Chapter 77 CHAPTER 78
Chapter 77 CHAPTER 78
Julieta looked at herself in the mirror in the hotel room and thought she looked like a woman about to get married.
Which was odd, because she felt like a woman about to throw up.
“Hold still,” said Ana, with two bobby pins in her mouth. “One more and I’m done.”
“Ana, we’ve been at this for an hour and a half.”
“It’s been an hour. You made up the half-hour because you’re nervous.”
“I’m not nervous.”
“Your hands are ice cold, Juli. They’re shaking. You’re nervous.”
“I’m pregnant with the wedding.”
—That’s not a “thing.”
“Today it is.”
Ana laughed. She pinned in the last hairpin. She adjusted the veil—which wasn’t a traditional bridal veil but a simple piece of tulle that Julieta had chosen because anything else would have felt like a costume to her.
The dress wasn’t a princess dress either. It was off-white, straight, floor-length, with long sleeves because long sleeves were still who she was. Not because of the scars on her arm—she didn’t hide them anymore—but out of habit. A dress like the one she would have wanted to design for another woman if that woman had paid her well.
“You look beautiful, sister.”
“I’m nervous.”
“And beautiful. The two go together.”
Outside, on the sand, Vladimir was waiting.
They’d set up a tiny altar between two palm trees, with no expensive flowers, no white curtains, and nothing that required an explanation. A table, a priest who was a friend of Ernesto’s—whom they’d threatened into keeping the ceremony brief—and chairs for no more than thirty people. Half of them were empty because Julieta had vetoed the entire list of Rossi partners in one fell swoop.
Mario stood next to Vladimir, dressed in a light-colored suit, leaning on his cane. It had taken him three weeks to convince him. “Mario, you’re the best man.” “Mario, no arguments.” “Mario, if you argue, I’ll fire you, and that would be terrible for both of us because you’re already the guardian of three families.” Mario finally gave in.
Ernesto was on the other side, holding Lucio in his arms for a moment while Gloria adjusted her headscarf. Lucio was wearing a little white outfit that already had a drool stain on it—which Julieta had thought was perfect when Marta showed it to her that morning.
“Marta, I’m not taking it off. That stain is his—let it stay.”
Gabriela came down the sandy path first.
She was wearing a light yellow dress, barefoot because her shoes had been left on the last step of the hotel and no one seemed willing to go get them. A basket of white flowers. She was scattering them with the concentration of someone doing something serious for the first time in her life.
Behind her was Mateo. Nine years old, in a suit that was a little too small, with the face of a minister. He was carrying two rings in a little box, his gaze fixed on the box as if they might escape if he let go for even a second.
And behind Mateo, holding Ana’s hand, came the disaster.
Luciana. Three years old. A yellow dress just like Gabriela’s. And from her very first step, her eyes were fixed on Julieta’s bouquet like an eagle’s on a rabbit.
“Ana,” Julieta said quietly as she walked past her, “that little girl is going to steal my bouquet.”
“I know.”
“You know that, and you’re not doing anything about it?”
“What do you want me to do, sis? I’ve been trying to convince her for half an hour. I offered her cookies. I offered to let her watch cartoons. I offered her money.”
“You offered money to a three-year-old?”
“I was desperate.”
—Ana.
—That’s it. Let her steal it. She’s your niece. It’s your day. Make it memorable.
The priest kept it brief, as he’d been asked to.
Just enough. A short reading. A few words for the occasion. Ask them both. Vladimir took Julieta’s hand with his left—his good hand—and squeezed it. It was trembling a little. Look at you, Vladimir Rossi, Julieta thought. Thirty-seven years old and trembling like an idiot.
“Vladimir Rossi,” said the priest. “Do you take Julieta to be your wife?”
“Yes.”
He said it clearly. His voice didn’t tremble—only his hand did.
“Julieta Carrasco. Do you take Vladimir to be your husband?”
“Yes.”
“Good. The rings.”
Mateo stepped forward with the little box. He opened it. He handed each of them a ring with the professional air of a man who’d been rehearsing that moment in front of the bathroom mirror for a month.
Vladimir slipped the ring onto Julieta’s finger. Small. Without a large stone. Just as she’d asked.
Julieta slipped the ring onto Vladimir’s finger. And as she did so, looking at his fingers, she spoke softly, just for him.
“Vladimir.”
“Tell me.”
“You’re marrying me completely. With everything.”
“With everything.”
“Don’t edit me later.”
—I won’t edit you.
—All right.
The priest asked them for their vows. They had agreed not to write anything long. Julieta had written three lines on an airplane napkin the week before. Vladimir had written two on the back of a receipt.
Julieta first.
“Vladimir, I met you when a car ran me over, and I almost lost you because of that. If we survived that, we’ll survive anything else. That’s what I promise you. That we’ll survive.”
Vladimir swallowed hard. He clenched the crumpled paper in his hand.
“Julieta, I was late in falling in love with you, and even later in telling you so. I’m not going to make it up to you with grand gestures—I just can’t bring myself to do that. I’ll make it up to you with my presence. Here I am. Here I’ll stay. Until everything in me fades away.”
“I applaud you, Vladimir.”
“Don’t applaud me just yet—we haven’t signed anything yet.”
“Father, hurry up and have this man sign before he changes his mind.”
The priest laughed. They signed.
And then Luciana made her move.
She seized the exact moment the priest said, “I now pronounce you husband and wife.” She let go of Ana’s hand, crossed the four meters of sand between the front row and the altar with the speed of a little girl who’d been planning the move for an hour, grabbed the bouquet with both hands, and yanked it downward.
Julieta let go. She had no choice. The bouquet was hers now. The laws of physics and Luciana’s laws were the same: whatever falls into her hands stays there.
“Luciana!”
“MINE!”
“Luciana, that belongs to Julieta.”
“MINE!”
Mateo, standing off to the side, covered his face with his hand, feeling embarrassed for her as only someone his age would.
Ana laughed. Ernesto laughed. Gabriela clapped, the traitor. Gloria laughed so hard she coughed, and Lucio startled in her arms. Mario laughed. Even Donatella, sitting in the back in the chair they’d reserved for her, let out a little laugh that no one had seen from her in years.
Julieta looked at Vladimir.
Vladimir looked at her.
They both laughed at the same time. A short laugh, against the beach wind, against the priest, against everything.
“You got married,” Vladimir told her.
“I got married.”
“They stole him from you.”
“The bouquet wasn’t important.”
“No.”
“Kiss me, Vladimir.”
“Yes, Mrs. Rossi.”
He kissed her. Slowly, just once, because the priest was still standing nearby and because behind them a three-year-old girl was running across the sand with a bouquet bigger than she was.
The applause was sparse but sincere.
Gloria, with Lucio on her arm, was the first to approach. Her scarf was askew, her face gaunt from months of treatment, her eyes clear.
“Sweetheart.”
“Mom.”
“You got married.”
“I got married.”
“Your dad would have been proud. I’m telling you that even though it’s not my place to say so. He would have been proud.”
Julieta kissed her on the cheek. She didn’t answer. There was no need.
Then Ana approached her, with Luciana now recovered and the bouquet in her hands again, offering it back to her with the expression of a civil servant.
“Sister. I’m giving you back the bouquet. I confiscated it.”
“Keep it. Let her keep it.”
“Are you sure?”
“She’s my niece. It’s my day. It’s a day to remember.”
Luciana clutched it to her chest as if it were a war trophy.
And finally, slowly, leaning on her cane, Donatella arrived.
She held out her hand to Julieta—the same one from the parlor—without any drama.
“Mrs. Rossi.”
“Donatella.”
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“The chair in the back.”
Julieta held her hand for two more seconds.
—It’s a start.
“It’s a start.”