Alessandra flew to New York for a weekend. Well, they all did. And they all trooped downtown to the atelier of a famous designer Alessandra knew from the days she’d been in the fashion business. The designer greeted them warmly and her assistants brought out half a dozen spectacular gowns.
Bianca tried on all of them. The sisters and half-sisters and sisters-in-law oohed and sighed and told her their favorites.
But Bianca knew her own mind.
She wanted the lace gown but with the off-the-shoulder neckline, and would it be possible to change the design of the sleeves so they were wrist-length, and perhaps narrow the skirt just a bit, and maybe shorten the train?
The sisters and half-sisters and sisters-in-law had tried not to laugh, but they laughed anyway.
“What?” Bianca said indignantly, but then she giggled, the famous designer giggled, and then, right on time, the driver of the stretch limo that had brought them to the showroom appeared with champagne flutes and chilled bottles of Dom Pérignon and the Wilde women had cheered and toasted Bianca with jokes that made her blush as much as they made her laugh.
She thought of all that now as the first chords of Wagner’s Wedding March drifted up the stairs to where she waited with Alessandra, who was her matron of honor, and with her bridesmaid sisters.
“I know people use other music for the processional,” she’d told Chay, “but if you don’t mind, I’d like to stay with something traditional.”
Chay wouldn’t have given a damn if his bride came down the aisle to the sound of Chinese gongs.
All he wanted was her. His Bianca. His beautiful, strong, brave, smart Bianca, and when she reached him at the roses-and-lilies-of-the-valley-bedecked altar, he knew he had found all a man could ever want in life.
The wedding dinner was perfect.
Lissa-the-chef had planned, shopped, and supervised the preparation of the entire meal.
She’d asked for Bianca’s approval every step of the way.
Each time, she smiled and said whatever Lissa did would be fine, and it was, though she did ask if the petit pois could be enhanced with mint. Not a lot, she said. Just a touch. And could there possibly be a choice of sour cream as well as whipped cream with the strawberries for dessert?
In the end, she forgot about all those things.
What mattered was being in her Chayton’s embrace on the dance floor with his strong arms around her and his beautiful, perfect, elegantly simple, plain platinum band on the third finger of her left hand. There was a diamond ring on that finger too, one that had come as a complete surprise. Chay had given it to her during dinner at the Boathouse in Central Park. He’d gone down on one knee right beside their table between the main course and dessert.
There were some things he, too, wanted done traditionally.
And, it turned out, the entire Wilde clan, the Sicilians and the Texans, had a new tradition to institute.
They decided to invite their father.
General John Hamilton Wilde. The now retired four-star general they’d banished from their lives. The man who had lied to them for so many years, the man they’d all said they despised and never wanted to see again…
Except, a lot of time had passed.
A lot.
They were all older. Maybe even a little wiser.
They’d learned that life wasn’t always quite as clear-cut as it seemed, and when Bianca had carefully brought his name up, when she’d said how anger and bitterness only reaped anger and bitterness, and how, perhaps it was time to forgive, if not to forget…
They agreed.
His Sicilian sons phoned him. His Texas sons phoned him. His daughters called, too. The calls were brief, because Johnny Wilde choked up during each conversation and—though none would admit it—so did his children.
The result was that he was at the wedding, a little quiet, a lot subdued, but he was there. Bianca didn’t ask him to give her away—she wasn’t ready for that much closeness. Not yet. Her brothers, all of them, gave her away.
But she danced a waltz with him, and she was happy for it.
• • •
The day went quickly, hours falling away into minutes.