Chapter 9 - Hands of the Community
The news of the wedding spread through the glen like a warm breeze, and once again, the community of Monterosso-on-the-Hill—as Sienna had affectionately named their small settlement—moved into action.
"No wedding planners, no expensive florists, and absolutely no press!" Mrs. MacDonald declared, shooing a local reporter who had tried to nose around the chapel. "This is a family wedding!"
The preparation was a labor of pure, unadulterated love.
The local children ran through the hills, gathering baskets of wild bluebells, heather, and daisies to decorate the stone chapel. They didn't arrange them in structured, sterile glass vases; they placed them in simple clay jars that Bác Marco had thrown on his pottery wheel.
Bà Rosa’s grandson, who had moved to Scotland to open a small bakery in the nearby town, spent two days preparing the wedding loaf—a rustic, braided sourdough bread sweetened with local heather honey and lavender buds, meant to be shared by all the guests after the ceremony.
The women of the village gathered at Sienna’s cottage, helping her sew her wedding dress. It wasn't made of French silk or decorated with pearls. It was a simple, elegant gown of soft white linen, hand-stitched with love and blessings.
"You look beautiful, Sienna," Giulia said, adjusting the simple wreath of wild daisies and rosemary in Sienna’s hair. "You look like yourself."
"I feel like myself," Sienna said, looking at her reflection. Her skin was tanned from her work in the greenhouses, her eyes were bright and clear, and her hands, though showing the marks of honest labor, were steady and peaceful.
Aiden stood in the chapel yard, wearing his grandfather’s old tweed jacket, his face radiant with anticipation. Marcus stood beside him, adjusting his tie.
"You're a lucky man, Aiden," Marcus said, looking toward the cottage.
May you like
"I am a blessed man, Marcus," Aiden replied, his voice filled with a deep, quiet gratitude. "God gave me the greatest treasure in the world, and it didn't cost a single cent."
The church bells began to ring—not with the grand, mechanical chime of Florence, but with the warm, hand-pulled rhythm of the local chapel, welcoming the glen to the celebration of love.
