14.06.2026
Amelia & James
CONTENTS
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Amelia & James
CONTENTS
Have something to share?
Amelia & James
Lake Como, Italy
The fourteenth of June
Always & forever
Amelia & James
Lake Como, Italy
The fourteenth of June
Always & forever
Amelia & James
Lake Como, Italy
The fourteenth of June
Always & forever
Amelia & James
Amelia
&
James
married on the 14th of June — Lake Como, Italy
A STORY of the day WE CHOSE US,
told in PHOTOGRAPHS.
CHAPTER I
How it all started
It began with a borrowed umbrella on a rainy Tuesday in London, and a conversation neither of them wanted to end.
Amelia was running late for a gallery opening. James was running late for nothing at all. They shared a doorway, then an umbrella, then the long walk home along the canal, talking about books, bad coffee and the cities they still wanted to see. By the time the rain stopped, neither of them had noticed. She never made it to the gallery; he walked her to the station twice, because the first time they missed the train. A week later he returned the umbrella with a note tucked inside the handle: a café, a Saturday, a time. She arrived early and found him already there, two cups on the table and the paperback he had promised to lend her. Saturdays became Sundays, and Sundays became the whole week. There were long dinners in tiny restaurants, a slightly disastrous camping trip in Cornwall, and a list on the fridge of every place they wanted to see together, with Lake Como written at the very top. Three years, two flats and one very patient dog later, they stood beside the water in the late June light, promising each other a lifetime of rainy days.
Amelia was running late for a gallery opening. James was running late for nothing at all. They shared a doorway, then an umbrella, then the long walk home along the canal, talking about books, bad coffee and the cities they still wanted to see. By the time the rain stopped, neither of them had noticed. She never made it to the gallery; he walked her to the station twice, because the first time they missed the train. A week later he returned the umbrella with a note tucked inside the handle: a café, a Saturday, a time. She arrived early and found him already there, two cups on the table and the paperback he had promised to lend her. Saturdays became Sundays, and Sundays became the whole week. There were long dinners in tiny restaurants, a slightly disastrous camping trip in Cornwall, and a list on the fridge of every place they wanted to see together, with Lake Como written at the very top. Three years, two flats and one very patient dog later, they stood beside the water in the late June light, promising each other a lifetime of rainy days.
Amelia was running late for a gallery opening. James was running late for nothing at all. They shared a doorway, then an umbrella, then the long walk home along the canal, talking about books, bad coffee and the cities they still wanted to see. By the time the rain stopped, neither of them had noticed. She never made it to the gallery; he walked her to the station twice, because the first time they missed the train. A week later he returned the umbrella with a note tucked inside the handle: a café, a Saturday, a time. She arrived early and found him already there, two cups on the table and the paperback he had promised to lend her. Saturdays became Sundays, and Sundays became the whole week. There were long dinners in tiny restaurants, a slightly disastrous camping trip in Cornwall, and a list on the fridge of every place they wanted to see together, with Lake Como written at the very top. Three years, two flats and one very patient dog later, they stood beside the water in the late June light, promising each other a lifetime of rainy days.
Amelia was running late for a gallery opening. James was running late for nothing at all. They shared a doorway, then an umbrella, then the long walk home along the canal, talking about books, bad coffee and the cities they still wanted to see. By the time the rain stopped, neither of them had noticed. She never made it to the gallery; he walked her to the station twice, because the first time they missed the train. A week later he returned the umbrella with a note tucked inside the handle: a café, a Saturday, a time. She arrived early and found him already there, two cups on the table and the paperback he had promised to lend her. Saturdays became Sundays, and Sundays became the whole week. There were long dinners in tiny restaurants, a slightly disastrous camping trip in Cornwall, and a list on the fridge of every place they wanted to see together, with Lake Como written at the very top. Three years, two flats and one very patient dog later, they stood beside the water in the late June light, promising each other a lifetime of rainy days.
where it all began
CHAPTER II
The proposal
Weekend walks along the Seine, one cold afternoon, and a ring that had waited three weeks in a coat pocket.
Paris became their city by accident. One cheap weekend turned into a habit, and every visit they walked the same way along the Seine, past the booksellers’ stalls to the old bridge, arguing happily about where to have lunch. So when James began to plan, there was only one place it could be. He rehearsed the words for weeks, then, on a cold December afternoon in the gardens, forgot every one of them the moment the wind caught Amelia’s scarf. He chased it under the bare trees, came back breathless and laughing, and decided there would never be a better moment. He knelt on the frozen gravel, holding his grandmother’s ring, the one he had kept in his coat pocket for three weeks. She said yes before he could finish the question, then made him ask it again, properly, so she could remember every word. Neither of them did. The news travelled faster than they did: calls that night, a dinner with friends that became a party and, long after midnight, the two of them by the river, the city lit up around them and the ring catching the light whenever she reached for his hand.
Paris became their city by accident. One cheap weekend turned into a habit, and every visit they walked the same way along the Seine, past the booksellers’ stalls to the old bridge, arguing happily about where to have lunch. So when James began to plan, there was only one place it could be. He rehearsed the words for weeks, then, on a cold December afternoon in the gardens, forgot every one of them the moment the wind caught Amelia’s scarf. He chased it under the bare trees, came back breathless and laughing, and decided there would never be a better moment. He knelt on the frozen gravel, holding his grandmother’s ring, the one he had kept in his coat pocket for three weeks. She said yes before he could finish the question, then made him ask it again, properly, so she could remember every word. Neither of them did. The news travelled faster than they did: calls that night, a dinner with friends that became a party and, long after midnight, the two of them by the river, the city lit up around them and the ring catching the light whenever she reached for his hand.
Paris became their city by accident. One cheap weekend turned into a habit, and every visit they walked the same way along the Seine, past the booksellers’ stalls to the old bridge, arguing happily about where to have lunch. So when James began to plan, there was only one place it could be. He rehearsed the words for weeks, then, on a cold December afternoon in the gardens, forgot every one of them the moment the wind caught Amelia’s scarf. He chased it under the bare trees, came back breathless and laughing, and decided there would never be a better moment. He knelt on the frozen gravel, holding his grandmother’s ring, the one he had kept in his coat pocket for three weeks. She said yes before he could finish the question, then made him ask it again, properly, so she could remember every word. Neither of them did. The news travelled faster than they did: calls that night, a dinner with friends that became a party and, long after midnight, the two of them by the river, the city lit up around them and the ring catching the light whenever she reached for his hand.
Paris became their city by accident. One cheap weekend turned into a habit, and every visit they walked the same way along the Seine, past the booksellers’ stalls to the old bridge, arguing happily about where to have lunch. So when James began to plan, there was only one place it could be. He rehearsed the words for weeks, then, on a cold December afternoon in the gardens, forgot every one of them the moment the wind caught Amelia’s scarf. He chased it under the bare trees, came back breathless and laughing, and decided there would never be a better moment. He knelt on the frozen gravel, holding his grandmother’s ring, the one he had kept in his coat pocket for three weeks. She said yes before he could finish the question, then made him ask it again, properly, so she could remember every word. Neither of them did. The news travelled faster than they did: calls that night, a dinner with friends that became a party and, long after midnight, the two of them by the river, the city lit up around them and the ring catching the light whenever she reached for his hand.
she said yes before he finished
THE WALKS
Every visit the same walk along the Seine, from the booksellers’ stalls to the old bridge and back again.
THE QUESTION
His grandmother’s ring, and a yes before he could finish — then once more, properly. Everything was just perfect, just like they had imagined.
THE CELEBRATION
That night’s dinner with friends became a party, the city lit up around them, the ring catching the light.
CHAPTER III
The venue
A pale yellow villa on the western shore of Lake Como, where the water changes colour every hour of the day.
Villa Lucia, Lake Como
Lake Como had sat at the top of the list on their fridge since their first winter, so that summer they finally went. A storm closed the road to their hotel, and a ferryman pointed them to a villa on the western shore that sometimes took in guests: Villa Lucia, pale yellow behind its cypress trees, its gardens running down to the water. They stayed three nights instead of one, had breakfast on the lemon terrace and watched the lake turn from the soft blue of morning to the gold of the setting sun. They left promising to come back, and for months spoke of it the way people speak of a house they grew up in. So when the time came, neither of them had to say it. Guests arrived by boat, stepping onto the old stone landing as church bells rang across the water. The ceremony was held on that same lemon terrace, and dinner unfolded beneath strings of lights as candles flickered against the fading light. For Amelia, the villa felt less like a venue and more like a world of its own — the most beautiful room she had ever been in, with no walls at all.
Lake Como had sat at the top of the list on their fridge since their first winter, so that summer they finally went. A storm closed the road to their hotel, and a ferryman pointed them to a villa on the western shore that sometimes took in guests: Villa Lucia, pale yellow behind its cypress trees, its gardens running down to the water. They stayed three nights instead of one, had breakfast on the lemon terrace and watched the lake turn from the soft blue of morning to the gold of the setting sun. They left promising to come back, and for months spoke of it the way people speak of a house they grew up in. So when the time came, neither of them had to say it. Guests arrived by boat, stepping onto the old stone landing as church bells rang across the water. The ceremony was held on that same lemon terrace, and dinner unfolded beneath strings of lights as candles flickered against the fading light. For Amelia, the villa felt less like a venue and more like a world of its own — the most beautiful room she had ever been in, with no walls at all.
Lake Como had sat at the top of the list on their fridge since their first winter, so that summer they finally went. A storm closed the road to their hotel, and a ferryman pointed them to a villa on the western shore that sometimes took in guests: Villa Lucia, pale yellow behind its cypress trees, its gardens running down to the water. They stayed three nights instead of one, had breakfast on the lemon terrace and watched the lake turn from the soft blue of morning to the gold of the setting sun. They left promising to come back, and for months spoke of it the way people speak of a house they grew up in. So when the time came, neither of them had to say it. Guests arrived by boat, stepping onto the old stone landing as church bells rang across the water. The ceremony was held on that same lemon terrace, and dinner unfolded beneath strings of lights as candles flickered against the fading light. For Amelia, the villa felt less like a venue and more like a world of its own — the most beautiful room she had ever been in, with no walls at all.
Lake Como had sat at the top of the list on their fridge since their first winter, so that summer they finally went. A storm closed the road to their hotel, and a ferryman pointed them to a villa on the western shore that sometimes took in guests: Villa Lucia, pale yellow behind its cypress trees, its gardens running down to the water. They stayed three nights instead of one, had breakfast on the lemon terrace and watched the lake turn from the soft blue of morning to the gold of the setting sun. They left promising to come back, and for months spoke of it the way people speak of a house they grew up in. So when the time came, neither of them had to say it. Guests arrived by boat, stepping onto the old stone landing as church bells rang across the water. The ceremony was held on that same lemon terrace, and dinner unfolded beneath strings of lights as candles flickered against the fading light. For Amelia, the villa felt less like a venue and more like a world of its own — the most beautiful room she had ever been in, with no walls at all.
CHAPTER IV
Before the aisle
Two rooms at opposite ends of the villa, both full of laughter, nerves and people who loved them.
In the east wing, Amelia’s mother smoothed the lace along her back, one fold at a time, while her sisters argued over the playlist and the hairdresser pretended not to hear. Her grandmother sat by the open window with the veil across her lap, pinning the lace she had worn herself in 1961 and telling anyone who would listen that the lake had looked exactly like this on her own wedding morning. A letter from James waited on the dressing table; she read it twice. In the west wing, James lost his cufflinks twice, found them once and, in the end, borrowed his father’s. His brother practised the speech in the mirror until someone took the paper away from him, and his friends poured him a whisky he was too nervous to finish. Between the two wings the photographer moved quietly, catching the moments nobody else would remember: a hand on a shoulder, a white rose pinned to a lapel, a mother holding on a little longer than she meant to. At half past three the house went quiet. On opposite sides of the villa, two people stood at two windows, looking at the same water, waiting for the bells.
In the east wing, Amelia’s mother smoothed the lace along her back, one fold at a time, while her sisters argued over the playlist and the hairdresser pretended not to hear. Her grandmother sat by the open window with the veil across her lap, pinning the lace she had worn herself in 1961 and telling anyone who would listen that the lake had looked exactly like this on her own wedding morning. A letter from James waited on the dressing table; she read it twice. In the west wing, James lost his cufflinks twice, found them once and, in the end, borrowed his father’s. His brother practised the speech in the mirror until someone took the paper away from him, and his friends poured him a whisky he was too nervous to finish. Between the two wings the photographer moved quietly, catching the moments nobody else would remember: a hand on a shoulder, a white rose pinned to a lapel, a mother holding on a little longer than she meant to. At half past three the house went quiet. On opposite sides of the villa, two people stood at two windows, looking at the same water, waiting for the bells.
In the east wing, Amelia’s mother smoothed the lace along her back, one fold at a time, while her sisters argued over the playlist and the hairdresser pretended not to hear. Her grandmother sat by the open window with the veil across her lap, pinning the lace she had worn herself in 1961 and telling anyone who would listen that the lake had looked exactly like this on her own wedding morning. A letter from James waited on the dressing table; she read it twice. In the west wing, James lost his cufflinks twice, found them once and, in the end, borrowed his father’s. His brother practised the speech in the mirror until someone took the paper away from him, and his friends poured him a whisky he was too nervous to finish. Between the two wings the photographer moved quietly, catching the moments nobody else would remember: a hand on a shoulder, a white rose pinned to a lapel, a mother holding on a little longer than she meant to. At half past three the house went quiet. On opposite sides of the villa, two people stood at two windows, looking at the same water, waiting for the bells.
In the east wing, Amelia’s mother smoothed the lace along her back, one fold at a time, while her sisters argued over the playlist and the hairdresser pretended not to hear. Her grandmother sat by the open window with the veil across her lap, pinning the lace she had worn herself in 1961 and telling anyone who would listen that the lake had looked exactly like this on her own wedding morning. A letter from James waited on the dressing table; she read it twice. In the west wing, James lost his cufflinks twice, found them once and, in the end, borrowed his father’s. His brother practised the speech in the mirror until someone took the paper away from him, and his friends poured him a whisky he was too nervous to finish. Between the two wings the photographer moved quietly, catching the moments nobody else would remember: a hand on a shoulder, a white rose pinned to a lapel, a mother holding on a little longer than she meant to. At half past three the house went quiet. On opposite sides of the villa, two people stood at two windows, looking at the same water, waiting for the bells.
the quiet hours before
THE BRIDE
THE GROOM
CHAPTER V
The ceremony
At four o’clock, on the lemon terrace, with the lake as their only witness that mattered.
Sixty guests, one string quartet and a breeze that kept lifting the veil at exactly the wrong moments. The chairs had been set out in twelve neat rows on the lemon terrace, and by a quarter to four every one of them was taken; the latecomers stood along the balustrade with the lake behind them, pretending they had chosen the better view. At the front, under the arch of roses, James stood very still and tried to look as if he did this every day. Amelia’s niece sat in the first row with the ring box in both hands, refusing every offer to hold it for her. The quartet played Pachelbel twice because the bride was not quite ready, and nobody minded. Then the music changed, the guests rose, and Amelia walked down the aisle on her father’s arm, slower than they had practised, smiling at everyone she passed and stopping once to kiss her grandmother. James forgot to breathe until she reached him. Her father kissed her cheek, put her hand in his and went to sit down, and for a moment the whole terrace was quiet, as if the lake itself were waiting.
Sixty guests, one string quartet and a breeze that kept lifting the veil at exactly the wrong moments. The chairs had been set out in twelve neat rows on the lemon terrace, and by a quarter to four every one of them was taken; the latecomers stood along the balustrade with the lake behind them, pretending they had chosen the better view. At the front, under the arch of roses, James stood very still and tried to look as if he did this every day. Amelia’s niece sat in the first row with the ring box in both hands, refusing every offer to hold it for her. The quartet played Pachelbel twice because the bride was not quite ready, and nobody minded. Then the music changed, the guests rose, and Amelia walked down the aisle on her father’s arm, slower than they had practised, smiling at everyone she passed and stopping once to kiss her grandmother. James forgot to breathe until she reached him. Her father kissed her cheek, put her hand in his and went to sit down, and for a moment the whole terrace was quiet, as if the lake itself were waiting.
Sixty guests, one string quartet and a breeze that kept lifting the veil at exactly the wrong moments. The chairs had been set out in twelve neat rows on the lemon terrace, and by a quarter to four every one of them was taken; the latecomers stood along the balustrade with the lake behind them, pretending they had chosen the better view. At the front, under the arch of roses, James stood very still and tried to look as if he did this every day. Amelia’s niece sat in the first row with the ring box in both hands, refusing every offer to hold it for her. The quartet played Pachelbel twice because the bride was not quite ready, and nobody minded. Then the music changed, the guests rose, and Amelia walked down the aisle on her father’s arm, slower than they had practised, smiling at everyone she passed and stopping once to kiss her grandmother. James forgot to breathe until she reached him. Her father kissed her cheek, put her hand in his and went to sit down, and for a moment the whole terrace was quiet, as if the lake itself were waiting.
Sixty guests, one string quartet and a breeze that kept lifting the veil at exactly the wrong moments. The chairs had been set out in twelve neat rows on the lemon terrace, and by a quarter to four every one of them was taken; the latecomers stood along the balustrade with the lake behind them, pretending they had chosen the better view. At the front, under the arch of roses, James stood very still and tried to look as if he did this every day. Amelia’s niece sat in the first row with the ring box in both hands, refusing every offer to hold it for her. The quartet played Pachelbel twice because the bride was not quite ready, and nobody minded. Then the music changed, the guests rose, and Amelia walked down the aisle on her father’s arm, slower than they had practised, smiling at everyone she passed and stopping once to kiss her grandmother. James forgot to breathe until she reached him. Her father kissed her cheek, put her hand in his and went to sit down, and for a moment the whole terrace was quiet, as if the lake itself were waiting.
and then, forever
The officiant kept it short, as promised, though afterwards nobody could agree how short: ten minutes, said Amelia’s mother; forty, said the quartet, who were paid by the hour. Amelia knew her vows by heart and still lost her place twice. James read his from a small notebook, a train ticket from the day they met tucked inside. Her niece gave up the rings only at the very last moment, after a long, doubtful look at James, and her sisters, who had promised not to cry, cried. When they finally kissed, the bells across the water began to ring, a cheer sent the pigeons off the villa roof, and a cousin threw her petals a full minute too early.
The officiant kept it short, as promised, though afterwards nobody could agree how short: ten minutes, said Amelia’s mother; forty, said the quartet, who were paid by the hour. Amelia knew her vows by heart and still lost her place twice. James read his from a small notebook, a train ticket from the day they met tucked inside. Her niece gave up the rings only at the very last moment, after a long, doubtful look at James, and her sisters, who had promised not to cry, cried. When they finally kissed, the bells across the water began to ring, a cheer sent the pigeons off the villa roof, and a cousin threw her petals a full minute too early.
The officiant kept it short, as promised, though afterwards nobody could agree how short: ten minutes, said Amelia’s mother; forty, said the quartet, who were paid by the hour. Amelia knew her vows by heart and still lost her place twice. James read his from a small notebook, a train ticket from the day they met tucked inside. Her niece gave up the rings only at the very last moment, after a long, doubtful look at James, and her sisters, who had promised not to cry, cried. When they finally kissed, the bells across the water began to ring, a cheer sent the pigeons off the villa roof, and a cousin threw her petals a full minute too early.
The officiant kept it short, as promised, though afterwards nobody could agree how short: ten minutes, said Amelia’s mother; forty, said the quartet, who were paid by the hour. Amelia knew her vows by heart and still lost her place twice. James read his from a small notebook, a train ticket from the day they met tucked inside. Her niece gave up the rings only at the very last moment, after a long, doubtful look at James, and her sisters, who had promised not to cry, cried. When they finally kissed, the bells across the water began to ring, a cheer sent the pigeons off the villa roof, and a cousin threw her petals a full minute too early.
SCROLL OR SWIPE
SCROLL OR SWIPE
Later, when the lanterns were lit in the garden, the two of them slipped back up to the empty terrace. The chairs still stood in their twelve rows, petals caught in the gravel. Across the water the lights of the far shore came on one by one. Amelia said it already felt like a memory. James said that was the point.
Later, when the lanterns were lit in the garden, the two of them slipped back up to the empty terrace. The chairs still stood in their twelve rows, petals caught in the gravel. Across the water the lights of the far shore came on one by one. Amelia said it already felt like a memory. James said that was the point.
Later, when the lanterns were lit in the garden, the two of them slipped back up to the empty terrace. The chairs still stood in their twelve rows, petals caught in the gravel. Across the water the lights of the far shore came on one by one. Amelia said it already felt like a memory. James said that was the point.
Later, when the lanterns were lit in the garden, the two of them slipped back up to the empty terrace. The chairs still stood in their twelve rows, petals caught in the gravel. Across the water the lights of the far shore came on one by one. Amelia said it already felt like a memory. James said that was the point.
CHAPTER VI
The celebration
Dinner, dancing and everyone they love, in one place at last.
The sun dipped behind the mountains, and the terrace filled with laughter, clinking glasses and the kind of conversations that linger. Tables had been set beneath a canopy of lights, with candles in every glass and white roses spilling over lemons from the villa’s own garden. Dinner came in five courses, and nobody rushed a single one. Then the speeches began: Amelia’s sister, who promised to be brief and was not; James’s brother, who finally read the speech he had practised all morning and made his mother cry twice; and Amelia’s grandmother, who simply raised her glass and said that she had danced beside this same lake sixty-five years ago, and that it had been worth every minute since. When the band struck up, the tables emptied in seconds. The saxophonist wandered between the dancers, the children stole sugared almonds from every plate, and somebody’s uncle danced with everyone. The cake was cut a little after eleven. By midnight the candles had burned low, the lights across the water had begun to go out one by one, and it felt as if time had stood still, with all their favourite people around them.
The sun dipped behind the mountains, and the terrace filled with laughter, clinking glasses and the kind of conversations that linger. Tables had been set beneath a canopy of lights, with candles in every glass and white roses spilling over lemons from the villa’s own garden. Dinner came in five courses, and nobody rushed a single one. Then the speeches began: Amelia’s sister, who promised to be brief and was not; James’s brother, who finally read the speech he had practised all morning and made his mother cry twice; and Amelia’s grandmother, who simply raised her glass and said that she had danced beside this same lake sixty-five years ago, and that it had been worth every minute since. When the band struck up, the tables emptied in seconds. The saxophonist wandered between the dancers, the children stole sugared almonds from every plate, and somebody’s uncle danced with everyone. The cake was cut a little after eleven. By midnight the candles had burned low, the lights across the water had begun to go out one by one, and it felt as if time had stood still, with all their favourite people around them.
The sun dipped behind the mountains, and the terrace filled with laughter, clinking glasses and the kind of conversations that linger. Tables had been set beneath a canopy of lights, with candles in every glass and white roses spilling over lemons from the villa’s own garden. Dinner came in five courses, and nobody rushed a single one. Then the speeches began: Amelia’s sister, who promised to be brief and was not; James’s brother, who finally read the speech he had practised all morning and made his mother cry twice; and Amelia’s grandmother, who simply raised her glass and said that she had danced beside this same lake sixty-five years ago, and that it had been worth every minute since. When the band struck up, the tables emptied in seconds. The saxophonist wandered between the dancers, the children stole sugared almonds from every plate, and somebody’s uncle danced with everyone. The cake was cut a little after eleven. By midnight the candles had burned low, the lights across the water had begun to go out one by one, and it felt as if time had stood still, with all their favourite people around them.
The sun dipped behind the mountains, and the terrace filled with laughter, clinking glasses and the kind of conversations that linger. Tables had been set beneath a canopy of lights, with candles in every glass and white roses spilling over lemons from the villa’s own garden. Dinner came in five courses, and nobody rushed a single one. Then the speeches began: Amelia’s sister, who promised to be brief and was not; James’s brother, who finally read the speech he had practised all morning and made his mother cry twice; and Amelia’s grandmother, who simply raised her glass and said that she had danced beside this same lake sixty-five years ago, and that it had been worth every minute since. When the band struck up, the tables emptied in seconds. The saxophonist wandered between the dancers, the children stole sugared almonds from every plate, and somebody’s uncle danced with everyone. The cake was cut a little after eleven. By midnight the candles had burned low, the lights across the water had begun to go out one by one, and it felt as if time had stood still, with all their favourite people around them.
the night was ours
SCROLL OR SWIPE
SCROLL OR SWIPE
CHAPTER VII
Keepsakes
The small things they carried home, and could not bear to throw away.
A few roses from the bouquet, pressed between the pages of James’s notebook. James’s place card, with the small heart Amelia drew beside his name when nobody was looking. The cork from the first bottle opened on the terrace, the date written on it in her lipstick. A postcard of the lake that nobody remembers buying, and the little gold locket her mother pinned inside the dress that morning. And the notes. Dozens of them, left on the tables, tucked into the guest book, slipped into a coat pocket on the way out. Some made them laugh out loud on the drive home; some they still cannot read without crying. The one from Nonna sits on top, its sprig of lavender long since dried. None of it is worth anything, and all of it is priceless. It lives in a shoebox on the top shelf, and every so often one of them takes it down, lifts the lid and lets the whole day come back for a few minutes: the light, the music, the faces, and the feeling that everyone they loved had been in one place at once.
A few roses from the bouquet, pressed between the pages of James’s notebook. James’s place card, with the small heart Amelia drew beside his name when nobody was looking. The cork from the first bottle opened on the terrace, the date written on it in her lipstick. A postcard of the lake that nobody remembers buying, and the little gold locket her mother pinned inside the dress that morning. And the notes. Dozens of them, left on the tables, tucked into the guest book, slipped into a coat pocket on the way out. Some made them laugh out loud on the drive home; some they still cannot read without crying. The one from Nonna sits on top, its sprig of lavender long since dried. None of it is worth anything, and all of it is priceless. It lives in a shoebox on the top shelf, and every so often one of them takes it down, lifts the lid and lets the whole day come back for a few minutes: the light, the music, the faces, and the feeling that everyone they loved had been in one place at once.
A few roses from the bouquet, pressed between the pages of James’s notebook. James’s place card, with the small heart Amelia drew beside his name when nobody was looking. The cork from the first bottle opened on the terrace, the date written on it in her lipstick. A postcard of the lake that nobody remembers buying, and the little gold locket her mother pinned inside the dress that morning. And the notes. Dozens of them, left on the tables, tucked into the guest book, slipped into a coat pocket on the way out. Some made them laugh out loud on the drive home; some they still cannot read without crying. The one from Nonna sits on top, its sprig of lavender long since dried. None of it is worth anything, and all of it is priceless. It lives in a shoebox on the top shelf, and every so often one of them takes it down, lifts the lid and lets the whole day come back for a few minutes: the light, the music, the faces, and the feeling that everyone they loved had been in one place at once.
A few roses from the bouquet, pressed between the pages of James’s notebook. James’s place card, with the small heart Amelia drew beside his name when nobody was looking. The cork from the first bottle opened on the terrace, the date written on it in her lipstick. A postcard of the lake that nobody remembers buying, and the little gold locket her mother pinned inside the dress that morning. And the notes. Dozens of them, left on the tables, tucked into the guest book, slipped into a coat pocket on the way out. Some made them laugh out loud on the drive home; some they still cannot read without crying. The one from Nonna sits on top, its sprig of lavender long since dried. None of it is worth anything, and all of it is priceless. It lives in a shoebox on the top shelf, and every so often one of them takes it down, lifts the lid and lets the whole day come back for a few minutes: the light, the music, the faces, and the feeling that everyone they loved had been in one place at once.
the little things they kept
FROM THE BOUQUET
FROM THE BOUQUET
FROM NONNA
FROM NONNA
THE FIRST TOAST
THE FIRST TOAST
THE PLACE CARD
THE PLACE CARD
THE POSTCARD
THE POSTCARD
HER SOMETHING OLD
HER SOMETHING OLD
CHAPTER VIII
The life ahead
One day, a hundred photographs, and every day after it still to come.
They do not know yet where the years will take them. They only know that they will go together, and that they will carry this day with them: the light on the water, the vows they stumbled through, the people who made the long journey to be there. There will be a first home, probably too small, and a garden Amelia has already planned down to the last lemon tree. There will be Sunday walks, borrowed recipes from Nonna, arguments about the thermostat and more photographs than anyone will ever print. Some of the people in these pages will be at every birthday from now on; some they will see only at the next wedding, and will pick up exactly where they left off. To everyone who travelled, cooked, sang, danced, cried and stayed up far too late with them: thank you. This book is as much yours as it is theirs. Come and find them on the terrace again someday, when the lake is just as still and the lights come on one by one across the water.
They do not know yet where the years will take them. They only know that they will go together, and that they will carry this day with them: the light on the water, the vows they stumbled through, the people who made the long journey to be there. There will be a first home, probably too small, and a garden Amelia has already planned down to the last lemon tree. There will be Sunday walks, borrowed recipes from Nonna, arguments about the thermostat and more photographs than anyone will ever print. Some of the people in these pages will be at every birthday from now on; some they will see only at the next wedding, and will pick up exactly where they left off. To everyone who travelled, cooked, sang, danced, cried and stayed up far too late with them: thank you. This book is as much yours as it is theirs. Come and find them on the terrace again someday, when the lake is just as still and the lights come on one by one across the water.
They do not know yet where the years will take them. They only know that they will go together, and that they will carry this day with them: the light on the water, the vows they stumbled through, the people who made the long journey to be there. There will be a first home, probably too small, and a garden Amelia has already planned down to the last lemon tree. There will be Sunday walks, borrowed recipes from Nonna, arguments about the thermostat and more photographs than anyone will ever print. Some of the people in these pages will be at every birthday from now on; some they will see only at the next wedding, and will pick up exactly where they left off. To everyone who travelled, cooked, sang, danced, cried and stayed up far too late with them: thank you. This book is as much yours as it is theirs. Come and find them on the terrace again someday, when the lake is just as still and the lights come on one by one across the water.
They do not know yet where the years will take them. They only know that they will go together, and that they will carry this day with them: the light on the water, the vows they stumbled through, the people who made the long journey to be there. There will be a first home, probably too small, and a garden Amelia has already planned down to the last lemon tree. There will be Sunday walks, borrowed recipes from Nonna, arguments about the thermostat and more photographs than anyone will ever print. Some of the people in these pages will be at every birthday from now on; some they will see only at the next wedding, and will pick up exactly where they left off. To everyone who travelled, cooked, sang, danced, cried and stayed up far too late with them: thank you. This book is as much yours as it is theirs. Come and find them on the terrace again someday, when the lake is just as still and the lights come on one by one across the water.
Whatever our souls are made of,
his and mine are the same.
WITH LOVE & THANKS TO
Margaret & Robert Hale
Eleanor & David Ward
Nonna Rosa
Clara, Sophie & Lily Hale
Thomas Ward
Olivia Bennett
Marco & Giulia Conti
Hannah Price
Sam & Priya Patel
Father Luca
Margaret & Robert Hale
Eleanor & David Ward
Nonna Rosa
Clara, Sophie & Lily Hale
Thomas Ward
Olivia Bennett
Marco & Giulia Conti
Hannah Price
Sam & Priya Patel
Father Luca
Margaret & Robert Hale
Eleanor & David Ward
Nonna Rosa
Clara, Sophie & Lily Hale
Thomas Ward
Olivia Bennett
Marco & Giulia Conti
Hannah Price
Sam & Priya Patel
Father Luca
Margaret & Robert Hale
Eleanor & David Ward
Nonna Rosa
Clara, Sophie & Lily Hale
Thomas Ward
Olivia Bennett
Marco & Giulia Conti
Hannah Price
Sam & Priya Patel
Father Luca
Margaret & Robert Hale
Eleanor & David Ward
Nonna Rosa
Clara, Sophie & Lily Hale
Thomas Ward
Olivia Bennett
Marco & Giulia Conti
Hannah Price
Sam & Priya Patel
Father Luca
Margaret & Robert Hale
Eleanor & David Ward
Nonna Rosa
Clara, Sophie & Lily Hale
Thomas Ward
Olivia Bennett
Marco & Giulia Conti
Hannah Price
Sam & Priya Patel
Father Luca
Margaret & Robert Hale
Eleanor & David Ward
Nonna Rosa
Clara, Sophie & Lily Hale
Thomas Ward
Olivia Bennett
Marco & Giulia Conti
Hannah Price
Sam & Priya Patel
Father Luca
Margaret & Robert Hale
Eleanor & David Ward
Nonna Rosa
Clara, Sophie & Lily Hale
Thomas Ward
Olivia Bennett
Marco & Giulia Conti
Hannah Price
Sam & Priya Patel
Father Luca
Margaret & Robert Hale
Eleanor & David Ward
Nonna Rosa
Clara, Sophie & Lily Hale
Thomas Ward
Olivia Bennett
Marco & Giulia Conti
Hannah Price
Sam & Priya Patel
Father Luca
Margaret & Robert Hale
Eleanor & David Ward
Nonna Rosa
Clara, Sophie & Lily Hale
Thomas Ward
Olivia Bennett
Marco & Giulia Conti
Hannah Price
Sam & Priya Patel
Father Luca
THE PEOPLE WHO MADE THE DAY
photography
Elena Moretti Studio
venue
Villa Lucia, Lake Como
flowers
Fiori del Lago
ceremony music
Quartetto Bellagio
evening band
Notte sul Lago
cake
Pasticceria Sala
stationery
Carta & Inchiostro
hair & make-up
Studio Bella
planning
Lago Weddings
photography
Elena Moretti Studio
venue
Villa Lucia, Lake Como
flowers
Fiori del Lago
ceremony music
Quartetto Bellagio
evening band
Notte sul Lago
cake
Pasticceria Sala
stationery
Carta & Inchiostro
hair & make-up
Studio Bella
planning
Lago Weddings
photography
Elena Moretti Studio
venue
Villa Lucia, Lake Como
flowers
Fiori del Lago
ceremony music
Quartetto Bellagio
evening band
Notte sul Lago
cake
Pasticceria Sala
stationery
Carta & Inchiostro
hair & make-up
Studio Bella
planning
Lago Weddings
photography
Elena Moretti Studio
venue
Villa Lucia, Lake Como
flowers
Fiori del Lago
ceremony music
Quartetto Bellagio
evening band
Notte sul Lago
cake
Pasticceria Sala
stationery
Carta & Inchiostro
hair & make-up
Studio Bella
planning
Lago Weddings
photography
Elena Moretti Studio
venue
Villa Lucia, Lake Como
flowers
Fiori del Lago
ceremony music
Quartetto Bellagio
evening band
Notte sul Lago
cake
Pasticceria Sala
stationery
Carta & Inchiostro
hair & make-up
Studio Bella
planning
Lago Weddings
photography
Elena Moretti Studio
venue
Villa Lucia, Lake Como
flowers
Fiori del Lago
ceremony music
Quartetto Bellagio
evening band
Notte sul Lago
cake
Pasticceria Sala
stationery
Carta & Inchiostro
hair & make-up
Studio Bella
planning
Lago Weddings
photography
Elena Moretti Studio
venue
Villa Lucia, Lake Como
flowers
Fiori del Lago
ceremony music
Quartetto Bellagio
evening band
Notte sul Lago
cake
Pasticceria Sala
stationery
Carta & Inchiostro
hair & make-up
Studio Bella
planning
Lago Weddings
photography
Elena Moretti Studio
venue
Villa Lucia, Lake Como
flowers
Fiori del Lago
ceremony music
Quartetto Bellagio
evening band
Notte sul Lago
cake
Pasticceria Sala
stationery
Carta & Inchiostro
hair & make-up
Studio Bella
planning
Lago Weddings
photography
Elena Moretti Studio
venue
Villa Lucia, Lake Como
flowers
Fiori del Lago
ceremony music
Quartetto Bellagio
evening band
Notte sul Lago
cake
Pasticceria Sala
stationery
Carta & Inchiostro
hair & make-up
Studio Bella
planning
Lago Weddings
photography
Elena Moretti Studio
venue
Villa Lucia, Lake Como
flowers
Fiori del Lago
ceremony music
Quartetto Bellagio
evening band
Notte sul Lago
cake
Pasticceria Sala
stationery
Carta & Inchiostro
hair & make-up
Studio Bella
planning
Lago Weddings