Brava, Valentine

by Adriana Trigiani

  Mackenzie is willowy, on the sporty side, with blue eyes that match her cashmere sweater. Her blond hair is the color of ginger ale, and her legs are still tawny from their midwinter trip to Disney World in Florida. She wears a simple beige wool skirt and matching Tod’s flats.

  Maeve, the birthday girl, is dressed like a fairy, with net wings that light up anchored to her shoulders. She peeks at us and then runs past when she sees it’s two grown-ups.

  “Bret! Your friends are here!” Mackenzie calls out. “Come on in,” she says to us.

  Gabriel shoots me a look at the mention of “your friends.”

  Mackenzie has never really accepted us because we were part of Bret’s life before she was. To be fair, I wouldn’t want any ex-fiancée hanging around my husband either. Her demeanor with us manages to be warm, yet simultaneously chilly, like the first full day of spring.

  According to Bret, Mackenzie made it very clear that she wanted marriage and children from their first date, so their romance progressed at lightning speed a year after our breakup. But those were the years when books like The Rules and Marry the Man of Your Choice topped the best-seller lists; women felt pressure to issue ultimatums, and men felt like they had to cave in, or at least Bret did.

  It’s as if Mackenzie caught Bret in a butterfly net in Manhattan, carried him into New Jersey, and let him loose directly into the pages of House Beautiful. Even with children running around and a party in full swing, the house is neat and in order. The foyer, with a small toile-covered bench and an enormous silver-framed mirror, sets the stage for the rooms beyond it.

  Mackenzie has decorated the house in a polished and understated way. The furniture is Georgian, all sleek lines and black polished wood accents. A delicate chintz of mint green and beige covers the sleek sofas. The straight-backed chairs have striped seat cushions, with a bit of navy blue trim thrown in to complement the wood. An oval Berber area rug trimmed in navy gives the large room a cozy feel.

  There are plenty of polished silver frames filled with family moments on beaches, at parties, and in high chairs. Over the mantel hangs an oil painting of Mackenzie in an elaborate bridal gown. It’s obvious that she, like me, grew up idolizing Princess Diana. The portrait is right out of the Great Hall of Althorp.

  Bret comes out of the kitchen and is happy to see us. “You’re here!”

  “I only come to Jersey for corn…and for you.” Gabriel gives him a pat on the back.

  Mackenzie hands Piper off to Bret. “Make yourselves at home,” she says as she goes into the living room to corral the kids.

  We’ve had an awkward past, Mackenzie and I. I wasn’t invited to their wedding, but after they had been married for a year, Bret invited me out to dinner with them. In the spirit of lifelong friendship, Mackenzie put aside her apprehensions and I dropped my judgments. We were actually fine with one another and had a lot of fun.

  Bret is the kind of man who has to have everyone in his life get along. He can’t abide acrimony. He wouldn’t even break up with me until I promised that I wouldn’t hate him forever. Of course, he couldn’t rest until he knew I was happy for him and approved of his choice of wife. The truth is, I think Mackenzie is the best woman for Bret.

  Piper reaches for me, and I take her in my arms. She puts her arms around my neck. The tension in my body goes as she holds me close. Her skin has the scent of apricots. She rubs her cheeks on mine. Babies are a balm.

  “Where’s the bar?” Gabe asks.

  “In the den at the back of the house.” Gabe disappears through the door. “My folks are dying to see you,” Bret says to me. “They’re in the kitchen.” He points.

  The kitchen is filled from counter to table with Fitzpatricks. When they’re home in Queens, they gather in the kitchen, and evidently, when they go anywhere else, they gather in the kitchen as well. I have many memories of their family dinners, a table full of cousins, aunts, and uncles. There was always lots of laughter, plenty of beer, and hearty casseroles at their table. Bret comes from a close family like mine.

  “Valentine!” Bret’s mother throws her arms around me. Mrs. Fitz looks like Mrs. Santa Claus. She has smooth pink skin, not a wrinkle on it, and thick, white hair. She’s always been warm and dear, and since the day I met her, she’s been on a diet. Her husband is tall and lanky, like Bret, and he’s nuts about her. “Look, Bob, it’s Val.”

  “So great to see you.” I kiss her on the cheek. “And you look great, both of you.” I kiss Mr. Fitz.

  “Look at him,” Mrs. Fitz mock complains as she turns to her husband. “He eats the same amount of fudge I do, and he’s a beanpole.”

  “You know men. They got us coming and going, especially when it comes to metabolism.”

  “You look wonderful.” Mrs. Fitz nods in approval. “Slim.” Mrs. Fitz and I have a brand of banter that’s all about our figures and what we eat and how we look. I wonder what she and Mackenzie talk about. “Are you seeing anyone?” she whispers conspiratorially.

  “Kind of.”

  “Is it serious?”

  “Could be.”

  “Oh, good for you.” Mrs. Fitz squeezes my hand. In one grip, I fill in what she’s thinking: sorry it didn’t work out with Bret, but life goes on, so go for it.

  “Hey, everybody. The Pirate is here,” Mackenzie announces from the doorway of the kitchen. “You don’t want to miss him.”

  The kitchen drains of Fitzpatricks, followed by Gabriel, until Mrs. Fitz, Mackenzie, and I are left alone.

  “It’s a great party,” I assure the hostess. “The invitation was beautiful.”

  “Mackenzie made them herself,” Mrs. Fitz says proudly.

  “Thanks. My old career in advertising comes in handy.” She smiles. “It’s my way of staying creative. You know, making necklaces out of Cheerios is only so fulfilling.”

  “Oh, don’t you worry. It all goes by like a shot—and you’ll remember these days and wonder where they went.” Mrs. Fitz takes a cookie from the Lazy Susan.

  An awkward silence sets in.

  This is why I don’t come to the suburbs. Mothers have a lot to talk about with one another, but what can I converse about with them? Making shoes? How can I relate to their daily lives? Wives and mothers already know the answers to the big questions that loom before a woman when she’s unattached and focused on her career: Will love find me? (It did.) Will that love make a family? (It does.) Their world seems complete, renovated, redecorated, and fully loaded. Everything is done.

  A stay-at-home mother in the suburbs can plan her life for the next fifteen years. The markers are determined by the children themselves, and the calendar follows: the school year, summer vacation, birthday parties, camp, holiday breaks, and piano lessons. A stay-at-home mother knows weeks, months, and years in advance what life has in store for her. There’s an order to family life. In contrast, I have no idea what lies ahead. I don’t even know what the next six months will bring, much less the coming year. When it comes to a long-range view for my life, I’m still figuring out which pattern to cut.

  “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 h
eavy 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 façonné 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 through.”

  “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.