Royally Romanced. Marie Donovan

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ

      Her aunt sniffed. “Child’s play. I even have time to add some sequins on the skirt if you’d like?” she asked hopefully.

      Renata shook her head. “No sequins.” Her client was an avowed hipster and would bite the sequins off with her teeth before wearing them down the aisle.

      “Seed pearls?”

      “Nope.”

      “How about some white-on-white satin-stitch embroidery?” But her aunt knew when she was beaten, her plump shoulders already slumping.

      “Sorry.” Renata was sorry. Her aunt would like nothing better than to hand-bead, hand-sequin and hand-embroider a gigantic ball gown with a twenty-foot train. But customers for gowns like that didn’t come to Renata’s design studio, Peacock Wedding Designs.

      Instead, the dress in front of them was pretty typical of her sales—a fifties-style vintage reproduction with gathered halter straps and a full-circle skirt complete with a tulle crinoline. The bride was planning on a short, wavy fifties ‘do and a small satin hat with a tiny net veil to drape over one carefully made-up eye.

      Renata smoothed the skirt and carried it into the alteration workshop for her aunt. She caught a glimpse of herself in the three-way mirror and sighed. She loved vintage clothing but it sometimes didn’t stand up to the modern workday. Her ivory linen blouse was wrinkled and her navy pencil skirt had twisted around her waist so the back slit was somewhere along the front of her thigh. She patted her auburn hair back into its nineteen-forties-style roll.

      Her aunt noticed her self-grooming and finally smiled. “You look just like old photos of my dear mamma, God rest her soul.”

      “Thanks, Auntie.” She blew her a kiss and fixed her skirt. She probably needed to touch up her lipstick, too. While lush red lips were historically correct, they did require more maintenance and she had to be careful that she didn’t trip over her feet and plant a big red smacker on her pure white fabric. The things one did for fashion. Or at least her grandmother’s fashion.

      Renata hopped onto the elevated chair at her design table. Before she could uncap her cherry-red tube, the phone rang. “Peacock Wedding Designs, this is Renata.”

      “Hi, I’ve been looking at your website and I was wondering when I could come in to look at your dresses.” The New York voice was young but confident, typical of her clientele. Brides who wanted a vintage look were not shrinking violets.

      Renata flipped through the appointment calendar. “We can see you Friday.”

      “Are you free tomorrow afternoon?”

      Renata wrinkled her nose. She’d been planning to take the afternoon off for the opening of a new art exhibit at a gallery in Manhattan. Her friend Flick knew a couple of the artists.

      Her potential client hurried on. “I want my brother to come with me, and he’s flying into town tonight.”

      Business was business, and maybe Brother was paying for the dress. “No, that’s fine. What time is good?”

      “Noon?”

      “Great.” Maybe she could see the opening after all—it started at two. “And your name?”

      “Stefania di Leone.” She had a perfect Italian accent when she pronounced her name.

      “Ah, Stephanie of the Lion.” Renata laughed. “My full name is Renata Isabella Pavoni—peacock. That’s where I got the name for my salon.”

      “I think your designs are wonderful,” Stefania enthused. “I looked in the bridal mags, but everything there is too over-the-top. I don’t want a gigantic, poufy dress, or a corset-slip that looks like I forgot to put the rest of my dress on. And don’t get me started on the mermaid style. I want to be able to dance at my wedding.” She ended in a plaintive note.

      Renata penciled her name into the calendar. “I’m sure you can find something you love. Have another look at my website and jot down some styles you’d like to try on.” She gave Stefania directions to her salon in Brooklyn. Renata wished she could afford space in Manhattan, but even marginal neighborhoods there were exorbitant.

      But Stefania didn’t seem fazed. “My brother and I will see you tomorrow. Oh, I’m so excited! My first time wedding dress shopping!”

      That could be good or bad, depending on if she made up her mind quickly or liked to browse. Either way, it was an opportunity. They said their goodbyes, and Renata hung up.

      Barbara appeared in the doorway again. “Who was that, dear?”

      “A bride is coming in tomorrow at noon to look at the dresses.”

      Her aunt made a disappointed face, her penciled eyebrows drooping. Since Renata had planned to take the afternoon off, her aunt made an appointment for Uncle Sal’s annual colonoscopy. Lucky Sal.

      “I’ll be sure to keep you posted. And who knows? She may want a little more embellishment on her dress.”

      Barbara brightened. “That would be wonderful! I have lots of ideas.”

      “Great. Write them down. Or draw them.”

      She made a dismissive gesture. “Renata, you know I can’t draw worth a lick.”

      “Ask your granddaughter Teresa to draw it for you. Isn’t she a good artist?”

      “Oh, well …” Her aunt fluttered her fingers at her bosom. “I’ll have to see … my ideas probably aren’t very good.”

      “You won’t know until you try.” Her aunt was a product of her times, discouraged from attending college and encouraged to marry straight out of high school. It was about time her aunt focused on herself instead of her family. Her family would be grateful, too.

      “But I can hem that dress. I know I’m good at that.”

      “You are indeed.” Renata gave her an encouraging smile and checked on the selection of samples she had in stock. Kick-ass. Her new bride would love them.

      Unlike her aunt, she didn’t have any doubts about her abilities. Renata loved vintage clothing, but she sure didn’t have a vintage attitude.

       2

      “OUR LITTLE STEVIE’S getting married?” Giorgio’s old friend Francisco Duarte das Aguas Santas was obviously as dumbfounded as he had been. Once Giorgio’s call from the VIP lounge in Leonardo da Vinci Airport in Rome had reached Frank at his ranch in the Portuguese countryside, it had taken several minutes to explain the situation.

      “Yes, she’s engaged.” It was getting somewhat easier to say the words aloud. Giorgio’s grandmother had been ecstatic at the prospect of a royal wedding in Vinciguerra, especially since his own parents’ wedding had been the last one celebrated, and that had been over thirty years ago. They had been returning from an anniversary trip when they died tragically in a car accident. Giorgio hoped his sister’s nuptials would distract his grandmother from asking him when he would make some lucky woman his principessa.

      “And to СКАЧАТЬ