The Man from Tuscany

But making up my mind on the spot, I said, “I don’t need to wait that long. I’ll marry you, Brian, and I promise you now that you’ll never regret it. I’ll do everything in my power to make you happy.”

His smile suggested I’d done him the world’s biggest favor. No one watching would have guessed that ours would be a marriage of convenience. “Then start making plans. I’ll speak to your father on Saturday.”

I never learned exactly what transpired between my father and Brian that next weekend. They remained in the library quite a while, their voices an indistinct rumble beyond the thick oak door. But by Sunday, I was wearing an engagement ring and that night, our two families celebrated our upcoming wedding with dinner at the yacht club.

Thankfully my nausea wasn’t too severe, and I wasn’t showing yet. My clothes, though, didn’t fit as easily as they once had and if I didn’t want to be escorted down the aisle with my burgeoning midriff half-hidden behind a massive bouquet, we had little time to lose.

“We thought two weeks from now, on the seventh of November,” Brian said, when asked about a wedding date.

“But that’s far too soon!” my mother objected. “Why, I’m not sure we can even get a decent wedding dress by then, let alone a place to hold a reception. What’s the rush?”

“The holiday season’s coming up, and that’s always busy,” he explained. Then, with charming diffidence added, “And I’m an impatient groom. I don’t want to wait until the new year. Anna might change her mind about taking me on as a husband.”

“We’d prefer something quiet and intimate anyway,” I said, playing my part as eager bride. “With the situation in Europe as bad as it is, a big, splashy wedding seems rather tasteless.”

I’d effectively shifted attention away from us and back to the ever-present topic of the war. “You’ve got a point,” my future father-in-law agreed. “It’s just a matter of time before America’s in the thick of it, so you might as well enjoy yourselves while you still can.”

I substituted an aquamarine silk suit with a matching hat for the long white gown and bridal veil I’d always imagined I’d wear on my wedding day. Genevieve, in dove-gray, was my only attendant.

Brian and I were married in my parents’ drawing room, in front of a handful of guests, with a pale November sun shining through the windows. After a champagne lunch, he and I slipped away for a two-day honeymoon in Connecticut.

Ironically I was able to continue as Dr. Reese’s patient because, for a wedding present, our parents bought us the house in Wakefield. We were very lucky. If they had questions about the haste with which Brian and I had rushed into marriage, they chose not to say them aloud. We were, to all intents and purposes, a blissfully happy couple, beginning a long life together. No one but Brian knew how often I cried myself to sleep at night.

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