And when we’re pronounced husband and wife and the ceremony is over, I pull her to me and kiss her, a chaste kiss on her pretty, resistant mouth.
One of the mayor’s staff enters the room carrying a tray filled with glasses of champagne for each of us. His wife and family are oblivious to Gabriela’s mood, her mental absence. The mayor isn’t, but that doesn’t matter. I pay him enough and he’ll do what he’s told. If I brought her here in chains, kicking and screaming, he’d still do what he was told and marry us.
Once the champagne is drunk and everyone has kissed Gabriela’s cheeks and offered us their congratulations, we’re left alone in the room with the mayor. Two soldiers stand outside and Rafa and Millie are on their way to the restaurant for our small reception.
“Just a few signatures and you can be on your way,” the mayor says.
This one is the certificate of marriage. I’ll make sure her father has a copy before the end of the day.
I watch Gabriela and wonder if she hears anything at all as she takes the pen offered to her. She glances to me and I nod once. She looks back at the certificate on the desk and, a moment later, she signs.
I doubt the next signature I’ll need from her back at the house will be given as easily.
When she’s finished, I take the pen and sign my name and it’s done.
Gabriela is my wife.
I set the pen on the desk and turn to her. She’s looking up at me, her expression that of someone beaten.
“Congratulations, once again,” the mayor says, standing, extending his hand to me.
I shake it, thank him.
Gabriela, too, shakes his hand, and we’re on our way to the reception.
“I’m tired,” Gabriela complains when we’re in the car. “Do we have to do this?”
“Are you in a hurry to get home?”
“Your house is not my home.”
“You called it that a few days ago.”
“You were a different man a few days ago.”
“Same man. Same intentions.”
“That’s right. Bury all things Marchese.”
I lean toward her, lift her chin with one finger. “It’s a good thing you’re not a Marchese anymore then.”
She tugs her head away and watches out the window for the twenty-minute ride.
The small restaurant is set just for our party with tables decorated formally, everything white, flowers, tablecloths, napkins. Champagne corks are popped, and my wife takes her flute when I hand it to her, and she swallows the contents.
“What are you doing?” I ask her when she holds the empty glass out to me.
“Celebrating.” When I don’t take her glass, she stops a waiter who is passing and swaps her empty glass out for a full one.
“Take care, sweetheart,” I tell her as she downs her second glass.
“Stefan,” it’s Rafa.
I turn away from my bride. “Yes?”
“My father’s here. Had some trouble on the road. Flat tire.”
“Did he?”
As a sign of good will, I invited Rafa’s father. He’s brought Clara with him and is followed in by a man carrying a large gift covered in white silk cloth.
I glance at Gabriela as he approaches. For as well as she guards her features, I see recognition flit across her face when she sees him.
He smiles. “Stefan,” he says, dragging his gaze to mine. “Congratulations.” He leans in to hug me, patting my back.
“Thank you, Uncle,” I say.
He turns to Gabriela and smiles wide. I study him for a moment, watch the way he looks at her. See from the corner of my eye the way Rafa shifts his gaze between his father and Clara.
“Gabriela, this is Francesco Catalano. My uncle and Rafa’s father.”
He holds his hand out to her.
She looks at it, then turns to me. I wonder if it’s the missing finger that upsets her, but she collects herself and smiles, slides her hand into his and this gesture, this placing of her small, vulnerable hand inside his older, butchered one, it makes my hackles go up.
“You make a beautiful bride,” he says, raising her hand to his lips. “Congratulations, my dear.”
“Thank you,” she manages, her voice a whisper.
“I have a gift for the bride,” he says, giving me an apologetic look.
I smile. I don’t care about gifts. But I am curious about his.
He gestures to the man carrying the large, covered thing and the man brings it over, sets it on the table near us.
We all turn to it as Francesco tugs the silk covering off and someone gasps at the sudden commotion of flapping wings.
Two small birds in a cage. A golden cage. Unique. Specially made, I know from looking at it.
“It’s a replica of Stefan’s house,” my uncle tells her as she steps toward it. She touches the golden door, peers down through it to the birds. “Pure gold. And almost as beautiful as the bride.”