Bella Fortuna (4 page)

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Authors: Rosanna Chiofalo

BOOK: Bella Fortuna
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I took off my dress. When I had put it on earlier in the night, I was so proud of it. My mother had made it for me. It was a deep emerald green with black tulle and lace trim throughout the dress. It had a square neckline with a V-cut in the center, giving a tiny peek to my cleavage. I had worn one of my minimizer bras out of fear of showing off too much cleavage.
When my sister Rita saw me, she said, “What a shame to hide those magnificent tits!” I scowled at her. You'd think she was years older than me and more experienced, the way she talked.
Before taking off my dress, I stared at myself in the full-length mirror that hung on my closet door and remembered how earlier in the night I'd wished that somehow Michael could've seen me in it. My wish was granted when he showed up at the dance. But my hopes that the sight of me in this dress was all it would take to convince him I wasn't a little girl anymore were crushed—first with his mention of getting the concert tickets for a friend and me, and then seeing him making out with my girlfriend, who was quickly becoming the town tramp.
I threw the dress onto the floor. Stupid! How stupid could I have been? Aldo had nailed it exactly when he said that I saw Michael as this perfect guy and above the lousy frat-boy behavior his peers often exhibited. What did I know about him anyway? Not much. I was basing my knowledge of Michael's worth just from that day he'd saved me at Li's Grocery Store. I was still that same kid looking up to her idol, who could do no wrong in her eyes.
I sank into bed with a heavy weariness. Pulling the sheets close to my chin, I promised myself that night I would forget Michael Carello once and for all. But keeping that promise would prove to be much more difficult than I ever could've imagined. For over the summer, my world was about to shatter. And Michael would prove to be my knight in shining armor once again.
 
The snow that is now falling shakes me back to the present. I fight back the memories from that summer and take a deep breath of cold air, letting it cleanse my lungs and spirits. I quicken my steps along Ditmars Boulevard.
New York City is having a record amount of snowfall this winter. We've had three major snowstorms already, and it's only mid-January. February often packs the biggest wallop of the season where the cold and snow are involved.
The pink sign of Sposa Rosa soon comes into view as I round the corner of Ditmars and 38th Street. I can still feel that thorn pricking my side whenever I look at the shop's name. Leave it to my mother to choose “pink bride” as the name of the bridal boutique that she'd opened ten years ago. I still remember the battle I had with my mother as if it were yesterday.
“But, Ma, hardly any bride wears pink unless you've been married five times, and even then some people still prefer to wear white!”
“
Basta,
Valentina! The name is going to be Sposa Rosa, and that's that. It's memorable. It rhymes. And it's different. When I die, you can call it “Always White” or some other unoriginal, boring name. But right now this is Olivia DeLuca's shop, so the name stays.
Finito!
”
My sisters Rita and Connie giggled in the background. They knew Ma was teasing my traditional tastes. When we were kids, Rita had nicknamed me “Plain Jane.” I guess I couldn't blame her. I ate my pancakes without maple syrup and my hot dogs and burgers without ketchup or mustard. I liked more classic styles when it came to my clothes. But that didn't mean I always chose to be conservative. My mother and sisters were in for a shock later today when I would unveil my wedding dress to them.
Sposa Rosa was famous for copying couture designer dresses but offering the dresses at a significantly reduced rate. As I was telling Paulie Parlatone,
Brides
magazine recently did a story on our—I mean, Ma's boutique. Although the shop was in Ma's name, we all thought of it as ours, and we knew it would be our mother's legacy to us after she died. Anyway, the article in
Brides
mentioned the store's custom of featuring a different couture designer dress every month.
Brides
had also paid us the highest compliment by stating, “Attention to detail is flawless, and the dresses are made so well that even the designer might not be able to tell which is the original and which is the knockoff.”
Ever since the article was published, more customers were swinging through Sposa Rosa's doors. We were all thrilled even though we were exhausted by the time Sunday rolled around.
With fewer than six months to go until my wedding, I'd been fretting over completing my dress. After all, everyone knows the dress is the most important detail of the wedding. With the shop being so busy, it was hard to devote more time to my dress and overall wedding planning. My family helped any way they could, but I admit it, I was guilty of wanting to micromanage my wedding.
I'll also be the first to acknowledge that I can be guilty of a few Bridezilla moments, but my temper tantrums have been mild compared to some of Sposa Rosa's clients. From witnessing so many monsters, I made a promise to myself a long time ago that I would never resort to being one when it was my turn to get married. It's been annoying having to put Sposa Rosa's clients' dresses before my own, especially when it's for a Bridezilla. But this is my career and passion; it comes with the territory. Whenever I remember how lucky I am to have the skills to be able to design and sew my own wedding dress—the dress of my dreams that no one else will have—my frustration lifts. And today, I would finally have my first fitting!
I decided to model my wedding dress after one of our featured dresses of the month from last spring. It was an Amy Michelson design that sported a lace bodice and halter neckline. One of my favorite features of the dress was its plunging back. A champagne-colored sash wrapped around the waist and tied into a loose bow just above my derriere. But I put my own mark on the gown by adding pearl beads to the lace-covered bodice. Another twist was the detachable organza skirt that gave the appearance of a full ball gown skirt, but once removed, the dress was transformed into a body-hugging, sexy sheath with a daring shorter hem that fell just below the knee. The shorter front hem of the dress was visible even when the detachable organza skirt was attached to the gown. But no one would be able to detect there were two separate pieces. The skirt of the dress was bare and did not feature any of the lace or beading that was on the bodice.
The suspense of showing the dress to my mother and sisters was giving me heart palpitations. I just couldn't wait to see their faces. They knew I had chosen the Amy Michelson design, but they had no idea I'd altered it. Although beautiful in its original, more simple design, the Amy Michelson dress was now a bold gown that screamed, “Look at me!” I didn't want a dress that so many others would have. I wanted my own unique dress.
The thought of the dress makes me even more anxious to get to the shop. Arriving finally at Sposa Rosa, I unlock the doors and turn on the lights. Even after being in business for ten years, I am still in awe every time I walk in. Ask any girl, and she'll tell you there's something magical about a bridal boutique. It all starts with the glittering, beautiful dresses in the storefront window, which catch your eye and lure you to step inside. Then there's the excitement in the air when customers are trying on their dresses, and teary-eyed family and friends are looking at the bride-to-be as if she's the Madonna. Okay, I know that's a stretch for our times, but you know what I mean.
The marble floors, imported straight from Italy, shine immaculately. My mother mops them every night before we lock the store. The walls are shades of celestial blue and creamy eggshell. Sketches of our bridal designs hang on the walls, along with black-and-white photographs of brides, some of whom have bought their dresses over the years at Sposa Rosa.
My youngest sister, Connie, always makes sure to light scented candles when she arrives in the morning. “Ambience is key to selling,” is one of her favorite quotes. Connie is a New Age guru. She does yoga every morning at the crack of dawn, meditates before she goes to bed every night, and has recently become vegetarian—a fact that drives Ma absolutely insane since she can't understand how anyone would give up her
ragù
,
bracciole
on skewers, or her famous sausage and peppers.
Connie had fought with us over adding bubbling fountains with rocks. But she was right. Several clients commented how much they liked them and how they added to the Zen-like atmosphere of the shop. Connie had downloaded her favorite New Age tunes onto a CD to play at Sposa Rosa. Of course, the irony didn't escape any of us that we were aiming for serenity in a place that was fraught with loads of tension!
My job can be very rewarding, especially when I see the light flash in a customer's eyes that this dress is “the one.” Almost always, the girls look to me as if to say, “How did you know?” Of course, it makes me feel special. And we're all good at being able to tell which is the right dress for most of our clients. My mother and sisters have begun recently taking bets on how long it'll take them to find the dress that the brides will say is “the one.” Of course, my mother with her seasoned skills beats us all. But last week, one of my clients chose the first design I'd sketched. She didn't even want to look at the samples of dresses we'd created for other brides in the past or our portfolio. She wanted a custom dress that did not look like any of the other designers' dresses that were currently on the market. A bride being satisfied with the first sketch we design
never
happens!
My mother was miffed about it. I'm sure she was scared I would usurp her place. Connie comes third at finding the right gown for clients. Rita takes being last in stride, saying, “What's important is that I find the right dress for our client even if it takes a little longer. After all, we don't want them walking out of here without leaving a deposit.”
Making my way to the back of the store, I place my cold cuts in the refrigerator we keep in the kitchen where we take our lunches and breaks. I leave the boxes with the Danish and
biscotti
on the square wooden table, which has been passed down the generations dating back to my great-grandmother. Then, I walk over to the alterations room. Taking the muslin off a mannequin, I stare at my dream come true—my perfect wedding dress. Tears come into my eyes. I still can't believe that after ten years of making gowns for other brides-to-be, I'm finally the lucky girl.
With the wedding date fast approaching, I'm also anxious to finish the dress because I've been neglecting Michael. But after today, I can relax a bit and see Michael twice a week and the entire weekend, just as we'd been doing before I began working on my dress. Of course, Michael has been understanding, especially since he's had to work late himself.
To make it up to me, Michael surprised me last night by taking me to Water's Edge, a four-star restaurant in Long Island City with stunning views of Manhattan. Ever since I'd first heard of Water's Edge in high school, I had fantasized about going there with someone special. As we dined and watched the lights around New York City go on one by one, I couldn't help thinking how serene the whole night was. There was never any doubt in my mind of Michael's love as he continually looked into my eyes.
“How do you do it?”
“Do what?”
“How do you always manage to look like a star? No matter what you're wearing—a dress or jeans—there's a certain glamour about you.”
I could feel my cheeks warming up. “Oh, Michael. You're too good to me.”
Michael took my hand in his and stroked it. “It's true, Vee. And you know what makes you more beautiful? You don't even know it. That's why I love you so much.”
“I love you, too, Michael.”
After dinner, Michael had a limo waiting for us outside. We crossed the 59th Street Bridge into Manhattan and went to a heliport, where we took a helicopter for a spectacular aerial view of the Big Apple at night. It was the most romantic night.
Buzz! Buzzzzzz!
I'm jolted from my thoughts by the sound of Sposa Rosa's buzzer, signaling a customer. What's the matter with me today? I can't stop daydreaming.
“Valentina!”
My mother! I spring into action, quickly draping the muslin over my gown.
“I'll be right out, Ma!”
“When are you going to let your sisters and me see that dress—the wedding day? You girls are all so secretive nowadays. I remember in my day a daughter shared everything with her mother.”
I've heard this lecture countless times. Having grown up poor in Sicily during World War II, Ma doesn't understand the concept of privacy. Her feelings are instantly hurt if she discovers that one of the DeLuca girls has been keeping something from her. Rita had hidden the fact that she had a boyfriend when she was thirteen.
One day, Ma was sitting on a bench in Astoria Park, taking in the view of the magnificent Manhattan skyline as the sun set over the East River. She noticed a very young boy and girl standing by the water and hugging. When the girl turned around and kissed the boy full on the lips, Ma dropped the vanilla ice cream cone she'd just bought from Mister Softee right on her lap.

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