“What?” Giorgio sat bolt upright in his ergonomic Corinthian leather chair. “I am doing no such thing!”
“She begs to differ. She says you poke your nose in on her day and night so she can’t get any rest.”
Now he was insulted. Their grandmother had had a nasty bout of flu that had settled into pneumonia. After a couple touch-and-go weeks of around-the-clock care, she had pulled through but still needed nursing visits, respiratory therapists, physical therapists and doctor visits. And it was his job to make sure they were doing their jobs. He was more at ease if he could be present for all their consultations.
He reconsidered. Maybe that was a bit too much. After all, his grandmother had run Vinciguerra while he was off at university and had absolutely no trouble making her wishes known. He could also have his assistant text him updates on her health.
“Yes or no, George!” his sister shouted. She only called him his American nickname when she was either very pleased with him or very annoyed. No bets on which it was this time.
“Fine, Steve!” he shouted in return, his matching temper surfacing. “I want to meet this German Romeo who thinks he’s good enough for my only sister. If he’s not up to snuff, forget it! You can finish your master’s degree instead. I’m not paying university tuition to have you moon over some man you barely know.”
“He is not some man! He is my man, and I know him very well.”
Giorgio gritted his teeth at her implication and forced himself to take several deep breaths. If he pressed his sister too hard, she was likely to elope to Vegas with the guy. “If you think so highly of him, Stefania, I will be happy to meet him.”
“Fine.” She sounded mollified, for the moment at least. With Stefania, you never could tell. “And I am finishing my degree, you know. If I take an extra course each semester, I’ll be able to graduate next spring.”
“That’s wonderful news.” He checked his schedule on his phone. “I can fly into New York Wednesday if that would work for you. And Dieter,” he added grudgingly.
“Great! We’ll meet for dinner Thursday, just the three of us.”
“Great,” he parroted, with much less enthusiasm. “I look forward to it.”
“No, you don’t, but thanks for saying so.”
“Insincerity has its place, Steve. I would appreciate a tiny bit more insincere flattery from you, for example. ‘Oh, my princely brother, if it pleases you to meet the unworthy specimen who has asked for my dainty royal hand in marriage…’”
She snorted. “If you wanted me to be dainty and insincere, you should have left me in Vinciguerra after Mama and Papa passed away.”
“You know I couldn’t do that, piccina mia.” My little one—it was what their papa had called her, at least when she wasn’t raising hell. Some things never changed.
“I know, Giorgio, and I love you for it.”
He cleared his throat, which was developing a sudden lump. “I love you, too,” he muttered. Words of love never came easily for him, even for his beloved sister.
“Ciao, Giorgio.” She made a kissing noise into the phone and hung up.
He spun his chair to stare at the terraced vineyards beyond his office, the land still leafy and green in the April sun after a wet spring.
Springtime and young love. Giorgio’s lips pulled into a wry smile. He remembered how romantic New York City could be in the spring. Unlike Stefania’s Dieter, though, he had never been tempted to propose to anyone. He’d been busy with his education and bracing himself to return to Vinciguerra.
And now he would return to New York. It had been so long since he had been a foolish young student in the city. He straightened in his chair, the idea sounding better by the minute. He hadn’t even had a free day in what seemed like forever, his every action in Vinciguerra witnessed and gossiped over by his loyal subjects. And to date any of them? Unthinkable.
He grimaced and tried to roll the kinks out of his neck. It wasn’t as if he had any free time to date anyone, Vinciguerran or not. He pressed the intercom to call his assistant. “Alessandro? Please make arrangements for me to join Princess Stefania in New York tomorrow.” He rubbed the back of his neck. Stefania would give him grief if she thought he looked scruffy for her big dinner. “Oh, and also make an appointment with my barber.” Women always loved a fresh haircut.
“RENATA?” RENATA PAVONI’S assistant, Barbara Affini, who was also her aunt, stuck her perfectly coiffed, poufy head of black hair into Renata’s workroom.
“Hmm?” she mumbled around a mouthful of straight pins as she pinned the white satin hem of a wedding dress. The dress dummy stood on a carpeted platform, high enough that Renata didn’t have to crouch to work with the fabric.
Barbara tsked and came into the room. “Your mama would have a fit if she saw you like that. If you swallow a pin, I’m going to call your brother’s firehouse to take you to the hospital and you’ll never hear the end of it.”
Renata spit out the pins and stuck them into a tomato-shaped pincushion. “Okay, okay. Hey, how does this look?”
“Short.”
Renata sighed. Why did she bother asking? It was the same answer every time. “It’s supposed to be short, Aunt Barbara. It’s a vintage-style wedding dress.” Nineteen-fifties and-sixties fashions were hot as hell, thanks to several hit TV shows and movies set in those time periods.
“Your cousins’ wedding dresses, now those were classics,” her aunt reminisced.
Renata pulled a face, glad her aunt was behind her. Her petite cousins had rolled down the aisle in dresses wider than they were tall, looking like those plastic doll head and torsos on top of crocheted toilet paper holders. Thank God wedding dresses from the eighties were still out of fashion. She’d go broke buying miles of satin and tulle and pounds of sequins.
Why had she hired her aunt? Oh, yeah, her uncle Sal had begged Renata to get his wife out of the house. She needed someone to mother once their youngest married, and the newly retired Sal wasn’t about to volunteer for the vacancy.
Plus, Barbara was a fantastic seamstress and put the p in punctual.
Renata finished pinning the hem and stood, her knees popping. “The bride is coming in for her final fitting tomorrow. Will you have time to hem this?”
Her aunt sniffed. “Child’s play. I even have time to add some sequins on the skirt if you’d like?” she asked hopefully.
Renata shook her head. “No sequins.” Her client was an avowed hipster and would bite the sequins off with her teeth before wearing them down the aisle. “Seed pearls?”
“Nope.”
“How about some white-on-white satin-stitch embroidery?” But her aunt knew when she was beaten, her plump shoulders already slumping. “Sorry.” Renata was sorry. Her aunt would like nothing better than to hand-bead, hand-sequin and hand-embroider a gigantic ball gown with a twenty-foot train. But customers for gowns like that didn’t come to Renata’s design studio, Peacock Wedding Designs.
Instead, the dress in front of them was pretty typical of her sales—a fifties-style vintage reproduction with gathered halter straps and a full-circle skirt complete with a tulle crinoline. The bride was planning on a short, wavy fifties ’do and a small satin hat with a tiny net veil to drape over one carefully made-up eye.
Renata smoothed the skirt and carried it into the alteration workshop for her aunt. She caught a glimpse of herself in the three-way mirror and sighed. She loved vintage clothing but it sometimes didn’t stand up to the modern workday. Her ivory linen blouse