How to Choose a Husband E-Book

Stefania Hartley

• Herausgeber: The Sicilian Mama
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

Grazia Colonna has waited fifty years to meet The One. Now that her best friend is getting married for the second time, Grazia is sure that she’ll meet The One at Rebecca’s wedding. He will sweep Grazia off her feet and snatch her from the clutches of her bullying mother.
But first Grazia needs to alter the dress she will wear at the event and, for this, she needs the help of the village’s grumpy widower tailor, Hector Gonzales.
As the bride is stuck abroad and may not get back in time for the wedding, Grazia and Hector are forced to work together and, inconveniently, they fall in love.
Can they ensure that the right wedding goes ahead and the wrong one doesn’t?

Leseprobe

How to Choose a Husband

A later-in-life romantic comedy set in a Cotswold village

Stefania Hartley

The Sicilian Mama

Copyright © 2025 Stefania Hartley

All rights reservedThe characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.Stefania Hartley asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work. No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.ISBN-13: 978-1-914606-55-7 Edited by Sandy SalisburyCover by Joseph WitchallFirst published as a pocket novel by The People's Friend magazine.

Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Epilogue

Books By This Author

About The Author

Praise For Author

Chapter 1

"Good men are like nuggets of gold—and more precious still.

But the chances of finding them among the rocks are almost nil."

—From The Sicilian Mama’s “How to Pick a Husband” blog.

Grazia Colonna had waited fifty years to meet The One. There had been a few false alarms along the way, but this time she felt it could be her chance.

She turned in her hands the thick, glossy white card that invited her to her friend’s wedding this weekend. Rebecca had told her that there would be many eligible bachelors at her wedding and, as she was getting married for the second time, she should know a thing or two, Grazia felt. Whoever may be the Powers Above who held the strings of the purse of love, He/She/They must have realised that Grazia Colonna had waited long enough.

Her mother walked into her room—without knocking, as usual.

“Why are you staring at that invitation?”

Grazia closed the card and put it down on her desk. “Just checking the date.”

“It’s on Saturday.”

Grazia wished her mother hadn’t been invited too.

“I hope you’ve chosen your dress,” Rosaria said.

“I was just about to.”

Rosaria clicked her tongue. “Lazy, last-minute girl.”

Her mother was wrong. It was neither laziness nor procrastination, and certainly not brinkmanship, but fear. The wrong outfit—too prudish or too revealing, too dark (mourning her friend) or too light (aspiring bride)—could put off The One.

Rosaria rolled her eyes and left the room. 

Grazia opened her cupboard and reviewed her smart clothes. She could do with something new for the occasion, but right now there was no money for that.

The skirt and blouse she’d worn for her father’s funeral were definitely too dark. She tried putting on the dress she’d worn at her cousin’s wedding, twenty years ago. No hope of squeezing into this one, nor into the dress she’d worn at her niece’s First Holy Communion back in Italy. All these clothes were from aeons ago and when Grazia had been many kilos lighter!

She picked the white and purple flowery dress she’d worn at her British citizenship ceremony. This was a lot more recent.

She removed her blouse and skirt, sucked in her tummy, stepped into the dress and pulled. It got stuck at her hips. She tried wriggling into it from underneath but it got stuck at her shoulders.

Her two options were losing weight or altering the dress. She was about to open a delicatessen with her mother, so option one was out of the question.

Could the dress be made larger? She checked the seams. A few centimetres on each side, just about enough to fit her, but certainly with no margin for error. Dare she attempt the alteration herself?

She glanced at her sewing machine on the floor. No, she could not. This was the dress for the day she might meet The One.

If she moved the seam too close to the fabric’s fraying edges, the dress could rip open during the meal. If she was too cautious and didn’t move the seam far enough, the dress wouldn’t fit her, even before the meal.

This was a job that required the utmost precision. One for the professionals.

The town’s seamstress! Grazia had seen the shop on the high street but hadn’t been inside. She hoped it wasn’t a snooty place for country ladies who wanted their tweeds and jodhpurs made to measure.

Grazia’s choices were the seamstress or her mother. She trusted her mother’s sewing skills more than her own but her kindness much less: Rosaria was likely to tell her to lose weight instead. She would insist that no man would look at her in her current state, or something to that effect. No, her mother did not need more ammunition to berate her with.

Grazia folded the dress carefully into a clean bag, checked that Rosaria was snoozing in her room, then closed the door of the flat carefully behind her.

Chapter 2

The high street bustled with antiques shops and jewellers, fancy restaurants and florists. Nothing actually useful, except for the seamstress’s shop.

Grazia imagined her as a buxom lady with a silver chignon and a kindly smile—just like she conjured up the Sicilian Mama of the “How to Pick a Husband” blog.

She would be at her sewing machine, making a pretty dress for a little girl or sewing a button eye on a poorly teddy. She would examine Grazia’s dress and say, “What a lovely dress, dear. I’ll fix it and you’ll look fabulous at your friend’s wedding.”

At the touch of her fairy godmother wand she’d turn the dress into a sparkly evening gown complete with glass slippers and gloves, all the while singing a catchy tune.

“Mark my words,” she would say, “this is the last wedding you’ll attend that isn’t your own. And no, you’re not a monster for feeling a teensy bit envious of your friend. You’re absolutely normal. Now, sit down and have a cup of tea.”

Grazia had reached the barber’s shop before she realised she had passed the wattle-and-daub building. She turned around and walked back.

Two headless mannequins in suits guarded the door. With pins stuck into their pockets and lapels and their woeful lack of heads, they looked less like soldiers and more like cautionary tales for potential trespassers.

Grazia glanced at the windows, half-expecting to see their severed heads impaled on spears. Instead, there were only bolts of tartan and tweed.

She pushed the door and stepped in. The rat-tat-tat-tat of a sewing machine drowned the jangle of the doorbell and carried on.

Inside, the place was dark, dingy and dusty. No pink tulle, flowery silks or red and white gingham. This was a kingdom of greys, navys and browns.

Spiky pin cushions, enormous scissors and fierce-looking steam irons were dotted around the place, and the carcass of a whole roast chicken sat on a plate, picked clean—the seamstress’s lunch? Rather than the dwelling of a fairy godmother, this place seemed like somewhere Hansel and Gretel would have found the witch. Well, if this seamstress was no fairy godmother but a witch, so be it. Grazia wouldn’t be the first human in history to turn to a witch for help in the pursuit of love.

Guided by the rattle, she made her way through the maze of clothes racks and reached the sewing machine.

Not a witch. A wizard.

A man of about her own age was stooped over a beautiful vintage Singer sewing machine. A pair of spectacles were perched on his nose, another pair sat on his head like a halo, and two more dangled around his neck. He was adorned with spectacles, or maybe it was just his way of coping with the room’s poor lighting.

“Hello. I’ve come to see the seamstress.” Grazia bellowed over the noise of the machine. 

The man carried on sewing without looking up. Might he be watching her through those glasses on the top of his head?

“The tailor, you mean.” The deep rumble of his voice was in step with the rhythm of the machine.

“Actually, no, I need a seamstress. Is there one here?”

A colleague, an assistant, a witch-in-residence. Anyone but you, she thought.

“Why a seamstress?”

“I need a dress altered.”

“That’s what tailors do.”

The rattle of the machine stopped and the man finally looked up. He had light blue eyes. Magnified by the spectacles, they were enormous, but even over the reading glasses they were big.

“Yes, to men’s clothes.”

“No. Any clothes. Hence the word ‘tailoring’.”

Was he trying to teach her English? Did he think that, just because she had a foreign accent, she didn’t know the language?

She raised her chin, ready to retort that she knew very well the difference between a tailor and a seamstress. Then she realised that she didn’t! The truth was that she needed a woman because there was no way she wanted a strange male draping, pinching and smoothing fabric over her body.

“Can I see the garment?”

He stretched out a hand. How could such a large hand possibly thread a needle?

“I’ve changed my mind,” she stammered. “Thanks and goodbye.”

Grazia made to turn around and leave, but then he spoke.

“The nearest seamstress is in Swindon.”

Chapter 3

Oh, no. With no car and possibly several appointments for fitting, Swindon wasn’t an option.

Reluctantly, Grazia pulled the purple dress from her bag. “I need it enlarged,” she said awkwardly.

The tailor switched to a different pair of glasses and inspected the dress. “It’s not always possible to move seams out.”

“I know, but I’ve already checked and there’s enough fabric.”

“That depends on how much you want it let out.”

“Enough to fit me.”

He ran a measuring gaze over her and she squirmed. This was why she had wanted a seamstress.

“To fit you now or in the future?” he asked.

“What do you mean?”

“People always mean to lose weight in the future. Usually that doesn’t happen.”

“To fit me now.”

He nodded. “Good. We could gain a couple of centimetres out of each seam, but it will all need unstitching and restitching. It’s not going to be an easy job.”

“Do what’s needed. So long as the dress doesn’t burst open when I sit down or eat.”

He pursed his lips. “That would never happen to something I’ve sewn.”

He wasn’t going to give the job to a female assistant, then. She could still say no and leave, but first she must recover her dress. “You won’t be able to do it before this Saturday.” It was a statement, not a question.

“I will.”

“I don’t want a rushed job. I want it done properly.”

He straightened his back. “I always do my job properly.”

“I mean, with extra care. Otherwise I could do it myself.”

“Why don’t you, then?”

“Because I don’t want to risk it.”

“Everything is a risk. Life itself is the ultimate risk—of death. You’re risking less by letting me alter your dress than by doing it yourself.” He gave a small smile. “Plus, if anything goes wrong, you can blame me instead of yourself.”

That was definitely a bonus. Also, he’d done a very neat job on the trouser zipper he had just sewn. It would be silly to refuse him the job. “Fine. How much will it be?”

He turned the dress inside out and examined it again, exposing all the seams. She felt like she was the one to be turned inside out and examined. She inched towards the door. Fresh light streamed in from outside.

“Twenty pounds. Payment on delivery.”

“Fine. Goodbye.”

“Wait.”

He got up from his chair and the spectacles on the top of his head skimmed the ceiling. Ah, that was what they were for: a safety helmet.

He ducked under an exposed beam without looking, then disappeared through some racks and reappeared behind the till. He picked up a receipt book and a pen.

“Name?” he asked.

“Why should I give you my name?”

“For the collection ticket.”

She sighed. She hated her name and hated giving it to people. In Britain it gave her away as a foreigner—if her accent hadn’t already—and most people didn’t know how to spell it. In Italy she didn’t have these problems, but everyone there knew that “Disgrazia”—what her mother actually called her day-to-day—meant ‘misfortune’.

Right there was an extra problem. If Grazia gave the tailor her name, Rosaria might find out that she’d been at his shop. 

“Grace,” she answered. It was close enough.

“Telephone number?”

“I don’t have a phone.”

He frowned. “I may need to contact you if I have questions about the dress.”

“I’ll drop by regularly.”

“As you wish. Now, get undressed in that cubicle and I’ll take your measurements.” She must have looked horrified, because he added, “Just down to your blouse.”

That was better, but she knew he would be running a measuring tape around her waist, hips and… chest! This was why she had wanted a seamstress instead of a tailor.

“I will measure myself at home and phone in the numbers.”

“So you do have a phone?” The tailor hid a smile. “As you wish. Only, if you give me the measurements, then you take responsibility for any inaccuracies.”

“There won’t be any inaccuracies.”

“So long as we know where we stand.”

She knew very well where she stood—too far from the door. She took the collection receipt and all but ran out of the shop.

Chapter 4

Grazia walked briskly past the antiques shops, the florists and the jewellers, the restaurants and the teashops, with her eyes fixed on the pavement and her cheeks aflame.

How had she got herself into a situation where a man had asked her to undress, unchaperoned, in the back of his shop?

When she got home, her mother was still napping. Good. Grazia washed her hands and splashed her face with cold water, then took her sewing box out of the cupboard and found the measuring tape.

The tailor needed her bust, waist and hip size. Nothing would be left to the imagination. She sighed and wrapped the measuring tape around her body, scratching the numbers on a piece of paper with a pencil stub. Then she picked up her phone and rang the number on the collection ticket.

“Hector Gonzales, tailor.”

Gonzales? The tailor was Spanish?

“Hello?” he repeated.

“This is Graz—ahem, Grace,” she whispered so as not to wake her mother.

“Hello, Grace.”

“I have the measurements for you.”

“Great. I’ll just grab pen and paper.”

Oh, no. This was likely to take some time. Her first impression of the shop had been of unbridled mess. It might be easier to find a needle in a haystack than in this shop.

Down the phone came the heavy thud of a roll of fabric, the rustling of paper, the opening and closing of wooden drawers. If he couldn’t find a pen, he’d have to memorise her measurements until he found something to write with. What if he forgot them?

“Ready,” he announced.

“Okay. Hips..."

“Who are you talking to?” Rosaria interrupted from the threshold in Italian.

Grazia hung up hurriedly and pocketed the phone. Her mother had this awful habit of sneaking up on people. Next Christmas Grazia might get her some wooden clogs to wear at home. “Nobody. You’re already up, I see.”

“I don’t sleep in the afternoon. You know that,” Rosaria retorted.

But a pair of hairclips had migrated from her temples to the top of her head, her dark little eyes were pinheads and her black skirt and black blouse were crumpled. Still, Rosaria would never admit to succumbing to an afternoon siesta because the devil found work for idle hands, and sloth was one of the seven deadly sins. However, age and Italian genes usually overcame the old woman’s willpower. Grazia had proof of that—unless the noises coming from Rosaria’s bedroom between two and four in the afternoon were from a gentle vacuum cleaner.

Rosaria’s eyes narrowed in on the measuring tape in Grazia’s hands. “What’s that tape for?”

“Nothing.”

“Who were you talking to?”

She stepped into the room, blocking Grazia’s exit. Her mother had canine levels of persistence.

Despite being the offspring of two egregiously pig-headed people, Grazia hadn’t inherited a drop of this trait. It was as if a donkey had mated with a mule and they had produced a chicken. Grazia was a genetic outlier. This made her no match for her mother and, unfortunately, both of them knew it.

At this point, trying to shake her mother off was impossible. Rosaria had all the time, inclination and desire to grind Grazia down until she answered her question. Lying was no option either. Rosaria would interrogate her until Grazia had tangled herself up completely. Grazia had no choice but to tell the truth.

“It was the town’s tailor.”

“You went to a tailor’s shop?”

Her mother spoke as though a tailor’s shop were a den of iniquity.

“I needed help with a dress. It was too delicate a job,” Grazia muttered.

Rosaria sniffed. “Too delicate for you, perhaps, but surely not for me. What is it that you need to do?”

“Make it larger,” Grazia whispered even though, right now, she felt anything but large.

“You should lose weight instead of making dresses larger.”

Just as Grazia had predicted. “There isn’t enough time. I need it for Rebecca’s wedding.”

“Let’s see this dress.”

Rosaria marched to Grazia’s wardrobe and yanked it open. She flicked through her daughter’s clothes with the disapproving expression of someone leafing through the pages of an insufferably boring book.

“It’s not here. It’s at the tailor’s,” Grazia said.

“Then, you have to get it back immediately! That man is not touching it. Have you already paid?”

“No.”

“Go and get it back, then.”

“What if he’s already started on it?”