Adriana Trigiani

Brava, Valentine

1. Shake Down the Stars

THE MOST MAGICAL THING HAPPENED on the morning of my grandmother’s wedding in Tuscany. It snowed.

This is definitely Italian snow, not the New York City variety of midwinter precipitation. It doesn’t fall in big, chunky flakes, nor is it heavy February hail that stings faces and turns sidewalks into solid sheets of ice. Rather, this is a flurry of white glitter that sifts through the air and melts instantly when it lands on the stone streets.

From my window at the Spolti Inn, it seems the entire village of Arezzo is swathed in a lace bridal veil. I sip hot milk and espresso from a warm mug as I watch an old horse-drawn carriage pull up in front of the inn to take us to the church. It doesn’t feel like 2010. It could easily be a hundred years ago, not a modern touch in sight. Time stands still when people are happy. The ticking of real time resumes as soon as the rings are exchanged-for all of us.

Gram and Dominic’s wedding plans were made quickly and effortlessly (the beauty of an eighty-year-old bride is that she really knows what she does and doesn’t want). The airline tickets were bought online after a series of negotiations that eventually led to the splendid group rate that brought the Angelini and Roncalli families to this Italian village, into this moment, this morning.

We’ve all got roles in this romantic tale. The great-granddaughters are flower girls and the great-grandsons miniature groomsmen. My sisters Tess and Jaclyn and I are bridesmaids, as is our sister-in-law Pamela, while my mother is matron of honor. Dominic’s granddaughter Orsola will represent his side of the family in the bridal party. My father will walk his mother-in-law down the aisle and into the arms of Dominic Vechiarelli.

“It snowed that day,” I imagine I’ll tell my children. I’ll explain that after ten years as a widow, my grandmother found love again. Teodora Angelini’s story relies on fate, timing, and the best of luck. It’s also a story filled with hope-reminding all of us who haven’t found love that, regardless of age, experience, or locale, it’s a bad idea to close the book before “The End.” You just never know. Not one of us, not even the bride, saw this day coming.

“Somebody shoot me!” my mother shouts from the hallway. “My hair is a wet mop!”

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, Mike. We’re in a freakin’ hotel. Pipe down,” I hear my father bark back.

“Do you have to yell?” Tess hollers from her room. “Why does this family always have to yell?” she yells.

“Shh. You’ll wake the bay-bee!” Jaclyn whisper-shouts from her doorway.

My door bursts open. My mother stands in her full black slip with her hands on her hips. “I blew out my flatiron,” she announces. A flatiron blowout in my family is worse than finding a lump. And we have found our share of lumps.

Mom’s face is made up, alabaster-perfect and powdered down, ready for photographs from all angles. Her fake eyelashes give her enough oomph to pass as one of Beyoncé’s backup singers. Her cheeks have a peachy Bobbi Brown glow, but that’s all that’s sparkling about my mother. She’s beyond frazzled and close to tears.

“What’s the matter, Ma? You’re not yourself.”

“You noticed?”

“What can I do to help?”

“I don’t know. I’m just a-a-a…mess.” She plops down on my bed. Half of her head is done, straight, glossy strands of freshly dyed chestnut brown, and the other half is still damp and crimped. Mom has naturally curly hair, but you would never know it from her left profile. From the front, however, she looks like a split-screen hair model on the Home Shopping Network: before and after the anti-frizz cream has been applied. She smoothes the front panels of her black slip over her thighs and pulls the hem over her knees.

I sit down next to her. “What’s the problem?”

“Where do I begin?” Her eyes fill with tears. She pulls a tissue from under her slip strap and dabs the inner corners of her eyes so as not to irrigate the eyelash glue and cause the mink spikes to float away in her tears like paper canoes down the Nile.

“You look great.”

“Do I?” The tears insta-dry in my mother’s eyes, and she sits up straight. All it takes is a compliment to pull my mother back to her emotional center.

“Like a million bucks,” I promise her.

“I brought my Clarisonic. So at least I’m exfoliated. That didn’t blow in the outlet, thank God.”

“Thank God.”

“I don’t know, Valentine. I just don’t know. I’m completely off my game. I’m shaking. Look.” Mom holds up her hand. It flutters partly from nerves, and partly because she’s making it flutter. “This is so strange to me. To be a maid of honor at my own mother’s wedding.”

“Matron,” I correct her. “The last over-sixty maid of anything was Mother Teresa.”

Mom ignores the comment. She continues, “There’s something so out of kilter about this whole thing.”

“Gram is happy.”

“Yes, yes, and I’ve adjusted to all of it! It began with the news that my mother, eighty years young, fell in love. Then once I swallowed that, she decided to marry. I accepted her decision. Then she announces that not only will she become Dominic’s bride, she has decided to move to Italy. For good. It’s been a series of whammies, I’ll admit it. One beaut after another, I’ll tell ya. But I survived the shock of each little bomb she dropped and put aside my doubts and misgivings and went with it. Don’t I always go with the flow?”

“Always. So what’s the problem?”

“I feel disloyal to my father.” Tears fill her eyes once more.

“Mom. He’d be happy for Gram.”

“You think? He didn’t much worry about her happiness when he was on earth.”

I look at my mother. She never says anything unkind about her father.

“See what I mean?” Mom throws her hands in the air. “This wedding is bringing out the worst in me. I’m even judging my dead father. What the hell is wrong with me?”

“I wish I knew,” my father says. He stands in the doorway wearing his pressed blue-and-white-striped boxer shorts (yes, my mom irons his underwear) and starched formal dress shirt, which is so long it mimics one of Ann-Margret’s mini-dresses from Viva Las Vegas. His thin, hairless, sixty-nine-year-old legs are covered to the knee in black stockings held up by elastic braces.

My mother has placed two half-moon-shaped Frownies under each of Dad’s eyes. When he makes an expression, the sharp corners of the anti-wrinkle patches poke his eyeballs, so Dad keeps his eyes open wide without blinking, which gives him the look of a threatened gorilla. “Get these goddamn patches off my face.”

Mom checks her watch. “Five more minutes, Dutch, and you won’t have lines or bags.”

“Remove them. I want to be able to see now. I can’t look down. Or sideways. Believe me, it won’t be pretty if I fall down and break a hip. Can you imagine the medical care around here? They probably tie you to a plank with rope and make you lie there until the bones fuse.” Dad tries to yank the Frownie patches off his face.

“Don’t try and remove them on your own!” my mother yells.

“What is this adhesion?” Dad pats the patches.

“Adhesive. It’s a natural glue of some sort. I’ll get the rosewater spray to dissolve them. Dutch, I mean it. Don’t pull at them. You’ll make scabs.”

“Get the spray,” Dad says clapping his hands together in a tick-tock beat. “Get the spray. We got a schedule to keep here. You don’t want to be late for a wedding that features two eighty-year-olds. Anything could happen.”