Becca.
After gelato, James escorted us to a nice study lined with books and scattered with comfortable furniture. James poured us some after-dinner drinks—grappa—and we sat on two sofas, James next to me, Sofia across on another loveseat.
“Are you ready to get up and do all of this again tomorrow?" Sofia asked, winking at us. “There's a wake at the Cathedral before mass, is there not?"
I groaned and leaned my head against James's shoulder. “My feet are never going to survive."
“Might I suggest flats?" James said.
Sofia and I both looked at him in horror.
“Bite your tongue, sir! Flats. At an Italian funeral. My dear mama is probably rolling in her grave," Sofia responded, crossing herself.
“I don't want to shame your uncle at his own funeral by failing to dress appropriately," I add
