Adriana Trigiani - Brava, Valentine

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

This is definitely Italian snow, not the New York City variety of midwinter precipitation. It doesnt 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 doesnt 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 exchangedfor all of us.

Gram and Dominics wedding plans were made quickly and effortlessly (the beauty of an eighty-year-old bride is that she really knows what she does and doesnt 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.

Weve 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. Dominics 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 Ill tell my children. Ill explain that after ten years as a widow, my grandmother found love again. Teodora Angelinis story relies on fate, timing, and the best of luck. Its also a story filled with hopereminding all of us who havent found love that, regardless of age, experience, or locale, its 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. Were 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. Youll 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.

Moms 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 Beyoncs backup singers. Her cheeks have a peachy Bobbi Brown glow, but thats all thats sparkling about my mother. Shes beyond frazzled and close to tears.

Whats the matter, Ma? Youre not yourself.

You noticed?

What can I do to help?

I dont know. Im just a-a-amess. 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. Whats 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 mothers 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 Im exfoliated. That didnt blow in the outlet, thank God.

Thank God.

I dont know, Valentine. I just dont know. Im completely off my game. Im shaking. Look. Mom holds up her hand. It flutters partly from nerves, and partly because shes making it flutter. This is so strange to me. To be a maid of honor at my own mothers wedding.

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

Mom ignores the comment. She continues, Theres something so out of kilter about this whole thing.

Gram is happy.

Yes, yes, and Ive 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 Dominics bride, she has decided to move to Italy. For good. Its been a series of whammies, Ill admit it. One beaut after another, Ill tell ya. But I survived the shock of each little bomb she dropped and put aside my doubts and misgivings and went with it. Dont I always go with the flow?

Always. So whats the problem?

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

Mom. Hed be happy for Gram.

You think? He didnt 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. Im 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-Margrets 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 Dads 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 wont have lines or bags.

Remove them. I want to be able to see now . I cant look down. Or sideways. Believe me, it wont 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.

Dont try and remove them on your own! my mother yells.

What is this adhesion? Dad pats the patches.

Adhesive . Its a natural glue of some sort. Ill get the rosewater spray to dissolve them. Dutch, I mean it. Dont pull at them. Youll 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 dont want to be late for a wedding that features two eighty-year-olds. Anything could happen.

Mom rushes out.

What is wrong with her? my father asks. He looks out the window, his eyes bulging out of his head like a pugs. Snow. I thought it was balmy in Italy. What the hell is going on?

Its good luck.

Is it?

I dont know. Im just saying. I shrug.

Have you ever noticed that whatever clime blows through on a wedding day, somehow its interpolated as good luck?