Another swallow.
The door next to her opened and she started.
She'd thought everyone had already gone ahead to the church. Instead she found her aunt Frosini climbing in next to her.
"You're about to make the biggest mistake of your life," the old woman said.
The day was sunny and warm. The church was packed to overflowing. The best man and woman stood outside with the groom and the two families, waiting for the bride to arrive. For all intents and purposes everything was going according to plan. Only the groom knew the true extent of what had happened the night before. And despite the memorable way he'd come together with the bride, she hadn't said one way or another whether she would be at the church on time.
They'd both returned to their respective homes early that morning and he hadn't been left alone for a moment since. Initially he'd been asked where he'd been, why he hadn't called, but all that was soon forgotten as the festivities leading to where he stood now began. His own father had actually serenaded him. He hadn't known Stamatis Constantinos to sing a note in his life, yet he had gotten down on one knee and sung of a son of whom he was proud and a future that was sure to be bright.
Of course, Nick knew that when he and his new bride returned from their honeymoon he'd have to begin the long process of weaning himself from the influence of his parents, to learn how to put his own direct family—Efi—first. But for this one morning, his last as solely a son, he allowed himself to enjoy being the center of his parents' attention. Even after he'd told them that Efi's parents were not to be asked or expected to give anything to the bride and groom that they wouldn't do normally.
His mother had gasped at the news and fidgeted with her necklace. But his father had merely grinned at him in a way that Nick still wondered about. He'd expected anger, or perhaps even a long discussion where his father might try to convince him what they were asking for was reasonable. Instead Stamatis had grinned at him.
Much as he was grinning at him now.
And now it was Nick fidgeting not with his necklace but with his necktie.
Nearly everyone he knew in his lifetime was gathered for the event. Everyone but Efi.
He felt something on his left shoulder and looked to see Efi's aunt Frosini brushing lint from his suit jacket. She grabbed his chin in her bony fingers and gave him a jostle and a smile, then walked away, her black dress broken slightly by a sky-blue scarf she carried rather than wore.
Strange old woman, Aunt Frosini. For the past week he'd gotten nothing but evil looks from her. He'd feel the hairs at the back of his neck stand up on end and turn around and find her staring at him, as if wishing him some sort of ill will. But now he couldn't help thinking he'd been given a nod of some sort, a vote of confidence that perhaps he hadn't had before, but had somehow earned between then and now.
Or maybe she knew something he didn't… He squared his shoulders. It was just nerves, he told himself. Efi was coming. Of course she was coming. Wasn't she?
He looked at his watch. She was already more than forty-five minutes late. While it was tradition for the bride to keep the groom waiting—some sort of dominance thing, much like the stepping on the foot directly after the ceremony—wasn't forty-five minutes too long?
He leaned toward her father. "Who's with her?"
Gregoris Panayotopoulou stared at him beneath his bushy brows. "What do you mean who's with her?" He swept his arm wide. "Do you not see everyone here?"
Nick fought a sudden rush of panic. "No one's with her? She's alone?"
"The driver's with her."
"The driver…"
"Of the car I rented for the occasion." A stranger…
He reached into his pants pocket for his car keys, only to find them not there. He'd given them to his koumbaros—his best man, Alex—for safekeeping.
"Give me my keys," he said, pushing Alex from where he was talking to Kiki in a way that told him there might be another wedding not far in the future.
"Why? Did you forget something out of your car?"
"Just give me the goddamn keys!"
Alex began handing them over. "I wouldn't go just yet."
"Why?"
His friend grinned just as he heard the strident honking of a car horn. "Because your bride just turned the corner."
Efi took her father's hand and climbed from the back of the car. Her pulse beat slightly faster, but nothing she couldn't handle. Her family and friends applauded her appearance as her eyes swept the crowd looking for Nick.
"Are you ready?" her father asked, beaming down proudly at her.
She kissed him on the cheek and nodded.
Then the group parted, opening a path to where Nick waited for her at the bottom of the church steps.
Her heart skipped a beat.
So breathtakingly handsome, this man who was going to be her husband in a few short minutes.
She began walking toward him on her father's arm, her gaze catching on a spot of bright blue as she walked.
Aunt Frosini…
"You're about to make the biggest mistake of your life," the old woman had said when she'd climbed into the back of the car at the house.
Efi had been afraid she was going to play into all her fears about her coming nuptials. Instead, the old woman had shared with her a story so similar to hers they could have been the same woman.
It seemed when her mother had said Frosini's plans for marriage to a man back in their home village had fallen through and had involved land and goats she had been only partially right. There had also existed an Aphrodite in Frosini's life. A woman, a relative, who had tried to steal her groom from her.
Only ultimately she hadn't had to steal him. Because Frosini had readily given him up.
"I allowed fear to guide my actions," she'd told Efi in the back of that air-conditioned car, the driver trying to appear not to be listening but listening nonetheless.
She'd taken Efi's hands and stared deep into her eyes. "Marry Nick, agape mou. Marry Nick and complete the circle I broke so long ago."
Now Efi smiled at the old woman who had lived her life as a single woman, an outcast in Greek society, a person forever relegated to be someone's aunt or pain in the ass.
A woman who had drawn a map for her that led straight to her heart.
Efi's father stopped and she blinked to find she stood at the foot of the steps, looking into Nick's dark, dark eyes. She saw hope and happiness and love. She also saw the same fear of the unknown she felt in the pit of her stomach like a pool of mercury.
Nick held out his hand. Efi looked at it, then back up at him. And when she put her fingers in his, she did so knowing that whatever they faced, they would do it as a couple. In every sense of the word…
* * *
THERE GOES THE GROOM
Leslie Kelly
* * *
Dear Reader,
Having been raised in a primarily Irish family, I hadn't had much experience with Italian weddings … until my own. My husband and I actually had a very small, outdoor wedding, with our closest friends and family at a beautiful moutaintop shrine in Maryland. Yet my very dear mother-in-law did manage to bring a bit of her big Italian family culture into our private, but perfect, wedding.
I honestly had never seen nor heard of a "boursa" until she presented me with one she'd handmade for me. A silk and lace purse with bits of blue ribbon, this "purse" was something I was to carry at my reception, to gather gifts of cash from well-wishers. As I said, our wedding was pretty small … so the purse wasn't exactly bulging. But I did treasure it, and have held on to it for my own daughters.
My husband's family also brought a big platter of Italian cookies for the reception, decorated with "confetti" … the Jordan Almonds that do, as my mother-in-law informed me, represent the bitter and the sweet of life. Fortunately, the number of colorful almonds mixed in with the delicious cookies did not indicate the number of children we would have … I have three. Not three dozen.
I hope y
ou enjoy this story of a non-Italian woman being welcomed into a big Italian family, with all the love, laughter—and food!—that goes with it.
Happy reading!
Leslie Kelly
***
To three of my very favorite people, Janelle, Lori and Tony. I love working with you guys!
CHAPTER ONE
It was a bridal gown fit for a princess.
Carefully shifting the mountain of silk and lace on her lap, Rachel Grant stroked the delicate material against her fingers, nearly cooing at its softness. Any bride's dream, the dress was traditional in style, with a square neck and tight-fitting long sleeves. A slight sheen in the fabric gave evidence to the quality of the silk, and the lace was so delicate, she was afraid to breathe on it for fear it would disintegrate.
Its pure white color represented the ultimate virgin bride, which made Rachel shake her head. Was there such a thing these days? If so, she hadn't seen much evidence of it since she'd moved here to Chicago to open this bridal boutique with her aunt.
"Who cares?" she whispered. "I'll wear white, too." Then she sighed, acknowledging a few depressing truths. Not only was she pretty far away from a wedding dress of any color, considering she hadn't had so much as a date in six months. But also, white wasn't so far off for her. Nope, her only sexual experiences had been high school, back-seat-of-the-car type things where clothes never came fully off for fear of an unexpected pair of headlights.
And since moving to Chicago she'd been about as sexually active as a post-menopausal divorcee.
"Maybe you have to get married to get laid in this town," she muttered, returning her attention to the fabulous dress.
She carefully touched the tiny seed pearls decorating the bodice, telling herself she was merely testing the sturdiness of the sewing. Marveling again at their miniscule size, she peered at the small white roses which accentuated the waistline just above the scalloped layers of lace falling away into the ten-foot long train.
Beautiful. Perfect.
Too bad it belonged to the Nazi Bride of Taylor Avenue.
"Are you checking that over again?"
With a guilty start, Rachel jerked her rapt attention off the mounds of silk and lace, spying her aunt Ginny standing in the doorway to the front of their shop, Wedding Daze. She'd thought she was alone, and had been unable to resist one last, covetous look at the gown, which had arrived earlier this week for one of their clients. "I thought you were already gone. Don't you have to go to the bank?"
Ginny nibbled her bottom lip. "I forgot the money."
Rachel didn't say a word. God love her aunt, whose soft blond hair was showing its first strands of gray, and whose gentle brown eyes were now outlined by tiny laugh lines.
Ginny was only fifty—and a robust, healthy fifty at that—so that forgetfulness wasn't due to her age. It was just part of the loveable woman's personality. She sometimes said she'd forget to put her clothes on every day if she weren't so self-conscious of her mammoth bustline, which had, according to Ginny, been leading the way through her life since age twelve. Unfortunately, the fifty-year-old had been blessed with Grandma Josephine's hourglass figure, with emphasis on the top of the hour.
More unfortunately, so had Rachel.
No, she wasn't in the quad-D sizes, but it sure was tough working around all these beautiful, strapless bridesmaid gowns when the last time Rachel had gone strapless was to her sixth grade dance. And that had been pushing it, particularly since her elementary school boyfriend's nose had been just about eye-level with Rachel's throat. If he'd leaned any closer while they danced, he may as well have used her breasts as a chin rest.
"I think I forgot to take my Ginko Biloba, which is supposed to help me stop forgetting," Ginny said with a helpless sigh. "How can I be expected to remember to take something for my bad memory, if my memory's too bad to remember to take it?"
Rachel chuckled, acknowledging again why they made such a good team in their fledgling—but thriving—shop. Rachel handled the financial, recordkeeping side of the business while Ginny usually focused on the seamstressing and creative stuff. Whenever they took over for each other, the weaknesses inevitably showed. Unfortunately, neither of them were the neatest, most organized people in the world, as evidenced by the back room, which looked like the inside of a white-lined box, with satin, tulle and lace strewn as far as the eye could see.
"I'll take care of the deposit."
Ginny shook her head. "Absolutely not. It's right on my way. Besides you're … busy."
Busy. Busy feeling up another woman's wedding gown. Which was only moderately less embarrassing than feeling up another woman's man. Or another woman.
"I can't say I blame you for drooling over that dress," Ginny said. "It's one of the loveliest I've ever seen."
"I'm not drooling," Rachel replied. I'm lusting.
Only over the dress, though. Not over anything else belonging to the Nazi bride. Particularly not her fiancé, who, to Rachel's continued surprise, was a member of a popular, much-loved local family. The Santoris owned an Italian restaurant a few doors down, and were the most warm, welcoming, full-of-life people she'd ever known.
All except Lucas. The Nazi's groom. Oh, he was gorgeous all right, like his brothers. Maybe even a little bit more so, since his brown eyes flashed a hint of danger, unlike his fun-loving, raucous siblings—at least the ones Rachel had met so far. Raucous Lucas was not. He was sarcastic and moody, an attorney who was about as warm and welcoming as a case of frostbite. Which made him just about perfect for his psycho-bride, Maria Martinelli, who faced a mutiny—if not murder—at the hands of her own harried bridesmaids.
Not to mention her dressmaker.
She'd heard rumors that Luke had once been a charming, flirtatious playboy. According to the mutterings of some of the women on the block, the flirtatious part of him had disappeared the day he'd gotten himself engaged to the daughter of the don of the neighborhood. Rudy Martinelli's ties ran not only to the east coast, in New York, but all the way back to Sicily.
Interesting choice the D. A. had made. Daughter of a man much of Chicago considered a kingpin of crime.
"Seems a shame it's going to be worn by such a she-devil," Ginny murmured. "I bet it would look glorious on you. Have you…"
Oh, no, Rachel wasn't a strong enough—or pathetic enough—woman for that. She wasn't about to start trying on other women's wedding gowns. Doing so would definitely put the exclamation point on the sentence, "Rachel Grant: Loser."
Clearing her throat, she said, "I'm just giving it a last once-over before the bride comes in for her fitting tomorrow. The way she was squawking over hating to have to wear a traditional dress to please her father makes me think she's going to be more unpleasant than usual."
"I think I'll call in sick tomorrow," Ginny said with a heavy sigh.
"Not if I call in sick first."
"Do you think Maddie would…"
"Maddie swore she'd quit if she ever had to deal with the Nazi bride again. Remember?" And they couldn't afford to lose their part-time seamstress. Not if Rachel wanted to have any personal life at all. Wedding Daze had been swamped in the few months since they'd opened and Rachel was only now getting some weekends off because of Maddie's part-time help.
"Come to think of it," Ginny said, nearly bouncing on her toes in excitement, "I have an appointment for my annual GYN exam tomorrow. I made it months ago." She clapped her hands together and lifted her smiling face upward toward the ceiling, as if sending up a prayer of thanks that some guy was going to be poking a big metal object up her… "So I can't be here."
Rachel groaned. Because that left her. She was the lucky one who got to deal with the Nazi bride. Rising, she regretfully hung the dress back up and zipped it back into its protective cover. "I guess I get to do it. Lucky me."
"Maybe she'll be in a good mood," Ginny said, not sounding optimistic.
"Yeah, and maybe Prince Charming is going to walk through the front door and sweep me off my
feet."
"It's possible."
"But it's not very likely," Rachel said with a sigh. "I might get hit on every day, but not by men who could be called Prince Charmings."
"Sure they can," Ginny said with a cheeky smile. "Unfortunately, they're other women's Prince Charmings."
Rachel knew exactly what her aunt meant. "More often other women's Sir Scumbags. I swear, if one more groom with cold feet makes a move on me while his bride's in the fitting room, I'm going to go postal on him."
Ginny winked. "Just don't do it near the stock. Blood really doesn't come out of white satin." Turning to leave, she blew Rachel a kiss. "See you tomorrow. After my appointment."
"What time is your appointment?"
"What time does the Nazi bride come in?" Ginny didn't have the guts to turn around and look her in the eye for that one.
"Ginny…"
"Oh, all right. It's at eleven. So I'll be in after lunch."
Nuts. Maria Martinelli's appointment was at ten-thirty. Which Ginny probably darn well knew, judging by the way her shoulders shook with laughter.
Somehow, that laughter lightened Rachel's mood, even after Ginny left. She liked seeing Ginny happy, particularly since the two of them were each other's only family. Ginny had been a second mother from the time Rachel's mom had died ten years ago. After losing Daddy last year, there'd simply been nowhere else she wanted to be than with her only living relative—and very dear friend. The fact that Ginny now lived in Chicago had made the prospect of going into business with her even more exciting. Because Rachel had always longed to visit the big city, so different from her small hometown in North Carolina.
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