Adriana Trigiani - Brava, Valentine

The Basilica of San Domenico is tucked into the village like an antique book in a cupboard. Built of sandstone with a simple facade, its only hint of color comes from the mosaic of midnight blue and ruby red in the stained-glass rose window over the entrance. A tower with dual church bells on metal beams hovers above the entrance. Those same bells rang on the wedding day of my great-grandfather and his beloved Giuseppina Cavalline, over one hundred years ago.

There are more of us in the wedding party than in the pews (another sign that the bride and groom aren’t twenty). Aunt Feen has taken a seat in the front. Her head is bowed in nap, not in prayer. Dad, Charlie, Tom, and Alfred are outside, getting air, which is what men in my family do whenever they are dressed up.

Charisma and Chiara play hide-and-seek behind the Gothic pillars with my brother’s sons, Rocco and Alfred Jr., who seem to be, for the first time since their births, on a long leash. There is definitely something going on between Alfred and Pamela, and the kids are getting a free pass on discipline in the meantime.

“Pamela, looking good,” I say.

Pamela wears Indian chic in Italy. Her gown, panels of magenta and silver silk, has an empire bodice with geometric cutouts. The spaghetti straps show off her sculpted shoulders and thin arms. Her blond hair hangs long and straight without a single flyaway. Clearly, she remembered to bring an adapter for her blow dryer.

“Thanks.” She smiles, but it’s forced. Pamela, my sisters, and I have made up since our rift last Christmas, but the current aloof demeanor is just as bad as the cold front used to be.

“How do you like the hotel?”

“It’s rustic,” she says.

“It’s good to be together.”

“Oh, yeah.” She looks off. Her eyes follow Rocco and Alfred, who dart among the pews. “I’d better wrangle the boys before they tip over a saint or something.”

The entrance doors of the church open behind us, and Gram stands in the light, tall and lean, in a beige silk suit with staggered white sequins along the cuffs of the jacket and the hem on the skirt. I look down at the shoes I built especially for this day, an elegant eggshell pump with a kitten heel and pearl beading around the vamp. She extends her hand to me, and I take it.

“Thank you, Valentine,” she says.

“For what?”

“For everything. For helping me plan this day. For your support. You’ve been there for me every step of the way.”

“You deserve every moment of happiness, Gram. And you should never thank me. I thank you.”

Gram’s eyes fill with tears. Mom comes over with a tissue and dabs Gram’s eyes.

Tess pokes me to get in line to process up to the altar. I take my bouquet of violets in one hand and smooth my multi-strands of pearls with the other. I look straight ahead to the altar.

The priest, a scruffy Capuchin in chocolate brown robes, takes his place in front of the altar.

Dominic, in a morning coat, and his son Gianluca, emerge from the sacristy and take their places.

My heart flutters when my eyes meet Gianluca’s. It seems like a thousand miles from the back pew to the communion rail. I like the distance right now. Maybe it will take the edge off the sudden and crazy mad desire I have for him, who, when the wedding license is signed, will be family to me. Dear God.

“Valentine!” Orsola whispers in my ear.

I turn. Orsola, Gianluca’s daughter, gives me a quick hug.

“We’re late. Always late.” Orsola’s husband walks up the side aisle and slips into the front pew next to Aunt Feen.

“No worries. You’re right on time, cousin. To the second.”

Orsola wears a bronze silk wrap dress with a matching picture hat. Tess hands her a bouquet of violets. She blends into the processional line so seamlessly you’d never know she was Dominic’s grandchild instead of one of Gram’s.

Chiara and Charisma sprint up the aisle, scattering rose petals as though they’re in a three-legged race.

Mom fusses with the whimsy attached to Gram’s hat. I know it’s 2010, but when it comes to weddings and hats in my family, it will always be 1962-we love a pillbox. “It finishes a look,” my mother says.

Dad pulls his cell phone out of his pocket and takes a quick snap of Gram and Mom before they begin their walk down the aisle. I don’t know why he bothers, since anyone he’d send the photo to is right here in the church.

A violinist plays Frank Sinatra’s “All the Way.” My sisters precede me single-file as we process down the aisle. I feel like a shiny dime following two fifty-dollar bills and a bronze Manzù sculpture, but I insisted on the silver lamé, and it’s too late now for a costume change.

My mother sniffles behind me.

I look straight ahead to the priest, but then, without moving my neck in his direction, I take in Gianluca.

Why does he have to look so good? I repeat why, why, why , to myself with every step/pause that I take behind my sisters. This would be so easy had there been a decline in his appearance over the Christmas holidays. Why couldn’t he be one of those guys who ages overnight? No, he looks better than he did a year ago. Better than he did on our roof in the leather jacket last fall. The gray silk morning coat is the exact shade of his hair. He stands out in the dark church like a light feather against a cloudy morning sky. I almost miss a step, the stone floor gives, as though I’m walking on clouds.

“Watch it,” Mom whispers from behind.

I regain what’s left of my composure.

Gianluca looks out over the pews, his eyes as blue as the boots of Saint Michael in the statuary behind him. He is truly handsome, in that distinguished Cary Grant-in-the-later-years sort of way. Like Cary, Gianluca’s profile is strong, his nose and jaw chiseled by God with a straight edge. Okay, maybe Gianluca resembles Saint Thomas More by way of Bay Ridge slightly more than Cary, but in the morning coat, in this color scheme, in this place, he’s pure movie star in the golden age of Hollywood. The right suit makes a man royal.

I remember when Gianluca kissed me on the balcony in Capri last summer, and how I didn’t want him, and after he kissed me, he was all I wanted. Maybe I broke up with Roman after that because I wanted more of Gianluca’s kisses. Stolen kisses are one thing, but relationships are legit, at least, that’s how my mother raised me. Gianluca was clear with me then; he wanted more than a little romance. But this morning, I wonder if he still wants me. Probably not. He was very friendly at the rehearsal dinner, but not in pursuit. Why would he be? When he came to New York and wanted something more, I told him plainly that I didn’t want him or any man, and he believed me. I meant it.

Then why do I stare intently at him, as one would at a priceless painting under a pinlight on a museum wall? As each step in the wedding caravan brings me closer to him, I’d like to stop and sit down in an empty pew and catch my breath. Gianluca feels my stare. He smiles at me. I’d like to die right about now.

The priest rattles off the vows in Italian so quickly Gram could be agreeing to anything, including upgrading the plumbing in the church rectory. But she looks up at the priest with reverence and a full understanding of what she is promising to do. (In general, Italians move slowly, unless they’re in church, where Mass is on fast-forward.)

The service becomes a blur to me as I’m overcome with my own emotions. I’m not alone. My sisters are weepy, my mother is blotting tears, while my brother stands off to the side surveying the ceremony in his disaffected, remote way, as if he’s watching a report about a mini-merger on Maria Bartiromo’s show.

Gianluca gives his father the ring and kisses him on the cheek. My father looks to the floor as Gianluca expresses his affection for his father. Dad and Alfred have never had that kind of bond.