Brava, Valentine: A Novel

by Adriana Trigiani

  "Bret is really optimistic about your company. I haven't seen him this jazzed about a business plan in a long time," Mackenzie says.

  "It's an exciting time for us. And it's exhausting. I mean, not as exhausting as children..."

  "Oh, it's a different thing entirely," she says. "I used to put in twelve-hour days in the office, and still have enough energy to meet Bret for dinner and clubbing. Now, I'm bone tired by six o'clock. Stay single. Keep your freedom. This is all overrated. Bret has all the adventures in the family," she jokes.

  But is she kidding? I can't tell. "I'm sorry about the late meetings at the shop." I realize that the statement sounds suspicious, so much so Mrs. Fitz raises an eyebrow. I cover quickly, throwing my brother into the mix to make everything seem innocent, which it is. "Bret and Alfred are a real think tank. They're brainstorming with the Small Business Administration, doing the loans, raising the money. I do the heavy lifting by making the shoes."

  Even Mrs. Fitz seems relieved that I dug myself out of that one.

  "I should make you a pair of shoes to thank you," I tell Mackenzie.

  "Size eight," Mackenzie says. "Someday, I'll need them. You know, when I'm back on Madison Avenue trying to impress clients, instead of hiring a pirate for birthday parties."

  Pirate Billy Bones stands before the mantel in the living room. He's the handsome actor, David Engel on dry land, dressed up like Captain Hook without the hook. He has a blacked-out tooth and wears striped MC Hammer pants and a pile of gold chains around his neck. A wide-brimmed hat with a plume matches the stuffed parrot on his shoulder. At his feet rests a large plastic treasure chest. The children gather closely around him, while the adults form a semicircle just behind their offspring.

  Gabriel sips his drink, takes in the pirate's opening joke, grimaces, and pivots back to the kitchen. Gabriel may not like children, but he enjoys children's theater even less.

  Bret puts his arms around Mackenzie as they laugh at the pirate shtick. But Mackenzie tenses and, after an awkward pause, removes his hands from her shoulders. Bret continues to watch the show and places his hands in his pockets instead.

  I wonder if she has any idea that Bret was being pursued by his sexy assistant last year. I think not. Mackenzie is appropriate, and the truth of that is dramatized in every nook and cranny of this party. She invites all of Bret's family over, including Uncle Rehab, the dry drunk. Her largesse is admirable. She makes sure everyone is comfortable, that the food is delicious, the bar well stocked, and the entertainment fun. She really is a wonderful wife, straight out of a storybook. But does she want to be?

  Is there a perfect life waiting for any of us? I always believed it until, of course, I took the trip to out there. Here in Chatham, sadness has a different hue. Mackenzie doesn't struggle with survival, as I do in the city. She struggles with her unmet potential, or the nagging question, Is this what my life was supposed to be? I imagine she doesn't have an answer. If she did, she would embrace her husband, and she certainly wouldn't complain about making necklaces out of cereal. But something is going on out here, and it's not the dark suburbia written about in my mother's magazines. This is about personal fulfillment and the best and highest use of an intelligent woman's time.

  This is the dilemma that hangs over this birthday party like the hand-painted mural of clouds and breaking sun on the ceiling in the breakfast room. Mackenzie is not happy.

  "When are we leaving?" Gabe whispers in my ear. "I can't eat one more carrot stick dipped in ranch dressing. I even had the cotton candy."

  "What do you think of the pirate?"

  Gabriel checks him out head to toe. "Cute. But he's straight."

  "Well, that's that. We're outta here."

  Pirate Billy Bones takes his final bow. The children stand and jump up and down, screaming in gratitude.

  We weave our way through the guests to say good-bye to Mackenzie and Bret and their girls.

  Maeve gives me a big hug while Piper extends her chubby arms to me and falls out of her mother's embrace into mine.

  "I could take them home," I tell Mackenzie.

  "Anytime." She laughs.

  The foyer is cluttered with pink goody bags.

  "Do not take a goody bag," Gabe says.

  "It's rude if you don't."

  "Do we need a Little Mermaid blow-up beach ball and a SpongeBob tabletop croquet set? Sorry. Pass."

  The commuter back to the city arrives right on time at the tiny station just off Chatham's Main Street. I climb up the steps and see that the train is mostly empty, yet I have a hard time deciding which seats to take.

  "What's the matter with you?" Gabriel chooses our seats. "There's no first class on a commuter. Just grab anything." He takes the window, and I sit down next to him.

  "Something's wrong," I say.

  "No kidding. You look ashen. Oh, no. Was it the guacamole?"

  "I didn't have any."

  Gabriel pounds his chest lightly. "I did."

  "What didn't you have?"

  "A makeout session with Uncle Rehab. But he wanted to--believe me. I know why he drinks."

  "You do?"

  "Closet. In it. Can't get out." Gabriel shrugs.

  As the train careens out of Chatham and rolls through Summit, a strange feeling comes over me again.

  I can't describe it, but I'm troubled about something. I'm unsettled by the party. By the conversations. By the atmosphere.

  I close my eyes and imagine the party again. And then, I remember when Piper fell into my arms and held me tightly. There was something about that moment that was profound. Something happened when she hugged me and wouldn't let go. I've held a lot of babies, and done my share of babysitting my nieces and nephews, but this embrace, from this little girl, was entirely different. It had meaning beyond the moment. Dear God. This isn't the cry for motherhood women get, is it?

  6

  April Played the Fiddle

  1 aprile 2010

  Cara Valentina,

  I just returned to my new home. I took the rooftop apartment in the old printing press off the square in Arezzo. It has many aspects of the original architecture but is restored with all the modern conveniences. The floors are gleaming squares of white granite that, when hit by the sun, nearly blinds me. I will be shopping for rugs in Florence.

  I had dinner with Teodora and Papa this evening. My father is so happy. He is devoted to Teodora. You are not to worry about her. They fill their days with long walks. They cook together in the kitchen. They go to Mass every morning at the church, and according to my father, after they pray, they return home to make love. What a life!

  Tonight, at dinner, the conversation was about you. I hope you understand that your grandmother has great faith in you and holds your talent in high esteem. Also, it is important for you to know that I have not discussed my feelings for you with them. And it isn't because of our families. It is out of respect for your feelings, and the hope that they will grow.

  Love is built in a series of small realizations. It begins with a laugh--yours, the first day I met you in our shop. I heard your laughter long after you were gone. I still do. Then, your face, which I remember in detail, even as I write this. How beautiful was your expression of wonder when you held the fragile silk faconne at the Prato mill. I carried that image with me when you returned to America. I still do. And then our kisses. A kiss (not the stolen kisses in Capri, but the kisses at the inn, where it was your idea and mine, as it should be) holds the meaning of love. I dream of yours and of you.

  Love, Gianluca

  "What do you think?"

  June places Gianluca's letter carefully on the cutting table as though it's a yard of rare duchesse satin.

  She removes her reading glasses and leans back on the work stool. "You haven't been with enough men to know about love letters. These babies are rare. I never received a letter like this. And trust me, I would have liked to. The man is into details. And he has vision for your future together. He thinks things throug
h."

  "It's almost too much. I can't believe it."

  "You take every salesman that walks into this shop at his word--why not Gianluca?"

  "It's like when I was a kid and I'd eat too much white chocolate--I knew I'd had enough after one bite, but I wouldn't stop. I'd eat the whole bunny and then have to lie down. I get the same feeling when I read his letters."

  "You can't be serious."

  "I don't know. But I'm glad that I have the time and the distance to think about it. He's there, I'm here."

  "How convenient. There's an ocean between you and him that you can fill with excuses not to fall in love. I know an avoidist when I see one. But listen to me, sister. This man is one in a million--make that a billion when you factor in worldwide overpopulation. And not just because he's tall and handsome and Italian, my favorite food group, but because this guy knows what matters to a woman. Some men go their whole lives long and never get it. This one gets it and writes it down and mails it to your door. You don't know what you have here."

  "Oh I think I know what I've got. I just don't have any idea what to do with it. When it comes to men, what do you want, June?"

  "I always hoped to be seen. You know, not a spotlight thing, I got enough of that when I was a dancer. I'm talking about something deeper. I want a man to see me for who I am."

  "That's the problem with these letters. It's like he's talking about a goddess."

  "That's how he sees you. He's describing his experience of you. I got news for you--that's what love is. It's how he sees you--not how you see yourself. Be the love object. And for Chrissakes, don't object!"

  "All right, all right."

  "I mean, you want him, don't you?"

  "Of course."

  "Part of getting what you want out of life is knowing exactly what to ask for." June points at me and winks like a gunslinger in an old western. "What are you looking for?"

  "I was hoping I'd recognize it when it came my way."

  "This man is for real."

  "You're like Tess and Jaclyn. They believe in 'the one.' You meet a good man, fairly young, and then...that's it. Forever." There was a time in my life when I believed in "the one." That, of course, was back when I had it. I'd known Bret all of my life, and then I was in my twenties and had dated him since high school, and then we got engaged. I thought that's what happened to people--they grew up with a boy, then after years of being together and spending lots of time with each other's families, continued the relationship into marriage. Most of the women I know followed that formula, so of course I figured that I would too. And I did, until I found something in my life that would require more of me than teaching school, which I enjoyed, or working in an office, which I didn't. When I decided to become a shoemaker, I had to sacrifice everything--weekends, a social life, and all the things that a woman must do to make a traditional life. I just couldn't see how I could do both--and Bret, at the time, didn't either.

  June places the letter on the table. "A man who can seduce with a turn of phrase will not disappoint in the bedroom." June gets up and pours herself a cup of coffee. "We have all been waiting for this one, honey. And if I were you, I'd hurry up and I wouldn't be late. Gianluca's riding in on the night train, and the last place you want to be is the wrong stop. I'd be waiting with my bags, and by God, I'd get on board. I'd take that ride for you if I could. I have moments, even now, when I'd try. But he's for you. You take Gianluca and run with it."

  "It sounds like I need to yank the emergency cord on the train."

  "The only urgent thing in life is the pursuit of love. You get that one right, and you've solved the mystery."

  "And I thought when I could figure out a way to survive in this shop by the labor of my own hands, that would be the mystery solved."

  "Two different things. Work is survival, and love sustains you. You can have work anytime. But love? Not always."

  "Why didn't you ever get married, June?"

  "I didn't want to."

  "Maybe I don't want to either."

  "No, you do," she says quietly.

  "How can you tell?"

  "Women who take care of old people are the marrying kind," she says.

  "Gram took care of herself."

  "Yes, but you looked after her. It wasn't a chore, it came naturally. Same with me. Nobody else calls me when I walk home from work in the snow. You always do."

  "Dear God. I sound pathetic!"

  June laughs. "Not at all. You nurture people--and we need you to. But you don't think about yourself enough. And time is passing--it really is. And when you get old, it passes even more quickly, like a lead foot on the accelerator. I hear old people on TV say they don't have regrets. I have about a thousand."

  "Name one."

  "I would have asked for more. I would have had more."

  "But June..."

  "I know, I know, I feasted my way through fifty years of men, all sizes, shapes, and proclivities. God only knows how many miles I schlepped and continents I crossed in the pursuit of pleasure. And when I look back over all the years, and all the men, I would have liked for just one of those men, to sit down, pen in hand, and tell me what he saw when I walked in a room."

  June looks out the windows and off into the middle distance.

  "No, I had to guess. I had to fill in the blanks." She whistles softly. "But you? He's told you plain, right here on paper, what you mean to him. And if you can't take these words in now, put the letter aside and reread it tomorrow when you've had time to think. Trust me, this Gianluca won't come along again, not in your lifetime." June picks up the letter and hands it back to me. "Unless you know something I don't."

  June perches her reading glasses on her nose and reads the work list. I pick up a shoe and measure the welt to attach it to the heel. June opens her box of straight pins on the table, then takes her pinking shears out of their chamois pouch and places them on the table. She pushes the work stool under the table with her knee, she loads a bolt of raw silk on to the roller, and I help her snap the dowel and close the traps.

  We are two women with so much more than friendship in common. We work together, and while I'm supposedly her boss, the truth is, she is mine. June knows more about the world than I ever will--and in matters of love, she would never mislead me. Teacher to student, she has never told me anything but the truth. Maybe I don't believe Gianluca's pretty words because he's Italian and they're known for their fleur-de-lis approach to life. Maybe I need hardware and nails when it comes to love, not the gentle curves of filigree. Maybe I don't think the pretty stuff is strong enough to hold.

  "I've always maintained that this house could use some drama." Mom sits on one of the red leather bar stools behind the counter that separates the kitchen from the living area in Gram's apartment. "Everywhere." She thumbs through Interior magazine, tearing out "looks" that she thinks I might like. "The old homestead needs a total redo."

  "We'll ask Gram."

  "You don't have to. She turned the building over to you to do whatever you want. Go wild. Reinvent yourself in a new environment. Have some fun!"

  My life is now developing a theme. Evidently, I don't have enough fun. June wants me to spice up the bedroom, and my mother, the decor. It dawns on me that Mom has another motive entirely. "Has Dad put the kibosh on your renovations in Queens?"

  "That has nothing to do with it. But yes, he has. When it comes to interior design, your father is a joy killer. He'd have the same bicentennial red, white, and blue shag carpet from our den in 1976 if I'd let him. He's like his mother in that way. When you vacuum her rugs, there are permanent grooves in the carpet where the furniture is placed. Actual pits. Your father doesn't get that surroundings matter, and that change keeps you fresh, young, and on your toes. You wouldn't wear the same clothes every day, would you?"

  "No," I lie. I look down at my uniform: jeans and work smock.

  "Then your home shouldn't either. The same curtains for thirty years? Come on, people. Might as well live in a HoJ
o's lobby. When your father got the prostate diagnosis, the first thing I did after I overhauled his diet with lycopene was to study color therapy. After intense research, I painted our bedroom soft yellow because yellow is conducive to healing. Now, I don't want to take credit for his stellar remission, but you can't tell me there's not a connection."

  "There's a connection."

  "If only he'd indulge me once in a while."

  "Ma. He does everything you want."

  "Eventually."

  The laptop screen sounds a small series of bells. Then Gram appears on the screen. "Can you see me?"

  I sit down and click the camera icon. "Gram, we're here. I can see you!"

  "Hi, hon." Gram waves. "Where's Mike?"

  "Right here, Ma." Mom puts down her magazine, fluffs her hair, and presses her lips together to release the micro-beads in her twenty-four-hour lipstick. "I'm camera-ready." Mom squeezes onto the chair with me and sees her image on the screen. "Dear God, the lighting is atrocious."

  "You look wonderful, Mike," Gram tells her.

  "No, I look over sixty. That's what I look. I've been asking every Blue Cross hotline attendant if they have any idea who did Susan Sarandon's face work. We are practically the same age, almost exactly, and she looks like she did in the Rocky Horror movie while I look like the Rocky Horror."

  "I don't think Susan Sarandon had any work done," I tell them.

  "Now I feel worse!" Mom throws her hands up in despair.

  "How's it going with Alfred in the shop?" Gram looks at me and ignores my mother. I can't believe Gram can pull that off on Skype. She knows if we go down the plastic surgery path with my mother, it will be hours on the line. "Are you two getting along?"

  "Not bad," I lie.

  Gram gives me a look. "Alfred tells me it's going fine."