the fire in her eyes says she’s not done fighting yet. She won’t be curling up in a ball and giving up on Papa just yet. And if she’s not, I’m not.
“Violet, in some ways, I think your grandparents are being incredibly brave with it. Too many people hang on for no other reason than they’re afraid of what’s on the other side, or maybe they’re just too stubborn to give up. If there’s a reason, like your grandfather has, that makes sense, but . . . I think most of us hope to reach that point where we’ve done all we wanted with our life, every item on that bucket list checked off. And it can be a blessing to leave on our own terms, happy and secure in the legacy we leave behind.”
“But he’s still got so much to live for!” Violet pleads. “And now . . . everyone acting like this is going to be some big party . . . Ross, I know what the Russo clan’s like. Even the ones I’ve never met and only heard about. And when I say a big party, I mean if we’re not careful, it’s going to end up one police call short of Spring Break in Cabo.”
“Sounds like fun.”
Violet stops and gives me a double-take. “What?”
“I said it sounds like fun,” I repeat. “Violet, in talking with your grandparents, I get why you want to do this. And if they want to turn this into a big party, so what? I mean, if you’re going to go out, go out with the biggest, happiest bash you can. Go out in style. You’re giving him style.”
“The party alone is probably going to be enough to give him a heart attack,” she says gruffly, and then her eyes widen in horror. “Oh, God, I didn’t mean that.” She looks up to the ceiling. “If there’s anyone listening, please, I’m begging you with everything I’ve got, don’t let Papa have a heart attack at my wedding.” She crosses herself, something I’ve never seen her do, so that must mean it’s a serious prayer.
“Violet, no one can control what happens. Not even you, Control Freak Russo. But there are some things you can control. Would that make you feel better?”
She eats another bite but nods. “Probably,” she mumbles around a mouthful of cherry fudge.
I pull out a notepad and pen. “All right, hit me. What’s on your to-do list? Wedding dress, bridesmaid dress, decorations, flowers, invitations? Tell me everything.”
“Why?” she asks, shoveling in another bite, and I smile, surprised at how adorable she looks curled up on the couch, open and talking with me as she messily eats ice cream. I’m so not going to tell her about the tiny dribble of ice cream on her chest, even though it’s driving me mad. I want to lick it off so badly.
“So I can help you,” I answer, the duh barely held back.
“Archie and Abi are already helping me, and Kaede and Archie talked for over an hour the other day. I think at least half of it was about the wedding. I hope it was, at least,” she offers as protest.
“Right, but that’s them. And I’ll coordinate with them, of course, to help where they need me because sometimes, I can grease wheels they can’t.” I rub my index finger and thumb together, knowing that money talks, especially when we’re talking a big event in fast order. “But it’s my wedding too, might I remind you, and I want to be involved. So tell me your vision because I know you have one. Lay out the whole Pinterest board, Instagram-worthy dream on me.”
And like the magic elixir I knew it would be, the ice cream loosens her lips.
She tells me about her dress search and then describes what she’s looking for as I take notes. I vow to myself to call every bridal shop in the city and have them bring similar dresses to Vi’s office as soon as possible. That way, she can try them on and barely miss a beat at work.
She talks about Abi doing the invitations and how they need to be mailed out immediately, likely with priority postage. I volunteer the mailroom clerk at the office to handle that, knowing that a bonus and some genuine appreciation will go a long way in checking that off quickly.
She goes on and on. Venue . . . booked, but needs updated payment info, which I can do over the