Very Valentine

by Adriana Trigiani

  To be fair to Mom, this was probably the only bathing suit in captivity that had a rhinestone belt, and everyone knows that my mother never saw a Swarovski crystal she didn’t like. And it is a one-piece bathing suit, which can be flattering, but this one is so revealing it needs a turtleneck under it.

  I look at my reflection in the full-length mirror. The V in the front is so deep it exposes parts of my body that have never experienced direct sunlight. I turn around and look over my shoulder. The back looks okay, but that has more to do with the construction of the suit than my body.

  There’s a tag on the suit that says slimsuit, so the rear end of the thing is double backed, which means extra coverage à la the old Spanx. I pose like John Wayne and hang my thumbs on the belt buckle like it holds the directions to the cattle drive. How can I possibly leave this room? I look like the girl who was kicked out of the chorus line for showing too much skin back in the days when they showed a lot. After about ten seconds of internal fashion debate, the blue pool calls to me. What the hell, I tell myself, nobody knows me here, and there surely has been more cleavage on display at the Quisisana. I pull on my black capri pants and hoodie over the suit. I put on my sunglasses, take my key and wallet, and head down to the pool.

  A young Italian boy runs over with a towel when he sees me standing at the side of the pool. “Grazie,” I say as I tip him.

  The water is the same shade of turquoise as the ocean, made more deeply blue against the contrast of white trim and white statuary in the shallow end. Beyond the low walls, the waiters set the tables for dinner, unleashing a series of dark blue awnings overhead. I look around. There’s no one in the water, and only one woman on a chaise reading David Baldacci’s Simple Genius. I have the pool to myself. Heaven.

  I unzip my hoodie and slip off my capris. I wade into the warm water until it’s up to my neck. I shuffle the water on the surface with my hands. I lift my feet off the bottom and float in the silkiness. I extend my feet in front of me, until I’m floating on my back. I close my eyes and let the gentle rolls of the water envelop me.

  The late-afternoon sky is powder blue, and a breeze from the grove beyond the hotel carries the scent of ripe peaches. After a while, I swim over to the lion statuary in the shallow end. I catch the water in crystal bursts as it flows through my hands. The warm water and soft breeze comfort me as the sun sets. What will I do for dinner? I have no plans, so I swim.

  Back and forth I go, from the shallow to the deep end, doing a slow Capri version of laps, owning the pool. My arms hit the water in rhythmic strokes, and soon I’m panting. I float on my back again. I imagine, years from now, I’ll remember this, me in a tacky bathing suit, alone at a glamorous resort. I think about Gram’s advice to overlook what makes me unhappy. Hilarious, as she seeks her own happiness this minute at a villa with Dominic.

  The pool boy snaps the umbrellas down, signaling that the pool is closing. The umbrellas look like blue pins sticking into the purple sky. He straightens the chaise longues into a wide circle, then rolls a hamper of towels behind a rattan screen.

  “Valentina?” I hear someone call my name. I pirouette in the water and look toward the voice.

  “Gianluca?” I shade my eyes from the setting sun. Gianluca kneels by the pool, holding my towel. The lady with the thriller, and the pool boy, are gone, it’s just Gianluca and me. “What are you doing here?”

  “I couldn’t let Papa drive to Naples alone.”

  I climb up the steps and out of the pool. Gianluca holds the towel, and like everything else in Italy, he moves slowly as he hands it to me. I extend my hand, dripping water on his arm. I pat his arm where the water goes. Then I open the towel and wrap it around me like a cape.

  “Coco Chanel?” He points to the belt.

  “Chuck Cohen.”

  “Chuck Cohen?” he says, confused.

  “It’s a knockoff.”

  “Si, si,” he laughs. “Outlet?”

  “Yeah, yeah.” I hold up my hand. “My mother is an outlet queen. Long story.”

  “Mi piace.” Original or not, he likes the suit.

  “Gianluca, I’m in no mood to flirt. Let me warn you. I’m basically a blowfish filled with so much angst, that if I hit a wall, I’d explode. I’m supposed to be with my boyfriend on this romantic island; instead I’m alone and just north of miserable. Capisce?” I pull the towel tightly around me, like a bandage. I am the walking wounded in a towel embossed with a giant Q.

  “Capisce. What are you doing for dinner?”

  “To tell you the truth, I was going to order up and watch a movie.”

  “Why?”

  “That’s what I do when I’m alone.”

  “But you’re not alone. I’m here.”

  Gianluca, like all men of a certain age, looks best in fading sun. The gray in his hair turns silver, his height is magnified, and his strong features throw just the right amount of shadow on his bone structure, giving the impression of youthful invincibility or wise old warrior. Take your pick. I size him up as a night breeze happens through. I could do worse for a dinner companion, plus, the idea of eating alone in the attico suite without Roman borders on self-punishment. So I say, “Let me get dressed.”

  I check my BlackBerry while Gianluca waits in the lobby. Roman has sent a total of eleven text messages, all of them dripping with apology when they’re not loaded with promises of great sex and endless sampling of regional wine. I scroll through the texts like they’re a Chinese take-out menu and I’m trying to get to the noodles. I have decided to stay mad at him for the time being, and I believe I am entitled. Instead of texting Roman, I dial my mother.

  “Ma, how are you?”

  “Forget me. How are you?”

  “I’m on Capri. You don’t have to pick Gram up at the airport.”

  “I heard all about it. She called. How nice she has a good friend to show her around. She must have made wonderful alliances on her travels.”

  “Are you watching Jane Austen?” My mother’s turns of phrase are a dead giveaway that she’s on a British bender.

  “Sense and Sensibility was on last night. How did you know?” she says. “Listen, honey, she told me about Roman. I’m sorry. What can I say? The man has an all-consuming career. This is the price of success. You’ll just have to be patient.”

  “I’m trying. But Ma—the bathing suit?”

  “To die for?” she squeals.

  “If you’re Pussy Galore in a James Bond movie.”

  “I know! It’s so retro and chic. Very Lauren Hutton Vogue 1972.”

  “The belt?”

  “I love the belt! They’re good rhinestones.”

  I knew she’d defend the paste. “Ma, it’s too much.”

  “On Capri? Never. Liz Taylor and Jackie O vacationed there. Believe me, they dazzled at the pool and why shouldn’t my daughter?”

  “That’s how you justify this suit?”

  I hang up the phone and slip off the hotel robe. I take a bath with the Quisisana shower gel that’s loaded with shea butter, vanilla, peach, and some woodsy pine. I smell so good, I could fall in love with me tonight.

  I pick out a cute black skirt and a white blouse with billowing poetry sleeves. Somewhere in my mother’s old magazines, there was a dog-eared page with a picture of Claudia Cardinale on a Roman holiday, and she wore a similar getup. I pull out silver sandals with a simple pearl closure on the ankle. I spritz on my Burberry and head for the elevator.

  I walk the long hallway to the main entrance. All sorts of couples of different ages are dressed for dinner and milling around the lobby. I walk through them and go outside. Gianluca is waiting for me at the outdoor bar. I wave to him. He stands as I approach.

  “I ordered you a drink,” he says. My drink rests on the table with his. He pulls out my chair. I sit, and then he does. He picks up his drink and toasts me. “I’m sorry your trip didn’t work out the way you had hoped, Valentina.”

  “Roman will be here on Wednesday.”


  “Bene.”

  “However, I won’t be nice to him until Friday.”

  “Why do you let him treat you this way?”

  “He’s running a business. Sometimes things are out of his hands.” I can’t believe I’m defending Roman, but the tone in Gianluca’s voice makes me defensive. “You don’t know him. All you know is that he was supposed to come to Capri, and he had to cancel, but he’ll be here as soon as he can. It’s not the end of the world.”

  “But this is your first visit.”

  “Right.”

  “You should see it with someone you love.”

  “I will see it with someone I love. Just not today.”

  We finish our drinks and join the throngs of visitors on the small cobblestone street that weaves through town. We walk for a while and then Gianluca steers me off the busy street and through a wooden gate. He closes the door behind us.

  “This way,” he says, leading me through a garden and under a portico to the back of the building. Carved into the side of the mountain is a small restaurant, built on the incline. Every seat is taken with people who look more like locals than the fancy guests of the Quisisana. No Bulgari jewels, Neapolitan gold, Prada purses, or cashmere here. Just lots of clean, pressed cotton with embroidered details and fine leather sandals. I fit right in. These are my people, the working class, relaxing after a hard day’s work.

  The maître d’ smiles at Gianluca when he sees him. He shows us to a table overlooking the bluffs to the sea below. The tables remind me of Ca’ d’Oro, intimate and beautifully set. I must remember to bring Roman here. “What’s this restaurant called?” I ask.

  “Il Merlo. It means blackbird,” Gianluca replies.

  We sit at our table. The waiter doesn’t bring a menu, just a bottle of wine. He opens the bottle and pours.

  “La sua moglia, bianco e rosso?” the waiter asks.

  “Rosso,” Gianluca tells him.

  “Excuse me. But did the waiter just call me your wife?”

  “Si.” He grins.

  “Oh, okay. Either you look young, or I look old. Which is it?”

  Gianluca laughs.

  “Not funny. In my family old is something to avoid and deny until death, when it doesn’t matter anymore.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, for one thing, it’s a downer.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “A downer is the opposite of hope. La speranza. Non la speranza.”

  “Ah, so…I’m too old for you.”

  “I don’t mean to insult you,” I say. “But your daughter is almost my age. Well, not almost. I could be her sister.”

  “I see.”

  “So, it’s really Mother Nature talking, not me. I don’t think you’re old, in fact, in many circles a fifty-two-year-old is young. Just not for a thirty-three-year-old woman.”

  The waiter brings us tiny shrimp in olive oil and a basket of small rolls. Gianluca scoops up the shrimp with the bread. I do the same. “How old is Roman?” Gianluca asks.

  “Forty-one.”

  “So, he could be my brother.”

  “Technically, yes.” I scoop up some more shrimp. “I guess.”

  “But he is not too old for you.”

  “Oh, God, no.”

  Gianluca nods his head slowly and looks out to sea. Between the coconut-and-rum cocktail at the hotel, and the wine I’m sipping now, I’m feeling chatty. “Look, Gianluca, even if you were thirty-five, I could never go out with you.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because your father is dating my grandmother. Now, if that isn’t a Jerry Springer episode waiting to be Tivoed, I don’t know what is. If your father married Gram, you would be my uncle. Are you beginning to see the picture here?”

  He laughs. “I understand.”

  “Look, you’re a handsome man. And you’re smart. And you’re a good son. These are all wonderful attributes.” I scan Gianluca for more positives. “You have your hair. In America, that would send you to the top tier of Match.com. I just don’t think of you that way.”

  Gianluca reaches across the table and dabs my chin with his napkin.

  “I cannot argue with that,” he says.

  I lean on the railing of the balcony outside my room as a full moon pulls up over the faraglione, throwing silver streamers of light on the midnight blue water. I feel full and happy after that delicious dinner. Gianluca can be a lot of fun for an older man. I like how Italian men take care of things. He reminds me of my father and my grandfather, and even my brother, all of whom swoop in, like the Red Cross, during a crisis. That’s why I’m so impatient with Roman. I know what he’s capable of, so when he can’t fix something, I assume it’s because he doesn’t want to.

  I hear muffled voices, followed by soft laughter as two lovers make their way back into the hotel from the garden below. I watch as they weave through the cypress trees on the twirling path, stopping only to kiss. If you can’t be happy on the isle of Capri, I doubt there’s anyplace on earth you could be.

  I go inside to my bedroom and pull the sheer draperies to the side, leaving the terrace doors open. I climb into bed and lie back on the pillows. The gauzy moonlight cuts a white path across my bed, like a bridal veil.

  I put my hand on the pillow next to me and imagine Roman there. I can’t stay mad at him, and I don’t want to. Maybe I had too much to drink and the island alcohol triggered my forgiveness. Maybe I want romance more than acrimony. Whatever it is, I’ll call him in the morning and tell him about the cobblestone streets, the pink stars, and this bed, which seems to float over the ocean when the doors are open and the night breeze happens through. The anticipation of sharing all of this and more with Roman sends me into a deep sleep.

  13

  Da Costanzo

  WHEN I WAKE THE NEXT MORNING, I roll over and reach for my phone. I open it and text: Dear Roman.

  The hotel phone rings. I go to the desk and pick it up.

  “Valentine, it’s me,” Roman says softly.

  “I was just about to text you,” I say.

  “I’m so sorry,” he says.

  “It’s okay, honey. I got all your messages and I know how sorry you are. I totally understand. When you see this room and the view, you won’t even remember what it took to get here.”

  “No, I’m really sorry,” he says.

  I sit down on the couch. “About what?”

  “I can’t come at all now.”

  I don’t know what to say, so I say nothing.

  He continues, “There’s a problem with my backers. It’s serious.”

  I still say nothing. I can’t.

  “Valentine?”

  Finally, I say, “I’m here.” But I’m not. I’m numb.

  “I’m as upset about this as you are,” he goes on. “I want to be there with you. I still do,” he says. “I wish…”

  Someday I know I will look back on this as the moment I stopped pretending I was actually in a real relationship with Roman. Who allows this sort of thing? I forgive and forget his cancelled dates and missed opportunities with such regularity, I believe that it’s part of working at our relationship. It’s our normal. Roman’s first obligation is to his restaurant. I knew that when we began dating, and I know it now, stranded here on Capri without him. I’m not surprised; I’m resigned. But that doesn’t make it hurt any less.

  I crawl back into bed and pull the covers up to my chin. I am a failure at love. Roman’s excuses seem real, I believe them every single time. The excuses can be grand: threats of imminent financial ruin, or silly: the sink flooded in the restaurant kitchen. The scale of disaster doesn’t matter, I take it in and accept whatever he throws at me. I pretend I can handle it while I seethe inside.

  I feel terrible, so why not surrender to the worst of it? I search my heart and list all the ways in which I am a failure. I make a mental list. I’m almost thirty-four (old!), and I have no money saved (poor!), and I live with my grandmother (needy!). I wear Spanx. I want a dog b
ut won’t get one because I’d have to walk it, and there’s no time in my life to walk a dog! My boyfriend is a part-time lover who spends more time at work than he does with me, and I accept it because that’s what I believe I deserve. I’m a lousy girlfriend. In fact, I’m as bad at relationships as he is! I don’t want to sacrifice my work for him either.

  Roman Falconi makes promises and I let him wiggle out of them because I understand how hard it is to live a creative life, whether it’s making shoes or tagliatelle for hungry people. The phone rings. I catch my breath and sit up before reaching for it. Roman must have come to his senses and changed his mind. He’s going to make the trip! I know it! I pick up the phone. I tell myself not to blow it. Be patient, I tell myself as I breathe.

  “Valentina?”

  It’s not Roman. It’s Gianluca. “Yes?”

  “I want to take you to meet my friend Costanzo.”

  I don’t answer.

  “Are you all right?” Gianluca asks. “I told him that you are waiting for your boyfriend to arrive and so he made time for you this afternoon.”

  “This afternoon is fine,” I say, hanging up the phone after we agree upon a time to meet.

  I pull my notebook off the nightstand and pick up the list of things I wanted to do with Roman on Capri. There it is, in plain English, a list of fabulous, romantic side trips and excursions, places to eat, foods to try, the hours the pool is open! I even wrote that schedule down.

  Suddenly, I am overcome with sadness that I have to do these things alone. I begin to cry, the disappointment almost too much to bear. This place is so romantic and I’m miserable. Rejection is the worst, whether you’re fourteen or forty. It stings, it’s humiliating, and it’s irreversible. I take the box of tissues and go out on the balcony. The sun blazes hot orange in the deep blue sky. Boats, with their sails bleached white, bob in the harbor below. I watch them for a long time.

  I think about calling Gram, but I don’t want her to waste this week worried about me, or worse, trying to include me in her plans with Dominic.