"There's nothing wrong with that. It means you care. This is like when Michelangelo"-I point to Rufus-"sweated bullets when Pope Leo"-I put my hand on my chest-"came through Saint Pete's to see the Sistine Chapel for the first time. It was a genuine tension convention."

Rufus puts out his cigarette and opens the side door of the church. "Let's enter from the front." I follow him outside, and he doesn't say a word as we climb the steps. We enter the foyer. "Here we are," he says as he flings open the door. I go in first.

The first thing that strikes me is the intense butter-yellow morning light shining through glass ceiling; it fills the church like an open field in summer. I catch my breath. The pits and shadows and Gothic somberness of the old place is gone, replaced by this heavenly light. The new pews of polished cherrywood with gold velvet seats and matching kneelers add to the spacious feeling of the church. The clean, soft sound of water cascading down the rock wall brings nature indoors.

The craftsmanship is breathtaking. I have never seen anything like it.

"You have to see the altar," says Rufus.

I follow him up the main aisle, inhaling the sweet smells of oil paint and plaster-the smell of something new. The altar is a simple oval Quaker cherrywood table. Hanging from a piano wire, just a few feet above it, is Monica Vitti's chandelier. I knew I would find the perfect place for this glittering jewel, and here it is.

"Look at the stained-glass windows. Pedro made them rustic on purpose. I wanted the feeling you have in the village churches of Mexico. See the shards of color baked into the glass? That's an old technique from Spain. It gives dimension, makes the images almost dance in the light." Rufus points out the symbols of local life: the fish, the boat, the hammer and nails.

"Wonderful. No one will miss Saint Rose of Lima, who used to stand there in her window and look at you like she wished you were dead."

"Oh no, the messages of guilt and shame are gone now," Rufus promises. "This is all about rebirth and renewal. Just like you envisioned."

I follow Rufus to the Wall of Water. I touch the water as it flows over the rock wall like a sheet of sparkling rain.

"Step back," Rufus instructs me. "Can you see what we carved on the rock under the water?"

I see the word "Credo" in simple script. "I believe," I say. Looking up at the Wall of Water, we are as small as the base stones that make the baptismal font. I feel like I'm at the foot of a mountain waterfall.

"I know," Rufus says, reading my mind. "It turned out better than I hoped. Now come and see the frescoes."

I follow Rufus to the back of the church and he begins to yank away the muslin curtains. The walls are awash with brilliant colors, such a change from the dusty hues that were there for years. Rufus has painted the scene of the miracle, a hillside with the three children kneeling in prayer. On the hill itself, we see the observers, the townspeople. I am astonished to see that their faces are familiar. It's us! All of us. In the crowd I see Lonnie, Toot, Gus, Anthony, Nicky, Zetta-face after face of the people of OLOF. Rufus used the faces of the parishioners in the frescoes. The Blessed Lady hovers overhead. She is far more sleek and modern in Rufus's rendition. Gone are the pencil-thin eyebrows and veil. In its place, a real woman in a blue flowing gown and a crown of stars. "It's Christina!" I gasp.

"Who better to show the sadness of the world?" Rufus points to the ceiling. "Did you find yourself?"

I look up at a flock of cherubs peeking down from the clouds of heaven. I see my face as a boy, smiling.

"Toot gave me your First Communion picture."

"I'm stunned, Rufus. This is beyond anything I dreamed of. It's truly the church of the people. They will be overwhelmed."

"Most painters in Italy during the Renaissance used real people from their families and villages. It's an old idea, but it seemed to fit here." Rufus indicates that I should follow him to the side altar. He pulls the muslin away from the wall. He has angled the statues of the children of Fatima (in their new clothes!) on a small grotto of stone. Instead of the usual votive-candle trays, he has candleholders nestled into the rocks, so that when they're lit, they'll give the effect of a real cave grotto. It looks just like the cathedral in Santa Margherita; Rufus brought my sketches to life! What a perfect touch for this Italian American parish.

"Did you see Father Porp?" Rufus smiles and points. His face is near the baseboard, looking up at the Blessed Lady. "I put him in the most southern corner."

"Closest to hell."

"Yoo-hoo?" A voice calls out from the sacristy. I am so overwhelmed that my eyes are full of tears and for a moment I can't focus. I dab my eyes with my handkerchief.

"Hello, Aurelia," I say after a moment, wondering why she has to ruin such a perfect moment by showing up.

"This is spectacular," she says quietly, looking all around.

"We aren't showing it to the public yet," I tell her. After all, she did give us a substantial gift to start the project. I don't mean to be unkind. "Rufus gave me the first tour."

We stand awkwardly for a moment. So many years of history between us. Capri and me, playmates since we were toddlers. I was just a boy when I went to work for Aurelia's husband. Her house was one of my first projects as a designer, and became the endless job, one I have to admit I thoroughly enjoyed. It's hard for me to hold a grudge against a woman who has been so good to me. Finally she says, "I want you to have this," and hands me an envelope.

"What is it?"

"It's the money I promised for the renovation."

"But we don't need it anymore." I give the envelope back.

"I heard about the statue and the money, and it's wrong, B. You shouldn't have to pay it."

"Why should you have all the fun?"

"Excuse me?" she says.

"No, really, Aurelia. Why should you have all the fun? In my life, with all the rooms and all the homes I've decorated, I've never been so moved by a place as I am by this church. It was worth every penny. It was even worth the hell you put us through."

"I'm sorry about that." She looks away.

"I'm sure you are. And since you're sincere, I forgive you."

"Thank you."

"But I'm not the person you need to ask for forgiveness. You need to talk to Pedro. Look at his work!" I point to the windows. "Only a great man could make such art."

"I miss my daughter." Aurelia begins to cry.

"There's only one way to fix that."

"I'll do anything. I thought giving you the money was a start."

"Oh, Aurelia, I don't care about money. It's just another way to keep score. Don't get me wrong. We needed it, but I learned a big lesson here. If you do your work, money follows. It shows up. But it doesn't have anything to do with the magnificence of a person. It doesn't. What matters is what you make. Whether it's a cake for bingo night or a costume for a saint or a wall of water-whatever you pour yourself into in this life is what makes you rich."

"I've made terrible mistakes."

"Everyone does."

"Capri won't have anything to do with me."

"You shouldn't jump to conclusions. Although she is half Italian, and you know how Italians are. We love not speaking when we've been slighted. You know, there's nothing more effective than the deep freeze, or sending you to the island-that sort of thing. But her lucky break is that she's half Jewish, and in that respect, if you're lucky, she'll throw her arms around you and let bygones be bygones. But I can't be sure, because I haven't asked her."

"Do you think she'll talk to me? Will you help me, B?"

Rufus, Aurelia, and I are stuffed into the cab of his pickup truck, reminding me of that publicity still of the Marx Brothers when they were crammed into the peel of a banana to promote the movie The Cocoanuts.

There isn't much to say; it doesn't take a genius to realize that Rufus doesn't care for Aurelia. I'm stuck between them like cannoli filling. Aurelia bristles as we take the exit off the Brooklyn Bridge and onto the winding streets that lead to the warehouse. This is a place she wouldn't want her daughter to visit, much less live in.

Aurelia takes the hike up the stairs to the studio slowly. Rufus bounds up ahead of me. When I reach the top with Aurelia, he has propped the door open. Capri waits in the middle of the vast room. Rufus and Pedro are nowhere to be seen.

Aurelia steps inside the studio and looks around at the scaffolding, the floor covered in splotches of paint, the dirty windows propped open to let in some of that fresh Brooklyn air, and finally, her daughter. Aurelia holds back the tears, but I can see how happy she is to see that her daughter is well.

"I'm going to leave you two girls alone," I say.

"No, stay," Capri says softly. She goes to her mother and puts her arms around her. Aurelia begins to cry.

"Can you ever forgive me?" she asks her daughter.

"Of course."

"I didn't want anything to change," Aurelia says quietly. "I wanted it like it always was, with you and me and Daddy. How happy we were."

"We were happy, Ma. But that was before I wanted to make my own life. I just wanted what you had."

"I understand that now."

"I'm married."

"I know."

"Pedro is my life. I want you to know that too."

"My mother always got along with her in-laws. She used to say, 'If you love him, I love him.' She never questioned anyone's choices when it came to marriage. I'm so ashamed I didn't follow her example."

"It's okay, Ma."

"Where's Pedro?"

"He's in the kitchen."

"I would like to speak to him alone, if that's okay."

Capri and I watch as she goes into the kitchen.

"What happened, B?"

"The miracle of the new Fatima Church. She came to see me and she was transformed at the Wall of Water."

Capri laughs. "That's all it took?"

A few minutes later, Pedro and Aurelia come out of the kitchen together, holding hands.

"I just booked the first wedding in your new fancy church," Aurelia announces.

"I'd like a Mass," Pedro says to Capri, clearly relieved that the mother-daughter rift is over and ancient Mexican curses won't be visited on him.

"I guess I'm planning a wedding," I tell them.

"Unc, where do these garlands go?" Two calls out from the altar.

"Festoon the pillars!" I holler back. "Spin them around the columns like crepe paper! The longest one, with the daisies, goes across the water trough at the base of the wall." Two nods. I climb off the ladder and help Zetta and the sodality ladies place a candelabra on either side of the entrance.

"This is quite a decorating job," Father Porporino says, standing back and observing the garlands of fresh daisies, red roses, and white tulips draped across the base of the choir loft.

"Oh, you haven't seen anything yet, Father. The mariachi band is coming from Philly-Capri will enter the church to a trumpet blast-and wait till you see the traditional lasso."

He blanches but forces himself to smile. After all, I am The Benefactor, which means I get to do whatever I want! "The first wedding in our new church. Thank you, Bartolomeo. Every day I thank God for what you've done here."

"Father, it was my pleasure. All I've ever wanted is a glorious church for our people. And now we have it."

"Go home and get dressed, Unc. I have it all under control." Two gently pushes me toward the door.

"Don't forget, candles lit before the first guest is seated. Dimmer on Monica Vitti's chandelier over the altar. Mariachis in the loft."

"I got it, I got it. Go."

As I drive home, I am filled with happiness for Capri-and so happy that it's her wedding day and not ours. If Sy Mandelbaum were alive, he would be so proud to walk her down the aisle. He always worried about her-worried that Aurelia was too overbearing, that Capri's countless ailments would prevent her from getting out in the world and making friends, and that his money might be not an asset but a hindrance to her finding her way in the world. "Nothing to worry about, Sy!" I send up a friendly prayer. "Things worked out just the way you wanted."

I stand back from the three-way mirror in my bedroom and marvel at the sight. I wear tight wool toreador pants and a red velvet bolero with gold trim. The crisp white dress shirt against my tanned skin makes me look like an Italian Cary Grant.

All of the men in the wedding party, including Rufus, will wear traditional Mexican attire for the ceremony. Mexicans, like Italians, like a crowd up at the altar. It's not a real wedding unless there are so many attendants that it looks like the graduating class of a large high school. Pedro has twenty men in attendance, and Capri has matched him a woman for every man. Believe me, that proved a real challenge-Capri was so short on friends, she invited two girls from our kindergarten class to be bridesmaids, my second cousin once removed, the peppy Monica Spadoni, and Coco Ciabotto, who overcame polio to found her own dance studio, Tots in Tights.

The women wear white silk flamenco dresses and carry fans decorated with crystals and lace. Aunt Edith's fingers must have bled sewing miles of ruffles for the skirts.

I hear the toot of a horn; my ride is here. I practically skip outside. I stop at my rosebush and yank off a red rose to place in my lapel. A happy day deserves a fresh flower-and a day where I remain a bachelor deserves a bouquet! Relief is a wonderful emotion, highly underrated. In fact, I prefer it to elation or joy. Relief lets the air out of the Tire of Pain. And I am reveling in it today. Everyone I see I love, and everyone is my friend. I didn't ruin Capri's life by not marrying her. In fact, I made a way for her to find true happiness and, with that, secured my own.

I climb into Rufus's truck next to Christina, who wears a darling flamenco dress with a tasteful mantilla. I look over at Rufus in his bolero and pants. "You look like the Nutcracker."

"Whose idea was this?" he complains.

"Pedro's. And don't worry, Capri got her two cents in. He's doing the Jewish thing, breaking the glass, and Capri's doing the Italian thing with La Boost, and together we're a glorious pack of Aztecs, down to our white socks and shoe buckles!"

"You make an excellent Mexican." Christina kisses me on the cheek. She turns to Rufus. "And you . . . not so good."

There's a traffic jam outside the church. The plaza is filled with revelers-family, friends, even the governor of New Jersey and his lovely wife.

Aurelia is stunning in a pink gown and matching mantilla. Her brother escorts her down the aisle, and she cries the whole way.

I stand in the back of the church and watch as Father Porporino takes his place in front of the altar and Pedro comes out of the sacristy and stands next to him.

"Pssst. Bartolomeo!" Nellie Fanelli pokes me in the ribs. "I love the redo," she whispers.

"Thank you." I hardly think this is the moment for chitchat.

"I have something to tell you."

"Now?" I'm officially annoyed.

"You see Father up there? He remains behind that altar by the grace of God."

"What are you talking about?"