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Antonio gives me a lazy smile but doesn't say anything. He goes ahead to watch the feast happening right in front of us, but no matter how hard we try, we do not appear to be a part of it.
“Why did you kiss me?”, the question flies off my lips. “Shit.” I slap my face in embarrassment and reach for the rest ofmy drink. I down the entire content and pour another round into the glass.
Antonio laughs, and my heart begins to melt. His shoulders heave with the action, and I find myself craving to see more of his happiness. He looks peaceful, less harmful—nothing like the man I saw earlier. He finds my steady gaze on him. He squints while rearranging his collars and his sleeves, before saying, “You entertain me so well, Ella Miller. I could say you are the only thing that was missing in Italy.” As he speaks, his face reflects what the past must have been like for him. I imagine a young boy running up the green hills, yelling for his father in the grapevine and crouching by his mother to understand the different flavors and spices. There it is again, the warm fussy feeling in my heart. I swallow hard and look away from him.
“I wished to kiss you, Ella, and I did. I assume that is what you want too.” He says in a low tone.
“More than that, perhaps.” I drop my eyes to my knees, watching his fingers tap his knees as the tension mounts between us. I choose the path of delight and play his game. I wink at him and pour him another glass of wine, grazing his fingers with intent. I wasn’t going to let him lead. I started the games, and I am ready to see the end of it. “Do you speak Italian, Antonio?” I am relentless. The slight chance that the tables would spin again.
We get distracted by the wedding coordinator’s laughter. “Sergio would be on his knees in seconds!” Shawn bellows. I look around the field to realize that a group of men dressed in white tunics and funny-looking pants are holding trumpets, tambourines, guitars… is that a clarinet?
“La tarantella,” Antonio says with a smile adorning his handsome face.
“Sorry, what now?” I ask.
“It's a dance. It will be fun. Unisciti alla mia signora,” whispering in my ear before he pulls me up to my feet. I yelp when he drags me with him to the music. I notice then that we are not the only ones. I am unprepared for the sight that greets me. Everyone begins to dance in circles around the dinner tables.
“You speak Italian, great!” I yelled above the music as Antonio laughed. He placed a firm hand on my waist, leading me and my hopeless heart to the music. Grace encourages me to kick off my shoes as soon as we reach the grass to dance.
I am lost in it all, the dancing, the wedding, Tuscany, and most of all Antonio... I am lost in him as he fills my entire being with his solid presence behind me. I let my soul sour but now allowed myself to be uplifted by the singing, laughter, and music. The anticipation, excitement, and nerves veered to the top position as I glided into their midst. Currently, I am Ella Miller without bills to be paid or customer complaints to worry about.
“Easy there, compagna, or you will be on the ground in seconds,” Antonio says above my nape. I shiver, and my heart races like a wild horse galloping down the mountain. I am afraid and very much worried that I may be falling for this Italian hot mess behind me.
Chapter 6
Ella and Antonio
Ah! The sweet sounds of wedding bells. The dainty bride walking down the aisle. Her rosy cheeks and sparkling eyes, her fears and her anxieties, her sweet smiles, and her happiness hidden behind a veil.
This is all anyone thinks about, the moment of perfect togetherness when the rings are exchanged and a kiss is shared between the bride and her groom, but on this day, Grace grips my hand and buries her head in the warmth of my neck. “I feel sick, Ella. Maybe we should go home. I need more time. What if he is not right for me?” she tightens her hold.
Crap! This can’t be happening right now. Grace has developed that feeling of uneasiness just before her wedding ceremony. She is full of doubts and begins to question herself about her choice of a life partner. One thought leads her to an unending string of questions. I tell her that it is normal to have doubts about the wedding and that she will be fine. I hope this is true because I truly do not want her to ruin her life. Sergio is a very good man. He is different from all the other men she had gotten involved with and deserves everything good.
Sweat breaks out on her skin then the nervous cough follows. I am sure someone in the room, which definitely isn'tgoing to be me, is going to have a heart attack if Grace decided to suddenly bolt out the doors.
Everyone has put so much effort into this, and no one wants to see a skittish bride today. No one wants to see Grace ruin it all because of nerves. She is really going to squeeze my lungs out if I don't figure out a way to calm her nerves.
The makeup artist is watching us in irritation while the dresser chews her gum as she scrolls through TikTok videos. The rest of the bridesmaids are bickering over the state of their dresses and yapping about the groomsmen they get to dance with for the wedding dance. Amidst all this chaos sits the nervous bride.
I brush away a loose strand of hair on her nape and hush her when I hear a sniff and quietly say, “Do not ruin your once-in-a-lifetime makeover, Grace. I have never seen you look this pretty in all my years. Do you wish to get mascara on the wrong spot now?”
“Oh, if she bloody ruins it, we’ll have to get the entire thing off her face. And start again,” the makeup artist chips in. I glare at her, and she waves her hands in frustration.
“Okay, that's it. Everyone out. Grace needs a moment.” I muster the most authoritative tone I can when I speak to them. They quickly huddle out of the room without question, and I finally pull Grace up by the chin to look into her eyes.
“Heavens, help Sergio today because you are stunning Grace.” The words fly out because, in truth, I have never seen her look more beautiful. Gently, I guide her to her feet, then lead her to the full-length mirror in the dressing room. We stand there for a few minutes watching the image we present before our eyes. Grace in a stunning wedding dress and me, her maid of honor, dressed in a royal blue silk gown with a slit that hikes up to my thighs.
“It's…” Grace starts, holding her flowers up. “It's beautiful.”
I nod my head, unable to find words for it. Finally, they come and with all the calmness I can muster I tell her,“And I am sure you and Sergio will make a fine home.” I pinch her wrists, and she laughs.
“He will forever bore me with Italian traditions and food recipes.”
“Well, if you need more time before beginning that milestone, it's wonderful to speak your mind. It takes a call, and everyone will lift their butt off from those hard-wooden benches lined up in the church.”
“Oh dear,” a voice complains from the door. We look back to find Grace’s mother walking to us with a feathery hat bouncing above her head as she walks. “Hello, Grace. Hello, Ella.” She nods before air-kissing her daughter.
That is my cue to leave. “Hello, Mrs. Davis. I’ll see you soon, Grace. Remember, if you ever wanna hop off the train, gimme a little tap, and we will be on our way to Saudi Arabia.”
