Book 3: Mrs. Cattaneo

Eleni

I twist the ribbon around my deep purple bouquet and look out over the reception. The wives rented a massive ballroom in a hotel close enough to the church that we all walked over when the ceremony ended, and if you’d asked me to guess what Nicky thought a wedding reception should look like, I would’ve described exactly this. There’s nowhere in this place I can look without being confronted by something that sparkles or bears the exact “eggplant” and “pine forest” that are apparently our colors.

Above every table, something that looks like a baby mobile made out of twinkle lights and strings of crystals hang. On the purple and green tablecloths sit the most ridiculous place settings I’ve ever seen. The gilt-edged china sports crossed flowers, a dusty green spring of something that looks more like leaves to me but which she said grow around the Acropolis and a sprig of Italian lilac, both also lined in gold. Apparently, they symbolize the joining of