Arabella

The table was filled with dishes, all carefully arranged by the wedding planner, who kept smiling as if this were the happiest day of my life.

Marco was talking animatedly, describing each plate with such passion that I almost believed he cared more about the food than the wedding itself.

“This—this is the cherry pasta I told you about,” he said, pointing at a glossy bowl of red-coated noodles. “My nonna used to make this every Sunday. She’d let the cherries soak overnight in white wine… the smell alone would fill the whole house. That’s how you know you’re home.”

The planner laughed as if she had just heard...