The Housemaid’s Wedding: A Short Story

That’s him.

The man staring at us through the window of the cafe is wearing a trench coat which is damp from the snow, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. He is older than I expected him to be—possibly in his sixties—with hollowed eyes, which bore straight into me. His lips twist into a sneer that turns my blood to ice.

I had been hoping to hide those threatening calls from Enzo, but now that the man has shown up in person with a menacing expression on his face, I have to say something. I have no choice. At least, if I don’t want to be murdered on my wedding day.

And now the man has entered the cafe. He is standing less than ten feet away from us. He’s got a paper bag in his right hand that he is clutching so tightly that all the tendons stand out. I watch in horror as he reaches into the bag.

Oh God.

“Enzo,” I whisper urgently. “Do you see that man over there?”

Enzo swivels his head to look at the entrance to the cafe. I expect his eyes to darken the way they always do when he perceives a threat. So I’m not prepared for the sudden smile that lights his face as he jumps to his feet.

“Giuseppi!” he cries.

Giuseppi?

To my utter shock, Enzo rushes across the cafe and then embraces the man in the trench coat. What follows is a string of rapid Italian. I can only make out two words, one of which is Millie and the other is pazza, which I’m becoming more and more convinced is not complimentary.

After about a minute of conversation, Enzo pulls the older man over to our table. “Millie,” he says, “this is my good friend, Giuseppe.”

“Buongiorno, Millie,” the man says in heavily accented English. This is most definitely not the man from the phone.

“Hello,” I say politely. “It’s very nice to meet you.”

“Giuseppe,” Enzo says, “is a tailor.”

Giuseppe reaches into the paper bag and pulls out my pale-blue dress. “For you, mia cara.”

He did it. He managed to get it altered in time for the wedding. It’s a wedding day miracle. Tears form in my eyes as I clutch my dress in both hands. “Thank you so much, Giuseppe.”

He beams at me. “You are welcome. But please, try it on. I want to make sure it fits.”

Thankfully, the cafe has a bathroom in the back where I can change. I excuse myself from the table and hurry down a long, dimly lit hallway to get to the single-person restroom. There’s no indication whether it’s vacant or not, but I knock several times, and when someone doesn’t yell that the room is occupied, I try the knob and find it empty. This isn’t exactly where I hoped to be changing into my wedding dress, but I’m just grateful that I didn’t have to change in the middle of the cafe or at some McDonald’s.

I step out of my skirt and blouse, being careful not to let them fall on the floor, or God forbid, inside the toilet. The restroom is clean, at least, which is more than I can say for a lot of restrooms in New York City restaurants. I slip the dress on over my head, and the blue fabric drapes over the curve of my belly and hips. It seems to fit well enough, but the real test is whether it zips in the back.

I position my hands behind me, locating the zipper with my fingers. Here we go—moment of truth.

I tug on the zipper, and to my utter relief, it slides up easily. It doesn’t fit quite the same way it did before, and my belly does have a somewhat noticeable bulge, but that’s fine. I’m not ashamed of the baby growing inside me. I think the dress looks fantastic, although it’s hard to tell since all I’ve got is a vanity mirror.

Enzo solved the problem, just like he promised he would. I’ve got a perfect dress, as well as something new and something blue.

My phone rings inside my purse, which is balanced on the edge of the sink. I assume it’s Enzo, asking if the dress fits, so I answer the phone without thinking about it. It’s only when I hear the low, menacing voice on the other end of the line that I realize my mistake—I should have blocked the number earlier.

“Nice dress,” that now-familiar voice rasps into my ear. “I can’t wait to see how it looks with your blood spilled all over it.”

I grip the phone in my right hand, too surprised to speak.

“Don’t blue and red make purple?” he asks in a mock innocent voice. “You would look great in purple, Millie.”

“You need to stay away from me,” I croak. “You have no idea who you’re dealing with.”

“I’d love to find out…”

“Too bad.”

“Oh, I think I will,” he says. “After all, I’m right on the other side of the bathroom door.”

And then the doorknob starts to turn.