Brava, Valentine

by Adriana Trigiani

  “I’m happy for my father. And for Teodora.”

  “Orsola tells me that you’re going to take over the shop and let Dominic retire.”

  Gianluca’s expression changes at the mention of his daughter’s name. He smiles. “Papa would like that. He wants to spend all of his time with your grandmother. I would like that, too.”

  “They want to enjoy every moment,” I agree. But I was surprised how quickly Gram was able to let go of making shoes. It’s almost as if a key turned, leading her into Dominic’s house and out of our workroom.

  Gianluca rocks in the chair. “It’s a good lesson for everyone.”

  “Absolutely. Seize the moment.” I gulp the wine while sharing the wisdom stitched on my mother’s pot holders.

  “Maybe you will come to Arezzo more often?”

  “I don’t need an excuse. I love it here.”

  “Va bene.”

  Once the va benes start rolling, we’re on common ground. At least, that was true in Capri—in the past. I get up and refill the glass with the pink potion.

  “And you?” Gianluca asks. “How do you feel about today?”

  My eyes fill with tears. I hate this wine! It’s filling me with false emotions. No one should drink when they’re sad. “I’m going to miss Gram.”

  Gianluca gets up and goes to the nightstand. He picks up his handkerchief, then he sits down on the bed beside me. He dries my tears.

  “I’m sorry. I don’t want to cry. But I think I’ve almost drunk that entire bottle of…what is this, anyway?”

  “Vin Santo. Dessert wine. Isole e Olena.”

  “I should at least know the name of what I’m killing the pain with.”

  “What pain?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Let me pick from the bouquet of despair. Let’s start with the A’s: abandonment.” The tears flow freely again. I grab the handkerchief out of his hand and dab them.

  “Your grandmother has a life to lead—on her own, without you.”

  “I know!”

  “So what is the problem?” he says softly.

  “I’m going to end up old and alone and stabbing wedding cakes like Aunt Feen.” I sob. The thought of this terrible fate makes me feel worse. I can’t stop crying.

  “I don’t believe it,” he says.

  “Why would you? You won’t end up alone. You’ve got Madame Mink.” I might as well take a political stand for PETA if I’m never going to kiss Gianluca. “You know, I don’t even believe in wearing fur.”

  “You don’t?” He smiles.

  “I don’t know. It’s not the mink. It’s her. She’s…spectacular.”

  “She is very beautiful.”

  I cry into the handkerchief. “Yes, she is.”

  “I’m sorry,” he says.

  “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “Yes, I did. I’ve made you sad.”

  His admission shuts down my waterworks like a lever. At times, Gianluca speaks English better than me, and other times, he has a difficult time expressing himself in anything but Italian, but occasionally he’s as sharp as a needle no matter the language, so pointed he goes right to the center of things. “You want the truth? Yes, you did make me sad.”

  He smiles.

  “You think that’s funny?”

  “No, it’s not funny.”

  “Then why are you smiling?”

  “Because I knew.” He smiles again. “You care about me.”

  I get up and move to the window. I throw it open for air.

  “Come here,” he says softly.

  “No, thanks.” I turn away from the night air and stand behind the rocker and hold the back of it with two hands like a medieval shield separating me, the lowly single handmaiden, from the Duke of Delish.

  “Why not?” He seems surprised.

  “I feel played. You know, misled. You had a shot with me last night. I thought you were sending me signals at the rehearsal dinner, which now, in retrospect, were real. But then you blew it today. You brought Carlotta to the reception. I had a whole thing in my head, a perfect little fantasy percolating, about how things were going to go between us at the reception. I thought we’d talk, have a cocktail or two, maybe a little pasta followed by a slice of cake after the knife throwing, we’d share a cup of espresso, a little dancing—you know, typical wedding rituals that lead the single people to partake of wedding-night rituals without any of the paperwork.”

  Gianluca is stumped.

  I continue, “Why do I drink? I talk too fast.”

  “You don’t talk enough.” He gets up and hands me the glass.

  I feel slightly cornered. The fresh air that pours through the window emboldens me like the oxygen they pump into the casinos in late night Las Vegas to keep the grannies at the slot machines until dawn. I can breathe, I can think, and therefore, I am going to be direct with him. “I’m free, you’re free…get it? I wasn’t free in Capri—and now I am, but you’re not. You have Minky.”

  “Carlotta.”

  “Yeah. Carlotta.”

  “But I don’t have Carlotta.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She’s my friend. That’s all. Her family and mine have been close all these years—in business together. She came to the reception out of respect for my father.”

  “Oh.”

  “How do you say…” He looks off and out the window, past the shield, beyond me. “…that you have it all wrong?”

  “You say, I have it all wrong.”

  Gianluca moves the rocker, the barrier between us. He takes me in his arms. The night air whistles through the window like a breath, sending a chill through me. I place my hands on his face, and through his hair. Then I rest my head on his shoulder. The scent of the citrus and leather on his skin reminds me of the tins of beeswax I keep in the shop. It’s the scent of everything I treasure, my childhood in the workroom on Perry Street, the cloth when I buff a pair of shoes I’ve made, and now, him.

  I remember what his arms felt like last year, but he was forbidden then, so I dared not take in the details. I had a boyfriend, and I didn’t want to take advantage of this Tuscan tanner who I thought might be trying to take advantage of me. Or was he? It doesn’t matter. This is so much better than going back in my mind’s eye to the balcony at the Quisisana—because tonight, it’s my idea. “Kiss me,” I whisper.

  His lips graze my cheek until he finds my mouth. He kisses me. I am on my tiptoes for a very long time as we connect, our lips moving in full expression, without words. Who needs them now? I am done explaining my feelings. I want to have my feelings instead. Better yet, I’m going to have him. Gianluca kisses my eyes, my nose, my cheeks—I don’t know how many kisses he gives me—ten, a thousand, a million?

  “I’m sorry I made you sad,” he whispers in my ear. “I’m sorry we wasted so much time.”

  “I don’t care,” I tell him. “I got buckets of time. Boatloads…all I have is time.” He interrupts me with kisses down my neck. He finds the half-undone back of my dress and I hear the soft whir of the zipper as he undoes it. His hands on the small of my waist feel warm as he eases them up to my shoulders. If I wasn’t tipsy, I’d stop him, as my parents are down the hall, and Aunt Feen is sleeping off her reception bender with a snore they can hear in Florence. But I don’t care about any of that now. I just want him.

  He spins me gently through the room, like the flutter of snowflakes that made dizzy patterns outside my window this morning. It’s as if I’m moving through the air without a destination in sight, not quite flying, but definitely off the ground. This must be how ballerinas feel when they sail through the air during a jump. I am weightless as he carries me to the bed.

  This is not a good idea, I’m thinking, as he lays me on the bed, and yet it also feels like the best idea ever. I don’t hear church bells, or brass blaring, or see satin ribbons unfurling; this isn’t going to be triumphant sex, there isn’t going to be a parade, but I don’t need one. I need him. Gianluca wants me—and
he’s wanted me a very long time. Is there any harm in pursuing something that cannot last? Isn’t it time I made up my own rules?

  We both know that I’m leaving in the morning. Figuring out the continental divide, doing the math: I’m there, he’s here—so what? It’s a challenge—what element in my life isn’t a challenge? What else might stop me? He’s my grandmother’s stepson? What difference does that make? When the international divorce rate hits 50 percent, the truth is, everybody’s related anyhow.

  What’s the worst that could happen here? So, we make love, it’s divine—and then, we never do again? I promise I will be very happy with the four hours I will have with him before the sun comes up. I’ll treasure the memory like a rope of dazzling diamonds and not be upset at all if I find out the stones aren’t real. I swear: whatever I get, whatever we have tonight, will be exactly enough. Here’s a bold concept for a Catholic girl from Queens: stay in the moment.

  “I’m so happy you came back to me.” I cover him with kisses.

  He smiles as his hands travel from my hips to my waist. My dress falls away as he pulls me closer still. “I wanted you from the first moment I saw you.”

  “And I thought you didn’t like me at all.”

  “Now do you understand that I do?”

  “I understand.”

  “There was a problem,” he whispers.

  My heart races. Here it comes. I always expect to get bad news, but usually not this soon, and never after I’ve already stepped out of my dress. I ask, “What problem?”

  “You’re so young.”

  I don’t know if it’s the crappy sherry, or that I can’t get the sound of Aunt Feen hitting the floor out of my head, but when a thirty-four-year-old woman hears she’s too young, all inhibitions and obstacles disappear. Young. The word itself is an aphrodisiac—not that I need one. A great lover knows exactly what to say, which is even more important than a great lover knowing what to do. I needed to hear that I’m still young after a day of feeling like that warped wheel on the old horse carriage. “I’m not too young,” I assure him. “I remember eight-track tapes.”

  “It doesn’t matter, because I can’t help the way I feel about you.”

  Even with my smeared black kohl eyeliner giving me the look of silent movie star Theda Bara, and my disheveled silver lamé dress thrown across the bed like a mermaid’s fin, I get it. He wants me, and I want him. Beginning of story? End of story? Who needs words? Who’s even talking?

  Gianluca glides on top of me gently, pulling me close. He reaches around me and lifts me so I’m on the pillows. He shifts, pulling my BlackBerry out from under me. “Lose the phone.” I kiss him. He drops the BlackBerry to the floor as the cool night air blows through the curtains and washes over us.

  There’s a banging at the door.

  “Oh, God,” I whisper.

  “Don’t answer it,” he whispers back.

  Neither of us moves.

  We hold our breath.

  Bang. Bang. Bang.

  “Auntie Val?” my niece Chiara calls out to me.

  Bang. Bang. Bang.

  Gianluca rolls off me. I point to the bathroom. He goes into the bathroom and closes the door behind him. I grab my robe from the hook on the back of the door and pull it on. I yank the belt of the robe in a knot like I’m rigging a boat to the dock.

  I open the door. “What’s the matter?”

  My niece stands before me in her Hannah Montana pajamas, her black eyes wide open. “Can I sleep with you?”

  “Um, I think it would be better if you slept in your own bed.”

  “Charisma is crowding me.”

  “Give her a little shove.”

  My tone causes Chiara to raise her eyebrows. She counters, “She’ll wake up. It’s too hot in our room.”

  “I’ll open the window.”

  “Nah.” She folds her arms across her chest.

  “I think you should go to your room,” I say with an urgency she hasn’t heard since I yanked her away from the closing doors on the E train exiting the Queens Boulevard stop when she was five. Chiara looks at me suspiciously. I turn perfectly nice, hoping to ditch this kid back into her room, so I can return to Gianluca’s arms. “Really, honey. Auntie is exhausted.”

  “Do you have any candy?” She tries to peer through the partially opened door and into my room.

  “No, honey, I don’t.” I look down the hallway. Where in the hell is this kid’s mother? Why doesn’t Tess wake up and deal with her? I smile at Chiara. “It will soon be breakfast—and I’ll buy you a big jar of Nutella for the plane ride.”

  “You will?”

  “Yep, and a spoon. And you can eat for seven hours on the plane on the way home.”

  “Do I have to share?”

  “No, no sharing.” I give Chiara a hug, and then, closing my door behind me, walk her down the hallway and back to her room.

  “Mom won’t let me eat it out of the jar.”

  “Yes, she will. I will buy her a jumbo bottle of Coco cologne off of the duty-free cart.”

  “Good.” Chiara pushes the door of her room open.

  A woman’s loud scream, coming from my bathroom, peals through the quiet.

  “What was that?” Chiara grabs me, afraid.

  “Go in your room.”

  I turn and run down the hallway and into my room. Gianluca is standing in front of the bathroom door.

  “I frightened your sister,” he says as he points to the bathroom. “It connects.”

  “I forgot to tell you.”

  The hallway light flickers on. “Is everything all right?” my mother calls out from her room at the end of the long hall.

  “I saw a mouse,” Jaclyn calls from her door, next to mine, covering for the shock of finding Gianluca in her/our bathroom.

  “I’ll send Daddy,” Mom calls out reassuringly.

  “What the hell can I do? Club it with a shoe?” Dad bellows.

  “I don’t know, Dutch. Think of something,” my mother says.

  “I’m not chasing mice,” he barks. “Hasn’t this day been bad enough?”

  “I’m afraid!” Chiara comes out of her room and into the hallway and begins to cry. “Maaa-maaa!” Her voice echoes through the hotel like an Alpine yodel.

  Tess opens her door, comes out of her room, and joins her daughter in the hall, groggy from sleep. “What’s the matter?” I hear her say.

  “Aunt Jaclyn was screaming,” Chiara explains.

  “You shouldn’t listen at people’s doors,” I hear Tess tell Chiara; clearly she thinks it was a pleasant scream that her daughter misunderstood. Tess then closes Chiara’s door softly behind her.

  “I’ll go.” Gianluca kisses my hand.

  “No, you’re staying.”

  “I can’t, now. The children. Your family…”

  “Right, right. A bloodcurdling scream knocks the starch right out of romance. How about…” I’m thinking we could go to his house—and so is he.

  He shakes his head no. “Papa and Teodora.”

  “Right, right.” I think again. “Is there a hotel?”

  “This one.”

  We look at one another.

  “We’re doomed,” I whisper.

  “No.”

  “How do you figure? I’m leaving in the morning.” I throw myself against his chest.

  “You might be going home,” he says softly, “…but you will never leave me.”

  Gianluca’s lips find my own with such tenderness, then he kisses my cheek, and into my ear he whispers, “Never.”

  4

  Just as Though You Were Here

  THE FOLDERS LIE NEATLY ON Gram’s long dining room table, just as she left them, plainly marked in her own hand: House/Maintenance, City/Codes and Taxes, Angelini Shoe Company, and Personal. On top of the house folder are sets of keys, marked for every door and window of 166 Perry Street.

  I open the file marked Personal first. Gram has written down her international cell phone number, the shop
numbers at Vechiarelli & Son, her new address, and a current bank statement from Banca Popolare that lists me jointly with her on the account. It has $5,000 in the plus column and in her handwriting, a Post-it that says: For Emergencies.

  I can’t imagine what emergencies she could be referring to—until I open up the House/Maintenance folder. Here are a few potential disasters: boiler breakdown, roof leaks, plumbing fiascos, and wiring/electrical issues. I put my face in my hands.

  Now that I officially live here alone, the decor and placement of Gram’s furniture, the couch, the curtains, the old television set, all seem dated. I need to make the place my own. But where to start? I do revere and want to preserve the memories, the history, of this apartment, but every time I walk through, I miss Gram—and it’s because it’s still her house.

  Before she left, she was uninterested in the fate of the contents. “Do whatever you want,” she said. But what I really want is for her to be home, and back in the shop with me, the way it used to be.

  I make my way downstairs to the workroom. The hallway has the scent of lemon wax and leather, and a tinge of motor oil, because I greased the gears on the cutting machine before going to bed last night.

  I push the glass door etched with a cursive A open. My anxieties seem to dissipate once I set foot in this shop. This is a magical place where I feel in total control. We call it a workroom, and while we put in long hours, it’s actually a playroom—where ideas are born.

  The patterns June cut yesterday lie neatly on the table, layers of tissue paper and fabric pinned together without a bump or a gather. She propped my sketch of the Osmina on the shelf to remind herself to cut the pattern for our newest addition to the line of custom shoes first thing this morning.

  I unlock the window gates and roll them back. It’s a bleak February morning with low winter clouds that hover over the West Side Highway like a sheet of gray-and-white marble.

  Delivery trucks sit in a row at the stoplight heading for the Brooklyn Tunnel. It may snow today, and it wouldn’t matter. There’s plenty of work to be done inside. We were in Italy for five days, and even though June worked through, according to the schedule, we’re behind. There is no such thing as vacation in a family-owned business. When we take time off, we pay for it.