Capitolo XVIII

Gregorio Fabuccini had long gorgeous blonde hair that curls just below his shoulders. He had a looped-jabot scarf on his neck, a tight top and trousers that emphasized his fine behind. He looked like a mime I once saw in France. It scared the fuck out of me. He's the florist who Theresa hired for my wedding. He's French who speaks so little English we looked like aliens talking in the backyard garden.

The day was perfect for my pink sundress with butterfly sleeves and a pair of nude slingbacks. Thankfully, the garden had a paved walkway that directed us to the fountain. Flowers bloomed everywhere and the grass was beautifully mowed. It seemed almost the perfect day to celebrate the wedding.

"I want white roses and lilies along the aisle with something navy," I said, fixing my