So it came to pass.

Two and a half years ago, I wrote about standing on the terrace of Hotel du Lac, on the shores of Lake Como, in a place called Varenna, in teeming rain. 

I was in the middle of my Giant Adventure of Escape, with my beautiful friend Dawn, fellow traveller and adventurer in previous posts. 

Rain cascaded from gutters into torrents down our shivering backs. Weather wise, it was a dismal, gruesome day; but there was magic across the silvering lake where the water was pocked deeply with golfball sized raindrops. I looked across the water, through the fog and mist, and misty eyed myself, declared that I would marry here one day.

Dawn batted her wet eyelashes, and, as true a friend as she is, reminded me that I had sworn never to open my heart again, that absolutely not, I would never have sex again, I would never laugh again, and I would never love shoes again.  As for marrying?  Hah! Who? But predictions can come true, she said, and who knows what the future may bring. Ta daaa. Always look on the bright side of Life! I took a photo of that misty-dreamlike day, and months later stuck it on my fridge. The start of a new bucket list.

Readers would have sighed at the dreamboat I met when returning to Venice in November 2011.  The one who wooed me with roses and songs and poetry and sweet everythings. 

Who filled my Venetian room with flowers and sexy notes, so that the Venetian donnas who cleaned my room asked if I had stolen one of theirs. We talked every day, we shared secrets and tragedies and happy stories.  He reminded me to see Dali at the Guggenheim. He asked if I liked the frescoes in La Fenice and had I seen Il Travatore?  He travelled with me in my pocket to Murano. Debated the merits of my fish dish in the drizzle on a soggy jetty.  I wasn't alone for a second and Venice became more mysterious and entrancing as I wandered its misty streets with a phantom lover whose humor and shadowy presence emboldened me.

In a nutshell, he waited while I Veniced, and finally I left my beloved city with a broken heart because I hadn't come close to finishing my Love Story with it. He - now it's time to give him a name - Reno - was there waiting for me when I returned, a sexy, long limbed creature lounging near the carousel at Sydney International, promising to one day take me back to the place of watery light and my dreams.   

I try to believe in miracles, and I believed him.  He wasn't like anyone I'd been with before, or anyone I'd planned to be with. He was hot, and handsome, muscled, and brave.  I'd always chosen weaker men than myself, so they wouldn't dump me - but they always did, because of this. Reno was far stronger than I, ego free, able to let me go, and do, what I wanted.   When my daughter met him, she said he was "Good Stock".  A gentleman. A man to be proud of. A muscled man with a golden heart, a firm handshake, and a belief in the impossible. It was impossible not to be bowled over, swept away, entranced and enthralled by this wildly passionate man.

The day after my Venice return.

So.  We had a crazy year.  My daughter married in her quarry ceremony in Perth. A week after I'd returned from Venice for her wedding, this gentleman asked me if I needed any help, and then flew across the country to help me arrange the chairs, drive me between warehouses and ensure I got to the ceremony in one piece. He mowed the lawns, ushered the guests, held various forts, danced his socks off, and won the hearts of everyone. He found sushi on a Sunday in a strange, hot city. He sat with a bunch of my women friends and tied ribbons around the wedding bouquets. For the first time in my life, my friends didn't give me the WTF have you brought home now looks. He had them all in the palm of his hand, and I stood back proudly, and watched as he treated every one, even the thorns, like precious petals.  My daughter said, in her wedding speech: "Reno we have only just met you. But we all hope you stay around a long, long time." 

A year later his beloved mama died unexpectedly at his feet.  She used to waltz me around her house when I came to visit Reno, who was living with her so he could take care of her.  I hated this:  we had very little quality time.  But then she died and I respected that she had had quality time with her eldest son and that was all that mattered.

The family fell to bits.  There were scenes at the hospital and funeral parlour that are worthy of a Fellini script. Wailings and carryings on, and his mama rising from the bed as she grabbed her last breath, and the many grandchildren running terrified from the ward; and two dozen family members assembled to make a decision to turn off life support.  It was awful.  The funeral was a Hollywood spectacle, with stretch limousines and various relatives wanting to throw themselves into the hearse, and black robed aunties stealing the flowers to take home. Carmen, Reno's sister lost her marbles because my black and red roses dress was similar to hers; she wanted me to drive all the way back to my house to change my outfit, just as we were leaving for the funeral.  But Reno stage managed the whole do with ultimate grace and dignity, co-ordinating and regulating and calming people down.  I loved him more during those days than I had until then, and that was a lot.

The disrupted, upset, angry family took off on the four winds, aghast that their matriarch had left them. Reno held his dignified ground. His ex wife had to have major surgery: he ensured she was looked after, financially and emotionally. Instead of being jealous, I realised this was a man of value and loyalty. A man I could trust.  But still, after all the nonsense of that lunatic who led me to this magnum opus and the Big Journey, I was wary. Very wary.  Here was a man for all seasons, yet I wanted to stay in a miserable winter of discontent, punishing myself for the rest of my life for bad decisions.  Rather that, than risk a broken heart again.

Then came a baby.  Not ours!  The baby of my daughter and her husband.  This angel child came into our lives, after a traumatic, long and difficult birth. I'd been in Perth for months, looking after my girl and her growing tummy, while still fussing with ways to finally dob in the mongrel for all his doings.  I burst out laughing when someone told me via Facebook that the worm had rapidly become engaged to a young Thai girl he'd met in a pub on his birthday. Realising Just Desserts have their own way of coming around without any intervention on my part.  But then this baby of my baby arrived.  I had gone to Perth to await the birth, and lost five kilos, and then she was born a few hours after someone had followed me home from the hospital car park to tell me I'd driven 20km without my lights on.  I held her when she was barely an hour old.   My life, and my heart, tilted in a way I thought wasn't possible again. 

I felt as if I would explode with love. There was a palpable shifting of its physical boundaries. I held my new granddaughter Noa, and I looked into her eyes, and I thought:  You beautiful, divine creature. You do not deserve to have a series of oddballs, alcoholics, embezzlers and thieves in your life. You deserve to have the best grandfather the earth and I can offer you. Your minute hands and perfect feet and brand new soul need to be protected by a Perfect Man.  You need a Good Nonno, a moral nonno, a tall nonno with broad shoulders that can carry you above the crowds and protect you from ill winds. And thieves and embezzlers!  This nonno I had in mind sang with an open heart and danced with wings.  He would teach you to make pasta like a true Sicilian. You'd learn another language, along the way.  You'd learn how to crush rosemary between your fingers and bake bread.

I told Reno that finally, yes, I was ready to marry him. He organised a full moon, a forest, French champagne and Pacific oysters, and a rock above Sydney harbour where a thousand boats bobbed below. He got down on his knees, and trembling, proposed with a giant ring and a heart bursting with love. Si, Si, Si, Si! I laughed, and giggled and accepted. Fireworks went off across Sydney. We're going to Perth to tell your children, he said.  And we'll have a big wedding. A really big, fabulous wedding with all the bells and whistles because Life is a Daring Adventure, or Nothing at All.

On the way to the airport two days later, my new fiance had a stroke. In teeming, blinding, rain, following a screaming ambulance, I debated the meaning and breadth of love. I had no idea what would come out of the ambulance or how I would cope. Tina Turner blasted "Stand by Me" in her razor blade voice and when I fell to my knees outside the Acute Stroke Unit, I held this as my credo. He would do the same for me.  Luckily for all of us, he recovered quickly. His first coherent words were "I love you."

We bought a magnificent Art Deco diamond and platinum ring from Rio de Janiero, that astonished us when it arrived.  I'd told him that if I was going to wear an engagement ring, it needed to be big enough for me to reapply my lipstick.  

And so we came through, forging toward marriage and the bigger picture of what it meant.  And he got to hold his nipotina, eventually.  Their love bond was instant.  He held her in the palm of his hand; he cradled her head, and it was in his arms she slept when she wouldn't anywhere else.   In our circle, with this baby and the two of us, Life Made Sense.  My daughter of course, makes sense of my life and my love for her is profound. But it was Noa that brought Reno and I into a life together, into a shared home and commitments and a desire to watch our future develop in line with Noa growing up. 

Noa's journey is our journey. It's as if all the love we had leftover for our grownup children can be redirected into this perfect being. Noa is the conduit for our leftover desires to be wild and free, to be childlike and innocent, to explore the world anew through the fascination of colours and textures through a child's eyes.  To touch perfect skin and look deep into Adriatic blue eyes and know truth.  And the true, deep meaning of everlasting love.

And so the wedding planning began.  Reno chose December 8th, 2013. An auspicious number, all adding up to 8. The number for eternity.  It turned out to be two years to the day that I returned from Venice, into his arms, and into a new life.

Let the games begin!