to diffuse a tense situation (and for once using his powers of stealing focus for good). But the joke was on him when he took a bite and found the bream to be incredibly flavorful while not the least bit briny. He leaned into the table to catch Clara’s attention. “Will you ask Groot to pass the lemon?”

Greg nearly choked on his bream.

“Why do you call him that?” Clara groused. “His name is Gustavo.”

“GUSTAVO!” Gustavo said, leaning in to acknowledge everyone, as if they hadn’t already been introduced a half-dozen times.

Patrick stood up and reached for the lemon himself. “That’s why.”

Greg held his hand tightly, clutching his fork in front of his mouth to hide his laughter. He cleared his throat and changed the subject.

Growing weary of polite conversation, Patrick studied Palmina, who seemed equally glum, and his spirits momentarily lifted. Perhaps it was only because she, too, was seated separately from her friends, but, with a glimmer of hope, he suddenly wondered if Livia hadn’t likewise come to her, asking if she was making a mistake. Livia didn’t have her own children to consider, but certainly there was a world of eligible men available to her that were better suited—men who had less baggage and made more geographical sense. What might Palmina have counseled? She seemed to be a fan of both Maisie and Grant, as evidenced by how tenderly she stood by them, and lesbians as a whole seemed pro-marriage. They were so pro-marriage, in fact, some lesbians Patrick knew had been married two or three times. But in truth, Palmina was impossible to read. Was she in favor of this union? Or did she need to invite the Robert Palmer girls to fortify her spirits just to see this week through? Perhaps Palmina even had her own doubts, and the very reason she wanted to “do the toast” was so that she could put a stop to this wedding herself. Could Patrick be that lucky? Could he be off the proverbial hook? But if Palmina stole this task from his to-do list, would that make her the hero in Maisie’s eyes? She would no longer be her launt by marriage, but would she be elevated to some new role—savior—that would eclipse his own in her esteem? His head was swimming with obsession.

“Patrick,” Greg interrupted. “It’s Italy, you can’t possibly be so dyspeptic.”

“Sorry,” Patrick apologized while shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “I think I had some bad wine.”

“Nonsense!” Lorenzo said before leaning across the happy couple to squabble with his wife in Italian.

“Have you traveled much with your brother?” Livia asked, attempting to engage Clara in the conversation. In truth the three of them hadn’t traveled together much since they were kids.

“Have you?” Patrick shot back at Livia, thinking perhaps there was a fuse he could light that would lead them to self-destruct. Wasn’t that his best hope, after all? Absolving himself without boosting Palmina? “Greg is an awful travel companion.”

“Hey now,” Greg protested.

“His face is in a guidebook the whole time.”

“Guidebook?” Livia repeated with a judgmental air. Citizens of the world didn’t need guidebooks. Patrick hoped it made his brother seem small.

“Nonsense,” Greg protested.

“Remember Maui?” Patrick asked. They had taken the kids for Christmas one year, trying to reinvent the holiday without Sara.

Greg turned to Patrick, betrayed. “Are you going to bring up the triplets?”

Livia turned to Greg and cocked an eyebrow.

“The triplets were three sister waterfalls,” he reassured her. “Three waterfalls we found because of my guidebook.”

“And what happened at the three sisters?” Patrick asked.

“I fell in.”

“And why did you fall in?”

Greg was cornered. “Because my face was in a guidebook.”

Palmina tapped her wineglass with her spoon with such force Patrick was shocked it didn’t shatter. She continued until she had everyone’s attention. The table grew quiet in hushed anticipation and even Gustavo fell silent, his eyes sparkling at Clara. Palmina stood with her glass and Patrick’s heart began to race. “Amici, amiche. Old friends, new friends.”

“Gustavo,” Gustavo said, introducing himself to Palmina and the last few at the far end of the table he had not met.

“There was some discussion as to who should do the toast, and unable to come to a peaceful conclusion I have agreed to share this duty with Patrick.”

Patrick’s face grew hot as eyes turned to him.

“But we have not decided who shall do the first.”

Patrick realized people were looking to him to respond. “Oh,” he said, stalling. Now that the time was here, he desperately wanted Palmina to take the lead. “Ladies first,” he said, challenging her to dive in.

Palmina held his gaze unfazed. “So, it is decided, then.” Patrick exhaled, relieved. “Patrick?” His heart sank. She gestured to him as she took her seat, winking across the table at her family.

Patrick closed his eyes and swallowed, even though his mouth was dry. Was this stage fright? He’d always felt a rush of adrenaline before entering the spotlight, but this was something new entirely and he needed a moment to diagnose it. But all eyes were upon him, most searingly Maisie’s. So he picked up his glass and stood.

“First of all. I want to thank the Brasso family for their incredible hospitality. Livia. Lorenzo and Giana, especially now that my glass is filled with wine and not olive oil.” Patrick sniffed his glass to be sure.

“Vino, vino!” Giana declared to the tune of “Hear, hear!”

Patrick gritted his teeth as he turned to his new nemesis. “Even Palmina, for allowing me to say a few words first, the dig at my manliness notwithstanding. This is a lovely evening and a beautiful estate. In fact, it reminds me a bit of a mosquito-ridden summer cottage we vacationed in as kids back home.” Greg and Clara laughed, but the others not so much. “I’m the comedian,” he explained for those who needed context.

“Hollywood Foreign Press!” Lorenzo shouted, and everyone raised their glass as if that were the toast.

“No, no! I’m not finished.” Patrick then focused on the bride and groom. “Greg, Livia.” He took a deep breath and tried not to melt under the heat of the kids’ searing gaze. “I’ve done my best these last few weeks to teach Maisie and Grant about love and the different love languages we can employ to express it. But there’s one we didn’t discuss. And that’s protection.”

The color drained from Greg’s face and he whispered hoarsely, “Patrick, we use protection.”

Patrick, doing his best to ignore that, gripped his wineglass so firmly he was again surprised it didn’t shatter. “Love is something special to be protected. Because if you don’t protect it, if you don’t honor it as something rare and precious, it’s easy to walk away from. I did that, and I regret it.” Patrick’s voice cracked as he thought about Emory, before his thoughts turned to Sara and Joe. He did his best to carry on. “My brother and I both know loss. Too well. And we also know not everybody gets a second chance at love. But Greg and Livia do.” Patrick turned to face them. “Let’s just say the beating of my heart is a drum that is lost, and it’s looking for a rhythm like you.”

Maisie kicked her uncle under the table. This was not going in the direction they had discussed. Clara, meanwhile, leaned across Maisie to address Greg. “Is he quoting Air Supply?”

“Yes. Yes I am quoting Air Supply. Because these two are making love out of nothing at all.” Patrick bowed his head, to avoid Maisie’s stone-cold glare. “And so tonight, I choose to protect the bond you have created. Celebrate it. Even if it means disappointing someone else I love, too.”

Greg, at a loss, looked to Livia, who was equally confused. “Disappoint who?”

“Whom,” Grant said to everyone’s surprise.

“You promised,” Maisie whispered.

“Well, I shouldn’t have. That’s on me.” He could sense Greg glaring at him and easily read his brother’s thoughts: Whatever’s going on here—shouldn’t you have mentioned it last night? “I tried to teach you about love. Perhaps I’m a bad teacher. Perhaps there are certain things you are still too young to understand.”

“I’m not too young!”

“Fine. Too angsty, or hormonal or, just, you know—fill in the blank with whatever word you choose.”

“Hormonal?” Maisie stood up, enraged.

Concerned, Greg whispered, “Maisie, are you having your period?” He started counting weeks on his fingers.

Maisie grabbed clumps of her hair in her hands and tugged in frustration. “Everyone stop talking about my body. I don’t have a body! Okay? From now on I am a head. ONLY A HEAD!”

“Okay, calm down,” Patrick urged. He then turned to the others at his end of the table. “This is a very heady performance.”

Palmina stood in Maisie’s defense and slammed her fist on the table. “Never tell a woman to calm down.”

“Palmina,” Patrick begged. “This doesn’t concern you.” Palmina was right, of course—it was perhaps the most annoying thing about her. But the situation called for de-escalation.

“Don’t talk to her that way,” Clara barked, jumping in to fortify Palmina’s position.

“Great,” Patrick said. “It’s the Sisterhood of the Traveling Aunts.”

Palmina brushed Clara aside. “I don’t need anyone to defend me.”

“Right,” Patrick said, sucked back into a rivalry he had vowed to let go. “Because as we all know, you’re the greatest thing since Sappho herself.”

Palmina groaned her displeasure. “Who died and put you in charge?”

Patrick went from annoyed to enraged, and before he could stop himself he said, “Their mother, for one.” The table gasped.

“PATRICK.” This time it was Greg who was enraged. “If anyone’s in charge here, it’s me. Now sit down.”

Palmina extended an arm, indignant. “Of course. Another man!”

Livia squirmed uncomfortably in her seat, torn between her sister and her fiancé, uncertain whether to jump in.

Patrick ignored Palmina’s protest and kept his focus on Greg. “If you were so in charge of the situation, why did you ask me to take the kids?”

“WHAT IS GOING ON?” Livia finally demanded.

“Fine.” Maisie produced her phone from her little bag, her eyes locked on Patrick the whole time. “I’ll do this myself.”

“Do what?” Greg asked, thoroughly stumped.

“I overheard Livia talking.”

Livia moved her napkin from her lap to the table. Clearly the meal portion of the evening was done. “Overheard me talking when? What is it you think I said?”

Maisie swallowed a large gulp of air. “That you didn’t want to be a mother!”

Livia grew very quiet. She looked to her own mother, not certain what to say. Giana sat perfectly still.

Greg looked from Maisie to Livia to Maisie and back again. “Livia, is that true?”

Livia looked like she’d been caught with her hand in the cookie jar. “Maisie. That’s simply not true. I would never say such a thing. I have wanted for years to be a mother. I tried very hard.”

It was Greg’s instinct to jump to his daughter’s defense. “Are you saying my daughter is lying?”

“I—I was speaking in Italian. How did you know?”

Greg’s head drooped in grave disappointment.

Maisie held her phone aloft. “Say hello to SayHi!”

“What is SayHi?” Giana asked her husband, still playing catch-up.

But Clara knew. “It’s Maisie’s translation app.”

Livia stammered. “I was only saying what Patrick and I had discussed.”

All eyes turned to Patrick. Even Maisie’s; she had now been betrayed by her uncle twice in one night.

“Patrick?” Greg asked. People were entering the chat faster than Greg could keep up. “You knew about this?”

“Maisie. It was a mistranslation,” Livia promised.

Greg took Maisie’s hand. “Perhaps we should give Livia a chance to explain.”

Maisie pulled her hand out of her father’s. “You hate me. You all hate me.” Tears welled in her eyes. “EVERYBODY HATES ME!”

Grant started to cry, out of fear, in his sister’s defense, out of sheer confusion.

“Everyone hates you?!” Patrick protested. “Try having a movie open at nineteen percent on Rotten Tomatoes! Nineteen percent!”

“Patrick!” Greg hollered, urging him once again to be calm.

“Oh! I see,” Patrick complained. “No one thinks twice about telling a gay man to calm down. Well, they should!”

“Patrick. I mean it.”

“GREG. Let me handle this. Please.”

“Let my sister explain,” Palmina demanded.

“Livia?” Lorenzo inquired. He, too, was ready for this to end. They had paid for a perfectly fine meal that was now ruined.

“Palmina,” Giana said, encouraging her daughter to sit back down.

“Maisie,” Patrick began, hoping the right words would come.

“GUSTAVO!” Gustavo bellowed.

The whole table shouted, “NOT NOW!”

“All of you be quiet!” Patrick yelled.

“No, Patrick.” Livia had had just about enough of this. “There is a time for uncles and there is a time for parents.” Livia got out from behind her chair and kneeled before Maisie, taking her hand in her own. Maisie tried to yank free, but Livia refused to let go.

“Maisie. It’s true. I did say I didn’t want to be a mother. Or rather, just anyone’s mother. What I was trying to convey is that I want to be your mother. And Grant’s.” She wiped tears from Maisie’s eyes with her thumbs. And Maisie, momentarily, let her. Until, overwhelmed, she found the strength to pull away.

“But you’re not my mother. You’re not! And you never will be!” She began pleading with Greg. “You can’t marry her, Dad. You can’t. I hate it here. I want to go home. I want my friends. I want MOM.”

“MAISIE, STOP!” Grant climbed on top of his chair. He was the first of them to get the table to fall quiet. “I want a mom. You got to have one for nine years and I only got six. I like it here. I like Livia!” Livia looked up at Grant, her eyes melting. “I want a mom for birthdays and summer vacations and to wake up with on Christmas and to buy us Santa presents and regular presents and stocking presents.”

Patrick put one arm around Grant and hugged him tight. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Tiny Tim.” To explain, he added, “Grant’s love language is gifts.”

“Maisie,” Greg managed, while looking at Grant. He didn’t know which of his kids to address first; the bottom of his whole world was falling out.

Maisie stepped back from the table, equal parts horrified and enraged.

“Where are you going?” Livia asked.

“Connecticut.”

“Maisie.”

Maisie’s face twisted in overwrought teenage agony. “I don’t care if I have to swim!”

“Oh my god,” Livia said, then discreetly reached across Greg for her napkin. Maisie looked down mortified to discover a trickle of blood running from her culottes down her leg.

Completely overwhelmed, she turned to Patrick and screamed, “This is all your fault!” She then buried her head in Livia’s shoulder and sobbed as Livia lovingly attended to her needs.