Jo’s daughters-in-law filed on to the porch carrying gifts. Peachy welcomed them inside as her mother emerged from the living room carrying a polished silver bowl, which she shook as she greeted the women. “Prizes! I’ve got prizes!”
“This is going to be fun!” Lena said and clapped her hands together. Still young and newly married, she couldn’t get enough of wedding hoopla. Lena was Sicilian, petite, and shapely, with almond-shaped Cleopatra eyes.
“Where can I sit? I’ve got a varicose vein in my left leg that’s throbbing like a sump pump clearing out a root cellar after a flash flood.” Mabel was bloated that afternoon, her wedding ring lodged on her finger, more a tiny gold tourniquet than an article of jewelry.
“Elsa, you’re simply regal,” Concetta said as she took in Elsa’s crisp linen day shift.
“Thank you.”
“Very Mainbocher.”
“I’m afraid not. My mother-in-law made this dress for me.”
“How I wish I was handy with the needle and thread,” Concetta lamented.
“But you do all right, Ma. You don’t have to sew as long as I work at Wanamaker’s. You get a discount at the store off the rack,” Peachy reminded her.
“Hey, do we get the discount once we’re family?” Mabel barked.
“I’ll ask,” Peachy said, clenching her molars.
“Follow me, girls.” Concetta led them into the dining room.
Concetta had made place cards for the ladies. As they found their names and took their seats, the Palazzini women fussed and commented about the lovely decorations and bridal spread.
Peachy took the seat of honor at the head of the table. Concetta poured tea as the ladies filled their plates.
Mabel didn’t bother to use her plate as a way station between the cookie tier and her mouth, she simply popped the coconut snowballs like pep pills. “These are delicious,” she said through a mouthful of icing. “I have such a sweet tooth now that I’m expecting.”
“I’m sure the weight will come right off after the baby,” Concetta assured her.
“It doesn’t matter if I get as big as a coal truck,” Mabel articulated through her second cookie. “I can’t be in the wedding anyway in my condition.”
“Can you keep the bride’s book?” Peachy asked Mabel.
“Sure. Why not?” Mabel replied less than enthusiastically. “Historically that’s what they do with the fat girls. They give them the recording secretary position behind a table, practically out of the public eye. It makes sense. In the official wedding album, you never see their bodies, because they’re sitting collecting signatures. You just see their floating heads.”
“Noooo!” Peachy, Jo, and Concetta cried.
“You don’t want to flaunt the fatties. Trust me. I remember when my shape opened doors and when the same ones got slammed in my face when I put on a couple of pounds. Just show me where the book and pen are, and I’ll get every signature in the hall.” Mabel sampled the caviar tea sandwich. “I’m switching to savory, if that’s all right.”
“Fine, fine.” Concetta began to worry whether she had made enough food.
“What are we wearing?” Lena was unable to contain her enthusiasm.
“Pink,” Peachy said definitively. “Ma, what color are you wearing?”
“Chartreuse silk with leaf-green piping. It’s a dress-and-coat ensemble.”
“Aunt Jo?”
“You tell me.”
“I thought yellow would be nice,” Peachy suggested.
“Fine.” Jo hated yellow, but she would do whatever her nephew’s bride wanted.
“What dress did you pick out for us?” Lena relished being a bridesmaid. It was a job with a uniform.
“It’s in the bridal shop at Wanamaker’s. It’s a Susan Poster design. Scrumptious! It’s pink velvet, full circle skirt, square neckline. On your heads, a calot hat in matching pink with pink seed pearls.”
“That’s a lot of pink.” Mabel helped herself to another sandwich. “You girls are gonna look like a box of candy cigars.”
“Do you have a problem with pink?” Peachy asked Mabel.
“Not at all. I don’t have to wear it. I can wear hedgehog brown, for all anyone cares. I’m just keeping the book.”
“Pink is lovely,” Jo said with a smile, defusing the situation.
Lena nodded. “You’ve thought this through.”
“Since she was seven years old,” Concetta said proudly.
“I was hoping you could do the altar flowers.” Peachy looked at Elsa. “Father says no one does a more beautiful job with the flowers than you.”
“I will be happy to.” Elsa patted Peachy’s hand to reassure her.
“Thank you.”
“I don’t get a thank-you in advance for keeping the book?” Mabel asked, reaching for the cream for her tea. “You know I’ll completely miss the cocktail hour waiting around for the latecomers and stragglers and men who couldn’t find parking. No Swedish meatballs for me.”
“Thank you for your sacrifice, Mabel,” Peachy said tersely.
“Elsa has a way with flower arranging—better than the florist. Our garden has never looked better.” Aunt Jo smiled at Elsa. “And the May crowns were lovely.”
“What are you wearing, Peachy?” Mabel asked.
“Well . . .” Peachy placed her hands on the table and closed her eyes, conjuring the image of her glorious gown on the most important day of her life. “Duchesse satin. Illusion sleeve . . .”
“I love an illusion sleeve,” Concetta said wistfully. “My side of the family has arms less than Greek, which Peachy did not inherit so she can show a little flesh.”
“Most of those ancient statues don’t have hands. You’re lucky to have an arm at all. Forget two of them.” Mabel reached across the table for a handful of bridge mix.
“You wouldn’t want ours,” Concetta assured her. “We have the flap up top and elbows like walnuts.”
“That’s why God invented the bishop sleeve,” Jo commented.
Peachy continued, “Illusion lace over a sweetheart neckline, pointed cuff, buttons up the back, seventy-seven cut glass Venetian buttons—”
“We’ll have to get a third-grader in here to button her into the dress. We need tiny fingers and hands. The buttons are minuscule!” Concetta said with delight.
“Tiara, lace veil . . . Mr. Da Ponte is creating the veil from lace—”
“That’s been in the family since Torre del Greco,” Concetta confirmed.
“And a train.” Peachy stood up and modeled the imaginary train. “Like a princess of an Italian province, I will wear a train that will extend from the first pew to the last, just yards and yards of cut Italian lace, I don’t know how many centuries old, worn by every bride in the Cuccamorsina family since the first girl was born.”
“And one day your daughter will wear it, too,” Aunt Jo commented.
“Of course. We are traditional,” Peachy promised.
“And evidently excellent at avoiding silkworm and moth problems. Old lace is candy to bugs.” Mabel cut a slab of coffee cake from the ring. “My grandmother’s gown was eaten by boll weevils during the potato famine.”
“That’s too bad.” Peachy cut her mother a look.
“Your dress sounds beautiful. We’ll be sure to come over and help you dress the morning of the wedding,” Lena said supportively.
“You will?”
“Absolutely.” The Palazzini wives all nodded.