Page 9 of The Housemaid's Wedding
Enzo stuffs a few chunks of fried potato into his mouth. “Are you sure you don’t want any?”
“Definitely not.”
“You need to eat. You are making another person.”
I shake my head no. “I’m too nervous to eat.”
“Why are you nervous? You are not having the… double thoughts?”
I stare at him in confusion for a moment before I realize what he’s trying to say. “Secondthoughts?”
“Yes,” he says, nodding vigorously. “You are not having the second thoughts, right?”
He says it in a teasing tone, but there’s an undercurrent of worry in his voice. I don’t know why though. How could he possibly think I wouldn’t want to marry him? Even if I wasn’t pregnant with his child, I’d want to marry him.
“No second thoughts,” I assure him. “It’s just… a lot. It’s scary getting married, isn’t it?”
“Why scary? This is not scary.” He puts down his fork to look into my eyes, something that still makes my whole body tingle. “All I ever wanted is to spend the rest of my life with you. We are just making it in writingnow.” He reaches for my hands, and when I give them to him, he laces his fingers into mine. “I can’t wait for you to be my wife.”
It’s the first thing he has said that has calmed me down entirely. I squeeze his hands back, and once again, I think to myself,I am lucky.And we are going to have a great day today. The best of our lives.
And that’s when, through the snowflakes still falling outside the window of the cafe, I see the gaunt man staring at us, a murderous glint in his eyes.
7
That’s him.
The man staring at us through the window of the cafe is wearing a trench coat which is damp from the snow, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. He is older than I expected him to be—possibly in his sixties—with hollowed eyes, which bore straight into me. His lips twist into a sneer that turns my blood to ice.
I had been hoping to hide those threatening calls from Enzo, but now that the man has shown up in person with a menacing expression on his face, I have to say something. I have no choice. At least, if I don’t want to bemurderedon my wedding day.
And now the man has entered the cafe. He is standing less than ten feet away from us. He’s got a paper bag in his right hand that he is clutching so tightly that all the tendons stand out. I watch in horror as he reaches into the bag.
Oh God.
“Enzo,” I whisper urgently. “Do you see that man over there?”
Enzo swivels his head to look at the entrance to the cafe. I expect his eyes to darken the way they always do when he perceives a threat. So I’m not prepared for the sudden smile that lights his face as he jumps to his feet.
“Giuseppi!” he cries.
Giuseppi?
To my utter shock, Enzo rushes across the cafe and then embraces the man in the trench coat. What follows is a string of rapid Italian. I can only make out two words, one of which is Millie and the other ispazza, which I’m becoming more and more convinced is not complimentary.
After about a minute of conversation, Enzo pulls the older man over to our table. “Millie,” he says, “this is my good friend, Giuseppe.”
“Buongiorno, Millie,” the man says in heavily accented English. This is most definitelynotthe man from the phone.
“Hello,” I say politely. “It’s very nice to meet you.”
“Giuseppe,” Enzo says, “is a tailor.”
Giuseppe reaches into the paper bag and pulls out my pale-blue dress. “For you,mia cara.”
He did it. He managed to get it altered in time for the wedding. It’s a wedding day miracle. Tears form in my eyes as I clutch my dress in both hands. “Thank you so much, Giuseppe.”
He beams at me. “You are welcome. But please, try it on. I want to make sure it fits.”
