I’m finally revisiting the characters from The River City Chronicles nine years after their original timeline. I’ll be running the series weekly here on my blog, and then will release it in book form at the end of the run. Hope you enjoy catching up with all your faves and all their new secrets!
Today, Carmelina and Daniele (finally) make it to the wedding after a series of Italian misadventures…
< Read Chapter 40
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Chapter Forty-One
Not Nero’s Tomb
Carmelina ran her fingers through her sticky hair, trying to brush it back into some semblance of order. A fair-to-middling breeze blew in off the Mediterranean waters not thirty feet away, the constant soft lapping of the waves reminding her more of Lake Tahoe than the grand Pacific Ocean.
She was wearing a gauzy white dress that was definitely not hers—well, technically it was. It was two sizes too big, an Italian beachwear confection tied at the waist with a bright pink sash.
“You look beautiful, bella ragazza.” Daniele kissed her cheek.
“I would look more beautiful if we were inside, without this dratted wind blowing salt and God knows what else into my hair.” She said it softly under her breath, only for him, and ended it with a broad smile, just in case anyone in the crowd was listening. It was a wedding, after all, and she wasn’t supposed to make herself the center of attention.
She forced herself to put her hands in her lap, and let the wind do what it would with her.
It had been a hell of a day.
They’d left Fiumicino Airport bound for downtown Rome, planning to catch another train to Ostia. They’d sent Gio off on his journey to his aunt’s house at Termini Station, and had boarded a subway train bound for Ostia. Or so they’d thought.
Somehow they’d gotten things mixed up—their directions were for Osteria Nuova—a good 56 miles northwest of Ostia—and most definitely not on the Mediterranean. They’d only discovered the mistake because a nice elderly Italian man named Vito from Vitorchiano had started up a conversation with Daniele, asking him where he was headed.
Vito had given them a hearty laugh when they told him about the beachside wedding they were headed to in Ostia, and had informed them that they were heading in entirely the wrong direction.
This had led to a hasty disembarkation in some place called Tomba de Nerone on the northwestern outskirts of Rome, which the local subway agent had assured them was not actually the final resting place of Emperor Nero.
They would have had enough time to make it back the way they had come if it weren’t for the calling of a sciopero, a term Carmelina was quickly learning to detest. These strikes could occur at almost any time in Italy, and might paralyze the railways or subways for hours or days at a time.
So there they were, standing outside the subway station near the tomb that was not Nero’s, when Carmelina discovered that she had left one of her pieces of luggage on the subway train. The one with most of her clothing.
Alas, the doors to the station were locked, and in any case, the train had already left the station. In more ways than one.
Daniele had called his cousin, the one getting married in just four hours. It turned out she had another cousin whose wife had a friend whose best friend’s father was an undertaker who lived in La Giustiniana, the next tiny village past the tomb that was not Nero’s.
And better yet, his mortuary was just five blocks from their subway station. And, as Daniele’s cousin exclaimed excitedly in Italian, “Nessuno è morto questa settimana.” No one died this week!
Which is how they found themselves stuffed into the back seat of an old creaky hearse that Carmelina figured must have been built in the 1950’s, flying down the A90, the outermost belt freeway surrounding Rome, bound at last for Ostia.
Except that someone had actually died, and their body needed to be transported to a mortuary in Masimilla, just west of Rome. Which is why their remaining luggage—minus Carmelina’s missing bag—was stuffed in the back of the vintage hearse’s around the lovely pearlescent coffin. Vintage being a generous upgrade, in her mind.
And that’s how they discovered—by driving right past the airport they had left behind hours earlier—that Ostia was just about 5.6 kilometers—or in American, 3.5 miles—from the place where they had started the whole land journey.
She’d thanked the man profusely—while quite possibly agreeing to use his services when her time came? She wasn’t entirely sure about that part, as his Italian was too fast for her to follow, and she only caught about a third of the words.
They’d checked into their hotel in a hurry—the Hotel La Scaletta—a charming little beachside 4-star place with green awnings which was a little less than a quarter mile from the beach where the wedding was to take place.
She’d managed a quick shower while Daniele contacted the subway line to try to locate her missing suitcase. With less than thirty minutes to go before the wedding, she and Daniele had ducked into a little touristy beach shop selling mostly kaftans and blowsy beach wear, and she’d found the first thing close enough to her size that wasn’t absolutely hideous.
Daniele had used the Italian Freenow app to call a taxi, and they’d arrived at the beach with seven minutes to spare before the purported start time of the wedding.
Which had been almost an hour earlier.
“Is there a problem?” she whispered into Daniele’s ear.
“No. Italian weddings are always like this.” Still, he looked over his shoulder, his jaw muscle twitching.
Carolina stifled a laugh. She’d long ago discovered that arrivo, which literally meant I am arriving, was Italian shorthand for “I’ll probably arrive in the next hour or so.”
As if she had summoned them, the cloth doors to the bridal tent flew open, and the two brides strode out.
Isabella was radiant, her long dark hair flowing over the white chiffon wedding dress that looked like a confection dropped from the heavens, all sparkly and white and somehow glowing, with a long train that trailed across the sand behind her. A blue floral corsage on her wrist offered a pop of color.
Something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue. Well, the bride has borrowed enough of our patience, making us wait…
Daniele’s cousin Elena was next to her, striking in a pinstripe tux, complete with a turquoise bowtie and matching carnation.
The string quartet, caught flatfooted by the sudden arrival of the brides, kicked into gear rather disjointedly, but eventually settled on the traditional wedding march, and the brides proceeded across the sand to the boardwalk.
The gathered friends and family stood, and Carmelina squeezed Daniele’s hand. “They are so beautiful together.”
He nodded, his eyes wet. “Certo.”
He’d explained to her on the way back from Not Nero’s Tomb that queer couples were not actually allowed to marry in Italy. They had Civil Unions instead, which were in many ways equivalent to marriage, but no adoption rights.
Elena took Isabella’s hand, and their faces lit up, as radiant as Isabella’s dress. The couple passed by them and proceeded to the arbor, which was wrapped in more blue carnations, just as the sun reached the water’s edge behind them.
The music stopped, and everyone took their seats. The officiant raised his hands and addressed the audience.
“Siamo qui per assistere all’unione tra queste due donne…”
Carmelina leaned against Daniele’s shoulder, not caring if she smudged her make-up or mussed her hair—it was a lost cause anyhow—and smiled.
And just like that, all of the day’s trials and tribulations were washed away as she witnessed the love of two women who had fought every step of the way to be standing together in front of friends and family to declare their love. How can you not look at this couple and see how much they love one another?
Suddenly it didn’t matter that she felt like a reject from a college toga party who hadn’t showered for a week.
It was the perfect ending to a wreck of a day.
< Read Chapter 40
Like what you read? if you haven’t tried it yet, check out book one, The River City Chronicles, here.