Adriana Trigiani - Brava, Valentine

As Dominic places the ring on Gram’s hand, it’s a wake-up call for their children. Mom won’t be able to jump on the E train to see Gram whenever she wants. Gianluca will have to move out of the home he shares with his father to make room for his stepmother. I’m not the only person in this room whose life will change, but somehow I can’t help feeling that I have it the worst.

I’ve been in full-tilt denial about losing my grandmother to her new husband and her new country. I will be all alone at the Angelini Shoe Company, upstairs in the living quarters and downstairs in the shop. As Gram and Dominic’s marriage begins, our old life together ends. The years I’ve spent as Gram’s apprentice have been the best years of my life. Now, I’m going to have to take all I’ve learned from her and build upon it.

My eyes mist with good memories and deep regrets. I mourn the conversations that we won’t have over coffee in the morning, the afternoons when we sat on the roof, roasted chestnuts on the old grill, and laughed. I’m sad that she won’t be there when I launch the Bella Rosa , which I pray will build the business to a new level and give us revenue to survive. The problem is all mine. I don’t like change, and enough is never enough. A hundred years with my grandmother would not have been enough. But Gram’s happiness is more important than all of that.

The priest holds his hands over Gram and Dominic as he blesses them. The flames in the candles, once clear and bright, become murky white puddles through my tears. I hold my small bouquet of violets tightly. I promised myself I wouldn’t cry, but I can’t help it.

I feel a hand on my wrist. Gianluca smiles gently and gives me his handkerchief. Before I can thank him, he is back by his father’s side. I wipe away my tears. Tess nudges me. Gianluca’s chivalry is not lost on my sister.

Gram and Dominic kiss. The priest makes the sign of the cross over them.

Aunt Feen stands, balancing on her pearl-handled cane for support. “Hallelujah,” she says. “Let’s eat!”

GRAM AND DOMINIC CHOSE THEIR favorite restaurant in Arezzo for their wedding reception. Tucked into a narrow side street off the plaza, Antica Osteria l’Agania is a quaint, local spot that has been in operation since Dominic was a boy. We are welcomed through a rustic oak door by the maître d’. The large wrought iron scrollwork handle is decorated with a small cluster of bridal greenery and white ribbons.

We enter a large main room with wooden beams on the ceiling, surrounded by stucco walls painted a dull gold. The large picture windows are dressed with gold chiffon Roman shades. One long farm table, situated at the center of the room, is covered in a white lace tablecloth with small silk tassels in the shape of bells draped over the sides. Orsola works her way around the table, placing small net bags of confetti (pink and white candied almonds) at each place setting. Small bouquets of violets are placed down the center of the table, surrounded by clusters of twinkling votive candles.

Whenever I see a garden of flickering cut-crystal votive candles, I think of my ex-boyfriend Roman Falconi and our first date at his restaurant, Ca’Doro. For a moment, I miss that long, tall chef from Chicago.

“What’s the matter?” Tess asks. “Don’t tell me-”

“No, I’ve moved on. I’ve definitely moved on.”

“If you want Roman back-”

“No, I don’t want him back.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.” Here’s the thing. I could use an escort today. Whenever there’s a family function, I’m reminded I’m single, so I shuffle through the Old Boyfriend File, my version of People magazine’s “Where Are They Now?” to see if there’s anyone I could have scrounged up to accompany me, instead of suffering through solo. It’s not healthy to walk through the boneyard of my romantic past because the results are always the same, but I do it anyway. If self-improvement is a theme in my family, so is self-punishment.

On ordinary days I love being single, and I consider it a choice, not a curse, but I’ve learned that a woman needs a date at family funerals and weddings, if only for diversion from the drama. It’s comforting to have a date to dump all the extra emotions upon, like gravy on macaroni. That’s why in-laws were invented-if only to point out that your family is crazier than mine, as Charlie reminds Tess, and Tom reminds Jaclyn. Even Clickety-Click-Pamela-can be seen supporting my brother in her firm Germanic fashion. The spouses quell the histrionics-or at least, they try to.

Wedding receptions in Italy are not like our extravaganzas back home, and tonight, I wish they were. I would prefer to hide in a big crowd in a cavernous, noisy hall. It’s easy to slip away when the disco ball descends and the guests are covered in white polka-dots in the dark. I like to have the option of slipping out early, before the Beach Boys medley and the chicken dance, without anyone missing me. Loud music that drowns out any unpleasant comments or intrusive conversation is also a plus. This intimate wedding reception (intimate for Italians is a head count under fifty)-twenty of us gathered around one table, most of us blood relatives-will be a lot of work.

Gram and Dom make the rounds, greeting the guests. The bride is so openly happy and optimistic, I can’t help but be. I had no way of knowing how I would feel once Gram was actually married. Her happiness is as important to me as my own, so I never wavered in wanting her to be with the man she loved, even if it meant giving up her life on Perry Street and starting over in Italy. But now that the ceremony is over, and she’s officially Mrs. Vechiarelli, it’s another feeling entirely to be on the other side of it. Now it’s back to reality.

We take our seats around the table. I look for Gianluca, who hasn’t arrived yet. He disappeared after the ceremony as soon as we were done taking pictures. I was curious, wondering where he went, but quickly reasoned that there are Italian customs I know nothing about-and who knows, maybe he had to go to city hall and sign papers or meet with the priest. It could be anything.

“I left the seat next to you wide open,” Tess whispers. “Where is Gianluca?”

“I don’t know.” I check the door again.

“He’s the only single man at this wedding.”

“Besides Gepetto over there.” I point to a robust eighty-year-old with a thick swatch of white hair and a matching mustache who hammers loose tobacco down into his pipe like he’s pounding rocks at the state prison. “He’s starting to look good to me.”

“You can date twenty years above your decade, and not one year more,” Tess says.

I guess Gianluca, eighteen years my senior, qualifies in the under-twenty category.

Dominic and Gram make a stop and talk to Gepetto. The blood relatives are clumped in the center, with the children staggered in and out of the adult seating, in the hope that separation will keep them out of trouble. My brother-in-law Tom pours champagne into our glasses; evidently the waiters don’t dispense the booze fast enough for him. He fills Aunt Feen’s glass.

My brother, Alfred, takes his seat across the table from me.

“What do you think?”

“It seems like a nice restaurant,” Alfred says as he taps the table absentmindedly with his soup spoon. My brother usually appears spit polished and fresh, but today he seems tired. He has dark circles under his eyes, and more than a bit of gray shows through his shiny black hair, parted neatly to the side. He loosens his tie.

“No, I mean about Gram getting married.”

“I’m going to miss her,” he says. “I don’t see her every day like you do, but I like knowing she’s there.”