The Belle Époque was a period of European prosperity that began in the late nineteenth century and ended with the outbreak of the First World War. It was an era of opulence and affluence that celebrated life, style, and cultural influence before the hardships of the early twentieth century took hold. In hosting special events like weddings, the Grand Hotel Tremezzo did everything in its power to mimic the exuberance and frivolity of that period, bringing everyone together to celebrate as if time had returned to that singular moment.
Patrick nursed an Italian spritz on the hotel's main terrazza, attempting to calm his pre-wedding jitters. Maisie and Grant flanked him. The early-evening air was warm, but the sun was flirting with the mountaintops, preparing to say its own *buonasera*. An occasional breeze provided just enough relief across the back of his neck. There were a few mosquitoes, but not many; the crawling sensation on Patrick's skin was mostly nervous anticipation, mixed with the slight peeling of a sunburn. On the lawn below, caterers scurried about, putting the finishing touches on a grand banquet table for the post-ceremony meal. Lobster, mostly, and caviar. Centerpieces were being finalized—orchids for drama mixed with peonies. Wine was unloaded from the boat dock in crates. Everyone worked with great haste to pull off a spectacular affair; in fact, for the first time during his stay, it seemed the hotel had more employees than guests.
"Is there anything to eat besides lobster?" Grant asked, looking skeptically at the buffet setup.
Patrick strained to remember. Lorenzo and Giana had given them a full rundown of the menu they had planned for their daughter, but in the moment, it was all a blur. "Ravioli. Tagliatelle. Don't worry. We'll find you something." In this moment, Patrick was more concerned for himself. They were on a lake, for God's sake. Did lobsters live in lakes? What had Livia's parents wrought?
"Lobsters spend their whole lives in the water, but they are poorly designed for swimming. Did you know that?" Grant asked.
Patrick knelt down and tugged at the hem of his nephew's dinner jacket. "Is that so?"
"They mostly just walk on the bottom. I'm not really sure they're designed for us eating them, either. They're like the insects of the sea."
Patrick smirked. "In some cultures, insects are delicacies."
Grant frowned. "Is this one of them?" If it were, he would have to reassess his opinion of Italy. "What are you doing?" he asked when he felt a sharp tug on his jacket.
"Giving you crisp shoulder lines. Might as well show off those seven push-ups you can do."
"I did ten this morning!"
"Three of them were on your knees," his sister reminded him.
Patrick glanced at Maisie. She was dressed in another outfit Livia had arranged for her: pants with a short linen trench coat and a stylish belt. "You look absolutely perfect," Patrick said, standing up.
Maisie replied, "I know." No book was in sight; her hands were confidently in her pockets. She surveyed the grounds and offered a higher opinion than Grant's. "Everything does."
"Are you happy?" Patrick asked. After all they'd endured, he should have sought their blessing earlier.
The kids looked at each other, then at their uncle with wide jack-o'-lantern grins.
"Okay, good. But dial it back a notch, you're creeping me out." Even Patrick couldn't contain his delight, though. Then suddenly, the world went dark as his eyes were covered from behind. It could only be one person.
"It's bad luck to see the bride before the wedding."
"Then it's a good thing this wedding has two grooms."
His fiancé removed his hands, and Patrick spun around. Emory was wearing a suit that matched his own—the Prada shawl collar tuxedo in light blue. He wasn't sure how she did it, but Livia and her Prada Loompas had worked real magic, right down to the silver onyx button studs and black grosgrain loafers in exactly their size. Patrick adjusted Emory's bow tie. "Are you sure?" he asked.
Emory replied with a quizzical look. "Shouldn't you save that question for the ceremony?"
Patrick gestured at everything. It may have aligned perfectly with his tastes, but it was someone else's venue, someone else's banquet, someone else's guest list, someone else's cake, someone else's vision. "Are you sure this is our wedding?"
Emory scanned the property, slowly absorbing each detail. The bar set up with aperitifs to hand to each guest as they arrived. The Edison lights strung over the lawn. The speedboat that waited to take just the two of them on a brief spin after they said their I dos. "Will you be there?" he asked when his eyes landed back on Patrick.
Patrick said he would indeed.
Emory bit his lip to keep from grinning. "Then it's my wedding."
"I'll be there, too," Grant hollered. Emory scooped him up and threw him over his shoulder.
"Me too," Maisie said, beaming. She looked like a kid again despite her very adult clothes, and Patrick realized she had been this whole time. She had just been carrying too much weight on her shoulders.
"Okay, well, both of you don't wrinkle your jackets," Patrick said, wresting Grant from Emory to set him back on the ground.
"I can do ten push-ups," Grant said to Emory as he began to slip out of his jacket. "Wanna see?"
Patrick pinched the bridge of his nose.
"What's your deal?" Maisie asked.
Patrick held up his half-empty glass. "This drink needs fortifying, and frankly, so do I."
They were married on the terrazza at sunset, the light glinting off the far windows of Bellagio on the distant side of the lake under a cloud-dappled sky. Eschewing tradition, Patrick and Emory walked themselves down the aisle. Greg stood just behind Patrick, wearing a suit Patrick hoped hadn't likewise been demoted when his brother went from groom to best man. Palmina joined them on Emory's side, wearing yet another jumpsuit and a silk scarf printed with tigers that made Patrick long for his ascot. It wasn't Patrick's first choice to include his rival in their wedding party, but since he was old and the venue was borrowed and the suits were blue, he let his great love have his *something new*. Grant stood with Patrick next to his dad, Maisie behind Palmina and Emory. It was the kids' first time being part of a wedding, and they were giddy that it was one they approved of so much. And good practice for a future wedding back home. Livia sat in the front row of a small gathering of chairs next to her parents; Lorenzo and Giana both seemed genuinely pleased their planning and hard work were not going to waste. They had been more gracious than ever in gifting the venue to Patrick and Emory. Only Cousin Geppetto seemed unsure as to what was about to transpire, distracted as he was by an enthusiastic Gustavo doing his best to remind everyone who he was and how he was connected to the affair. Clara stood between the couple to officiate. She wasn't ordained, but that didn't matter. As marriage equality was not yet the law in Italy, they would have to do it all again in New York to make it official.
Clara and Emory hadn't started on the right foot when they met five summers before, but she had been wrong about him, and over the years she admitted as much. Emory was not one to hold a grudge. Today, as she opened the ceremony, Clara sang his praises and expressed gratitude for the joy he had brought into their lives—all of their lives. Patrick glanced over his shoulder at Greg, happy to be absolved once again for any perceived misdoings he might have been blamed for that first summer in Palm Springs. But Greg's attention was focused squarely on Livia. Patrick forgave this slight; even though in a just world the betrothed couple should rightly be everyone's focus, he was the center of enough attention and was happy in the knowledge that one way or another, Greg and Livia would work things out.
Patrick and Emory recited their own written vows, though *written* was too strong a word. With little time to prepare, there was no room for writing, and they were forced to speak off the cuff. Patrick recognized in Emory what he was feeling himself—an unusual case of stage fright.
"Don't worry," Patrick whispered. "Most of our guests don't speak English."
Emory's face glowed in the last of the day's northern Italian sun, and the anxiety that had spread through both their bodies suddenly lifted, shed as easily as their suit jackets would be when later it was time to dance.
"Patrick. Where to even begin. When we met, you were like the best home on a bad block. People would advise one against buying it. There was a gloomy sadness in your neighborhood, but all it needed was someone to restore it to glory. I wasn't always certain I was up for the challenge, building an entire world back up around you, no matter how much I was sure you were worth it. But of this much I was always sure: there are times when one's heart dictates, and it's best to simply stop arguing and obey."
It was the one use of the word *obey* in wedding vows that Patrick could readily embrace. Still, he had no choice but to chuckle. Arguing was what he did best.
Clara turned to her brother. "Patrick?"
Patrick shifted his weight from one foot to the other, then steadied himself before speaking. It would take his full self to get through this. "It's true that when we met, I had stopped living, so completely crushed was I by the loss of young love. The truth is, there are a thousand ways that love ends, but there is only one way it begins, and that's by opening your heart to another. It's something I didn't think I dared do again until two rotten kids stepped into my life and reminded me of everything love could be." Maisie and Grant snickered at being called rotten. "And you. You linked your pinkie in mine as we stood around my piano singing Christmas songs in the sweltering heat of July. And you made room in your life for mine, as messy and imperfect as it was. For these kids. For my family. For the memories of Sara and Joe. And I finally moved, not on, but forward." Out of the corner of his eye, Patrick saw Clara rest her hand on Greg's shoulder, happy.
Emory held out his left hand until it found Patrick's, and he gripped his husband-to-be tight as they made additional vows to be patient, forgiving, and kind. Clara asked if they freely took each other to be their lawfully wedded spouse.
"If only we'd had time to get rings," Emory said forlornly.
Rings! Even Greg pat down the front of his suit, as if he was supposed to be carrying them. It was a best man's job, after all. Palmina stepped forward, mildly annoyed like she had to do everything, and Patrick feared she would offer her earrings, which were more like bracelets than rings. But instead, she untied the silk scarf from her neck, stepping forward to lash it around the grooms' wrists until they were bound tightly together, the tigers of the scarf's pattern running circles around their arms. Patrick winced slightly as she tied her knot a little too tightly; she seemed to find enjoyment in administering pain.
"Kinky," Emory whispered, sharing in Palmina's delight.
Clara grasped their arms where they were joined and said, "By the power vested in me..."
Patrick cleared his throat. "You have no power," he reminded her.
"Fine." Patrick read the annoyance on his sister's face; he couldn't just leave her be. "As someone who loves you both, then. Does that work? I recognize you as united. You may now kiss your husband."
Patrick and Emory did just that, sharing a deep, soulful kiss that went on perhaps just a moment too long.
"I guess they're over their stage fright," Greg remarked.
Maisie and Grant reached into their pockets and pulled out fistfuls of golden confetti, tossing it in the air. It rained down on Patrick and Emory and pulled them out of their kiss. They looked up in wonder, as if they'd awoken from a dream not knowing where they were. Confetti, strangers clapping, rolling green hills sloping down into the most magnificent lake. Twilight. The warmth of summer air, the cool of an evening breeze. The Edison bulbs blinking to life above a banquet table on the lawn below.
The distribution of loss is inequitable, and Patrick and his family had endured more than their fair share. But he was done being sad.
It was time now to celebrate.