Winter Wedding For The Prince. Barbara Wallace
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was serving as the couple’s first official appearance. Currently, the princess was playing carols on the shelter piano while her fiancé led the crowd in a sing-along. He was already proving a people’s favorite with his movie-idol looks and exuberant off-key singing.
“They are,” she told Armando, “but you know children’s attention spans. Especially children who have been gorging on cake and gelato.”
“The Christmas cake was delicious, was it not?”
“Mouthwatering,” she replied, hoping he didn’t notice the catch in her voice. Truth was, she had been more transfixed by the way Armando licked the frosting from his fork.
Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of the future Prince Max. “I have been asked when Santa might be arriving,” he said. “We’re running out of Christmas songs. If he doesn’t arrive soon, I may have to break out the 1940s standards.”
“Please no, not that,” Rosa replied. She leaned back to look behind the screen only to find herself inches away from Armando’s bearded face.
“Never fear, Babbo Natale is here.” He grinned. “Ready to see who has been naughty or nice. Should I start with you, Signora Rosa, since you seem to think the naughty list is the place to be?”
Too bad she wasn’t wearing a beard, if only to hide her warm cheeks. She had to settle for looking down and adjusting the hem of her white sweater. “I’m sure there’s much more interesting people on that list than me,” she said. “Besides, you don’t want to keep the children waiting for their presents much longer or we could have a riot on our hands.”
Proving her point, one of the youngsters spotted his red hat poking out from behind the screen. “It’s Babbo!” he yelled out. “He’s here!” Half a second later, the rest of the children started cheering his arrival as well. The mothers had to corral their children to keep them from rushing the cloth screen.
“Looks like I’m on,” Armando whispered. He stepped out, and in the blink of an eye, every trace of reluctance disappeared as the prince threw himself into his performance. “Ho, ho, ho!” he called out. “Buon Natale! One of my helpers told me I might find some good boys and girls here. Is that true?”
“Yes,” the kids screeched at the top of their lungs.
“Wonderful. Because I happen to have a sack full of toys that I brought especially for them.”
Someone dragged over a folding chair from one of the tables, and he perched on it as regally as if it were an actual throne, despite the fact his athletic frame dwarfed the chair. “Let me see,” he said, reaching into the velvet sack he had brought with him, “who is going to be first?”
At the chorus of “Me!” that rang through the room, Armando let out a deep rumbling laugh worthy of the Babbo himself.
Rosa’s heart warmed at the sight. She had known from the very beginning that playing Santa would be a balm for Armando’s grief, but it never ceased to amaze her how good he was at the job. He made sure every child got special one-on-one time with Babbo, he treated them as miniature adults, going along with the pretense for the children’s sake. He was going to make a wonderful father.
When he had children with Mona. Beautiful, royal children. A wave of envy, fierce and cold, sent her spirits plummeting.
Max, who she didn’t realize had disappeared, returned carrying a pair of paper coffee cups. “All this time I’ve been thinking Babbo Natale was some old-world European tradition and it turns out he’s a more athletic version of Santa Claus,” he said, tilting his head to where Armando was teasing a young girl with a stuffed rabbit. “I feel cheated.”
“If it makes you feel better, there are Corinthians who embrace Befana.”
“What’s that?”
“An Italian witch who arrives on Epiphany.”
The American’s lips turned downward. “A witch on Christmas?”
“More like a crone. She brings treats.”
“In that case, yes, I do feel better.” He handed her one of the paper cups. “Turns out marrying the princess comes with some benefits. I mentioned wanting an espresso and the caterer made me two. You look like you could use a cup.”
“Thank you.” Caffeine sounded like just what she needed to perk her sagging mood. “Speaking of Arianna, where is she?”
“Putting up her feet in the back room,” he replied. “Sitting on the piano stool for so long was hard on her back.”
“She should have said something.”
“Are you kidding? You know what Arianna’s like when it comes to pianos. She was having way too much fun.” From the center of the room, a child let out a high-pitched squeal. “Sounds like they’re having fun, too,” he noted.
“Who? The children or Prince Armando?”
“Both. I think this is the first time I’ve actually seen Arianna’s brother smile. Granted, I’ve only known him about a week, so I might be misjudging...”
“No, you’re not,” Rosa replied, thinking of the media’s nickname. “Prince Armando isn’t known for his jovial side in public. This is definitely one of the few events where he truly lets himself relax and enjoy the moment.”
“Hard not to enjoy yourself when you’re around children,” she added, as out on the floor Armando scooped up another toddler. “Although some people can’t shake their mean streaks no matter what. If they could, we wouldn’t need a place like Christina’s Home.” Wives wouldn’t be made to feel like second-class citizens simply because they weren’t perfect or, heaven forbid, carried a few extra pounds.
“Tell me about it,” Max said. The bitterness in his voice surprised her. “Only thing that made my old man happy was a bottle. Or smacking my mom.”
Rosa winced. “Some people need to mistreat their loved ones to feel better about themselves.”
“That sounds like personal knowledge.”
“A little.”
He paused to look at her over his cup. “Your father was an A-hole, too? Pardon the language.”
“No, my ex-husband.” Normally, she avoided talking about Fredo, especially here at the shelter where there were women who had suffered far worse than she, but it was hard to brush off a kindred spirit. “And the word you used is a very apt description.”
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