The mother of another young neighbor boy—who regularly volunteered to ride his motorino into town each morning to fetch us breakfast rolls (Non-Fabrication Number Twelve)—insisted upon acting as official wedding photographer, claiming that our parents would be furious if we didn’t at least photograph the big event.
And the night before our wedding, some of the village children came to our house and decorated our front gate with flowers and hung two pairs of bedroom slippers from the wrought iron spikes, an old Italian tradition promising connubial bliss (Non-Fabrication Number Thirteen). They also presented me with a beautiful wreath of flowers to wear in my hair on the Big Day… garlic blossoms, I found out after I put it on (Non-Fabrication Number Fourteen). But it was the thought that counted.
These same children were the ones who, at seven in the morning of the Big Day, tapped on our door. Since I was further dressed than Benjamin, I answered. Two little cherubs looked up at me and explained in broken English, their big eyes soulful, that they were very sorry, but the mayor had telephoned and the soccer game had been moved up an hour, and so there could be no wedding that day.
Gasping in horror, I clutched the front of my wedding gown, my eyes filling with tears.
Then both children burst into giggles and shrieked, “April Fool’s!”
I brought my hands down from my heart and asked them to pull the same prank on Benjamin, whose reaction was far more satisfactory to them than mine, since he said a lot of American swear words, to the kids’ endless delight.
An hour and a half later, our wedding procession, consisting of our landlady, the translator, his wife and daughter, our self-appointed photographer, her husband and their son, Ingo and two of his friends from Bonn, Benjamin, myself, and assorted village children and their dogs arrived at the Sala Consiliare of the Comune di Diano San Pietro.
Clearly surprised that we had actually shown up, the mayor quickly stripped off his referee uniform and donned jacket, tie, and mayoral surplice (Non-Fabrication Number Fifteen).
Our marriage took place with much more solemnity and pageantry than either of us was expecting. Ingo, the best man, presented me with a bridal bouquet and my maid of honor with a matching corsage before the ceremony. Then Frau Schumacher and Ingo witnessed our signing of the Diano San Pietroregistro degli atti di matrimoni.
According to the translator, Benjamin and I promised, among other things, to live always together and see that our children attended decent schools. No wedding ceremony I have attended since has seemed quite as sweet—and to the point—as our Italian one.
After rings and kisses were exchanged, the mayor announced us husband and wife, and cheers and applause rang out. We were then beseeched by the mayor to pose for photos with him, and by thesecretario to make a one-hundred-thousand lire donation to the Comune di Diano San Pietro Children’s Fund. In theregistro for the Children’s Fund, my husband wrote, “Isn’t it a good thing we decided not to get married in Las Vegas like normal Americans?”
Then we all went across the street to the postino’s office to send off our telegrams, then to enjoy a wedding brunch at a restaurant that had agreed to open its doors early just for us.
It was at this brunch that we discovered Non-Fabrication Number Sixteen: Our landlady had worked for the SS, and had a son who was in jail for robbing all of the homes neighboring hers. Yes, the Nazi mother of a felon was the maid of honor at my wedding. And she’d been so nice! How was I supposed to have known?
Every Boy’s Got One ends with missives from the bride and groom’s families, expressing their eagerness to throw a party for the young couple whose marriage they’d initially been so vehemently against.
Non-Fabrication Number Seventeen: In real life, our parents’ reaction was not much different. At first puzzled as to whether or not the whole thing had been an April Fool’s joke, they soon came to believe the event had actually taken place, and began planning a wedding celebration on my mother’s back deck in Indiana.
Of course, the morning of the party, a tornado ripped through town, pulling the roof off a nearby church and causing the temperature to plummet and the yard to become strewn with leaves and branches, so that the guests, including myself, were forced to wear sweaters and step over bracken in order to get to the cooler holding the beer.
But then, I’d given up expecting anything to do with my wedding to go right, so I wasn’t the least surprised.
Still, nearly a dozen years later, there’s nothing I’d change about my wedding day—although I think it would have been a blast to be married in Castelfidardo… there’s something hilarious about having a wedding in the accordion-making capital of the world—which made writing about it for Every Boy’s Got One a breeze.
I’m glad that, for this book at least, when people ask me where I got the inspiration, I’ll have a ready answer.
Still, it’s important to note that there’s one thing that’s in the book that did NOT happen in real life:
Fabrication Number Four: Unlike some of my traveling companions, I actually knew better than to order the oysters.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
MEG CABOT was born in Bloomington, Indiana. She is the author of seven historical romances under the pseudonym Patricia Cabot, as well as the novels Boy Meets Girl, The Boy Next Door, She Went All the Way and the bestselling young adult fiction series The Princess Diaries . She lives in New York City and Florida with her husband.