“Um, no, it’s Morgane Le Fay.”

“Huuuuh? I’ve never heard of that designer. Is he French?”

“No, she’s Argentinean but based in New York—her real name is Liliana Casabal, and she’s got a great boutique in SoHo.”

“You know all the coolest designers. If I had a daughter, I’d want her to dress just like you!” Rosemary praised.

Charlotte, who looked rather regal in her buttercup point d’esprit lace Oscar de la Renta gown and a four-strand pearl choker borrowed from her mother, gave Rosemary a mischievous look. “And who designed your dress? Alexis Carrington?”

Rosemary let out a loud gasp and slapped Charlotte on the arm excitedly. “Hiyah, how did you know? This is vintage Nolan Miller! I bought it at a charity auction and they said that Joan Collins actually wore the dress on Dynasty! I think it was the episode when Blake tried to choke her to death.”fn1

“The famous choking gown! That is just too fabulous for words. You win the grand prize for most original outfit, Mrs. Zao!” Olivia remarked.

“No, no, you should win the prize too,” Rosemary said rather unconvincingly as she tried to decipher Olivia’s asymmetrical, deconstructed black Comme des Garçons dress that looked like it had been savaged by pinking shears. After Rosemary had made all of them pose for what seemed like ten dozen pictures, Lucie asked as casually as possible, “Where’s George?”

“Oh, didn’t you know? He’s one of the groomsmen. Dolfi asked him to step in at the last minute because his friend Colby, the one from Dallas, had to go to the hospital when he broke his cock.”

“His whaaat?” Charlotte eyes widened, not sure she had heard right.

“You know, his cock. His pee-pee, his birdie. Yes, apparently Colby took too much Viagra at the party on the boat last night and his cock got so swollen it got trapped in a donkey costume with some girl? I don’t really know the whole story, but apparently they had to fly him to the hospital in Naples to drain the blood from his cock.”fn2

Lucie held her hand to her mouth, looking like she was shocked but actually trying to stop herself from having a laughing fit. She knew if she looked at Charlotte she would totally lose it.

“I do hope the boy doesn’t have a hard time recovering,” Olivia said with an absolute straight face.

“Who’s recovering? Is Isabel okay?” Mercedes Ortiz asked, suddenly appearing alongside the foursome with her sister.

“Isabel’s fine,” Rosemary assured her. “It’s this schoolmate of Dolfi’s from Texas who had to get his big co—”

“My goodness, you ladies look incredible!” Charlotte loudly cut her off. For as long as she lived she did not ever again want to hear Rosemary utter the word that, if it had to be used, should only be used in reference to roosters.

“Yes, what terribly chic ball gowns!” Olivia echoed, admiring the sisters dressed in complementing shades of lilac silk festooned with intricate beading and ostrich feathers.

“Let me guess … Elie Saab?” Rosemary asked.

“Valentino!” Mercedes and Paloma said in unison, appearing offended that Rosemary would even dare mention any other couturier.

Olivia turned to Lucie covertly. “Are you ever going to tell me what really happened on that yacht?”

Before Lucie could formulate a response, she was quite literally saved by the bell. A line of groomsmen in dove-gray linen suits, led by George, came scattering out of the villa ringing antique Tibetan bells, indicating to the guests that it was time to take their seats. As Lucie observed George guiding several elderly guests, she found herself desperately trying to recall one thing: If he wasn’t the one in the donkey suit last night, was he even at the party? Or did I dream that too?

After everyone was seated around the spiral, a woman in a silvery halter-neck gown appeared at the edge of the balcony overlooking the garden. She held up a violin and began playing the first few notes of a melody as Dolfi appeared at the side of the garden with his parents. Suddenly the sounds of a full orchestra filled the air, accompanying the violinist in Ennio Morricone’s love theme from Cinema Paradiso, as the three of them began a slow, regal march toward the assembled guests, the Contessa already tearing up as she walked alongside her son, who was dashingly outfitted in a bespoke tuxedo from Battistoni. They arrived at the lotus bloom in the middle of the spiral, where Auden Beebe, striking in a midnight-blue silk jacquard sherwani, was waiting to greet them.

There was a moment of silence as the Conte and Contessa took their seats, and then the first chords of a piano could be heard coming from the terrace just below where they were all seated. A few of the guests murmured in excitement, “That’s Lang Lang on the piano!” Next, a man dressed in a linen tunic shirt and matching trousers wandered out of the glade of high trees near the piano, barefoot and holding an accordion, and together he and Lang Lang launched into the most beautiful duet of Luis Bacalov’s theme from Il Postino. Half a dozen bridesmaids standing at the top of the steps began their procession as Isabel emerged through the majestic front door on the arm of her father, and together they descended the steps and glided gracefully down the spiral aisle.

“How ingenious, Dedes! She did this so that she would pass by every single guest, and everyone can admire her dress!” Paloma Ortiz whispered to her sister.

“But what is she wearing? It looks like a potato sack!” Mercedes grumbled.

From where she was sitting, Lucie could not have disagreed more. Isabel looked absolutely exquisite in a white duchesse strapless gown with delicate pleats just below the bodice, mirrored by pleats at the back that flared dramatically into a long, billowing train. She recognized it immediately from the black-and-white magazine photo Isabel had pinned to her dressing mirror back in her childhood days at the Park Avenue apartment—it was a picture of Audrey Hepburn in the exact same dress by Givenchy, taken in 1955. She wondered if the dress was vintage or who might have re-created the gown for Isabel.

Lucie felt that Isabel had made a brilliant choice by staying so simple—she wore her hair pulled up into a high chignon, minimal makeup that showed off her natural glow from a week in the sun, and not a drop of jewelry aside from the heirloom Asscher-cut emerald engagement ring that had been Dolfi’s grandmother’s, and she clutched a simple bouquet of white peonies. Amid the grandeur of the villa, the profusion of colorful flowers, and all the guests dressed in their fanciest outfits, the bride stood out in all her unencumbered elegance.

Isabel’s preference for simplicity was also reflected in the ceremony. After Auden delivered a brief homily about twin flames being the halves of one soul, he told a moving story of how he had witnessed the flame that was Dolfi and Isabel’s growing over the last few years, “not at glamorous red carpet events or A-list parties, but in the quiet, everyday moments of partner yoga, juice fasts, and plant medicine circles.”

The couple then exchanged vows and rings, and a gospel choir emerged onto the steps of the villa and began to sing Peter Gabriel’s “In Your Eyes,” accompanied by a band of drummers. Isabel and Dolfi held hands and gazed into each other’s eyes throughout the entire song as tears streamed silently down their faces, which in turn made most of the crowd well up. Lucie thought it was the most romantic thing she had ever witnessed.