Brava, Valentine

by Adriana Trigiani

  I don’t want to get to the end of my life without having loved. I’ve played at love and pretended to love, but I’ve never given myself over to my life in a way that made it my own. I was waiting for someone to come along and show me the way. Now, I realize that everyone has shown me the way. My parents, in their crazy way, see things through, even when they’d rather not. My brother, in failing, showed me it’s okay, the world doesn’t end when you screw up, and maybe letting someone you love forgive you makes you both a little stronger. Gram has shown me that you can live with your history but still experience a new life inside the old one. Well, I could go on and on. And then, of course, there’s you.

  It’s hard for me to admit that I pushed you away. I like to think that you left me when you saw that I didn’t have any idea what I was doing with you. I hid behind my work, hoping that a higher purpose (Art!) would fill me up more than love. I can count on art, right? It won’t let me down because it comes from me, I create it: from my whims and fancy. But you were right. There is no art without love. Only love can open someone up to the possibilities of living and creating art. And I thought it was paint—and pencils and this sketch book and my ideas that inspired me to make art. But it’s not any of those things. It’s love. And you. It was always you.

  I’m going to send this letter Federal Express International. I’m going to imagine the white truck as it motors up the hills of Tuscany in the rain. I’m going to imagine the deliveryman knocking on your shop door, and you inside, in your apron, cutting a yard of expensive kid leather with precision. And how you’ll scowl because the knock at the door interrupted your process. And then, I’m going to imagine you sitting on the work bench and opening this envelope and reading these words. And I hope when you’re done, when you get to The End, that you will know that I truly understand all that I’ve lost. I can only wish for that—and for you to have a Merry Christmas, a Buon Natale as you say in your beautiful hills.

  Valentina

  Gabriel and I sit across from one another at the table. We have signed up to make dessert for the Feast of the Seven Fishes, our Christmas Eve tradition. Tess and Charlie are hosting the whole family at their home this year. Gabriel wants to go all out, which means thorough planning and a shopping trip to Little Italy for supplies.

  Gabriel snaps his fingers. “Hello?” He looks at me. “Could we focus here? I have a week to get this dessert for a cast of thousands together. I need your help.”

  “I’m here,” I tell him. But I’m not. I’d like to skip Christmas entirely this year, and just sit home alone and weep under the tree.

  “June would not like this. She would be peeved that you’re still a mess.”

  “I know.” Tears fill my eyes. “It isn’t just June.”

  “You didn’t hear from Gianluca yet?”

  I shake my head sadly.

  “You can’t trust FedEx in Italy any more than you can trust the fact that the olive oil they send over here is first cold pressed. Maybe he didn’t receive it.”

  “He got it. The next morning. I tracked it.” I put down my pencil and push away from the table.

  “Well, you don’t want to hear this from me, but I don’t think writing a letter is enough.”

  “I poured my heart out!”

  “You need to call him.”

  “What would I say?”

  “If you called him, you could hash this out once and for all. Find out if he still loves you. Then you can let this go. I always say, never mourn a man longer than you dated him.”

  “That makes sense,” I admit. “But I need a reason to call.”

  “Think of one.”

  I had hoped that Gianluca would receive my letter and call me. The man I knew was direct. He was always clear about his feelings. Gianluca did not write to me after he received my letter. Whatever I wrote did not compel him to contact me. I wrote the letter to find out if he still cared. If he did, I wanted to invite him for Christmas. “I’d like to invite him for Christmas.”

  “Here.” Gabriel hands me the phone. “Do it.”

  I flip open my cell and scroll down to Gianluca. Before I press send, I imagine Christmas without him. I will be the good auntie, playing games with the kids, dressing new dolls, assembling toys. I’ll do the dishes and help the old folks move from table to couch and back again. I’ll serve wine, cut the timbale, light the candles. I’ll be useful. The thought of another holiday spent taking care of everyone else forces me to press the button. I hit send. The machine picks up in the shop. I cover the receiver. “I got the machine.”

  “Leave a message!” Gabe whispers.

  “Hi. Pronto. Gianluca? It’s Valentina. Um, I’m calling to see how you are—and if you have any plans for Christmas. I’d like to invite you here. Um. If you would like to come, please call me back. You have my number. Thank you.”

  I hang up. “What do you think?”

  “Charming,” Gabriel says dryly and goes back to his list.

  I’m in the middle of a deep, delicious sleep when my cell vibrates on the nightstand. I reach for it, groggy and half asleep, and open it.

  “Valentina? Is it too late?”

  I sit bolt upright in bed.

  “Gianluca?”

  “Yes,” he confirms. “Is it too late?” he asks again.

  “For us?” I blurt.

  He laughs. “No, I meant late at night.”

  I could die. I look over at the clock. “Oh, it’s about three o’clock in the morning. But, I’m awake.”

  “I received your letter a few days ago,” he says.

  “Oh.” This is all I can say, because I feel the boom is about to be lowered. Carlotta is rolling over in bed next to him, having forced him to call me and break this silly thing off so she can move in with her mink.

  “I would like very much to come for Christmas. Thank you for the invitation,” he says. “I didn’t want to call until I had my tickets. You know, it’s not easy to travel at Christmastime.”

  “I know.”

  “Valentina, I need to tell you something.” He continues, “It’s something you said in your letter. You assumed I found someone else. The truth is, there is no one else.”

  Tears fill my eyes. I wasn’t expecting this. I was hoping, yes. But I didn’t think, in a million years, that he still cared. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes,” he says plainly. “There can’t be anyone else, Valentina.”

  “Why?” I wipe my tears on my pajama sleeve.

  “Because there’s only you.”

  “I’m so happy you called.”

  “I’m sure about my feelings, Valentina. Are you?”

  “Nothing will ever keep us apart again, Gianluca. I want your happiness more than my own. If you called and said that you had moved on, I would have been happy for you. That’s the truth.”

  When I close the phone, I lie back on the pillows and look up at the ceiling. A small beam of light from the streetlight on Perry cuts across the ceiling, singular and clear. I stare at it for a long time. This isn’t a dream. After so long, Gianluca is on his way, and with him, the best Christmas of my life.

  The passengers from Alitalia Flight 125 pour through the exit doors from Customs into the pickup lobby at JFK. I scan the crowd for Gianluca.

  My BlackBerry vibrates in my pocket. I fish it out of my purse. A text pops up.

  “Ciao.”

  I look down at the word, then to the address that the message came from. GV@roma.net.

  Me: Gianluca?

  GV: It is me.

  Me: Where are you?

  GV: I live in 21 century. Look up now.

  I throw my BlackBerry into my purse and look up.

  Gianluca spots me as he comes through the doors. He holds his BlackBerry high in the air, triumphantly, like a trophy. He looks gorgeous—his hair is longer, and he wears a magnificent cashmere coat, long and black with slim lapels. I never knew him in winter, so it’s the first time I’ve seen him in a proper coat. He wears jeans and a navy
turtleneck sweater underneath.

  I am in love.

  He takes me in his arms and kisses me. All of my sadness falls away, my grief about June, my depression about Alfred and Pamela, my empathy for Bret and Mackenzie—all of it goes. It’s just him and me, and these kisses, and the scent of his skin, his neck, citrus and leather. The sounds of the airport fade around me. I don’t hear the clanging carts, the shouts of the passengers, and the cop’s whistles outside baggage; I float in his arms.

  “I love you,” I tell him. I waited until he was in my arms and I could say these words in person. I hold his face in my hands.

  His blue eyes narrow. “Are you sure?” he teases.

  “Oh, I am sure.”

  “I love you, Valentina.” We hold each other in the crowd. I feel like I’ve been found for the first time in my life. I’ve been wandering through the world looking for something, for someone, and here he is, the love of my life, the love in my life.

  I don’t even know how long the ride from JFK to Manhattan takes—the driver keeps complaining about the traffic, but I don’t notice. We kiss from baggage to Barrow Street, and barely let go of one another as he checks into the Soho Grand and we make it to the room.

  The coat, the luggage, my dress, the purse, the shoes, the stockings, the hat, the gloves, all fall away like cherry blossoms when the wind kicks up on the last day of spring and there’s a snow shower of petals, and the air fills with pink blossoms and all that’s left behind are the bare branches where they once bloomed.

  We make love, and it’s urgent, passionate, direct—I’m making love for every woman who has ever been in love, including June, who winks through the quarter moon, and encourages me to love this good man who loves me like no one else can or ever has. “Sex is life,” June used to say. She felt sorry for people who didn’t understand that, didn’t get it, and didn’t go for it. Sex is what tells us we’re alive, and we’re connecting, and roots us in the present.

  I am learning what Gianluca wants from me.

  It seems such a small thing to learn what a man wants, but for me, it’s an enormous lesson. I assumed Gianluca would tell me what he needed without having to ask him. I’ve learned to ask the questions, listen to the answers, and move with it.

  Gianluca’s needs are simple, but if he is denied them, life becomes complicated—or maybe he becomes complex, or maybe they are one and the same. Gianluca craves time, open hours without plans, endless walks without destination, slowly prepared food, long meals, and conversation that ends in sleep, and resumes upon waking. He also needs me to be honest. I will happily tell him the truth, because now, in his arms, I’m living it.

  Gianluca’s lips travel down my neck, and I breathe from so deeply within my body, he stops to hold me. This is what it really means to be in love—this is the thing I’ve been waiting for, wondering about. I’ve been waiting to mean this much to someone.

  Oh, this is a merry, merry, merry Christmas. No package, no present, no surprise of any kind could ever be this wonderful. And this night, this one, this particular moment, is for Gianluca, and for me—but it’s also for June Marie Lawton, who knew how to live.

  I spritz Terre d’Hermès perfume on my neck.

  I’m dressed for Christmas Eve, the Feast of the Seven Fishes at Tess’s house. I went with the silver lamé sheath I wore to Gram and Dominic’s wedding, this time, without the clutter of pearls. I’m tempted to throw them on. After all, Dad will read A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens after supper, and I could be the sound effect when Marley’s chains rattle.

  Gram and Dominic have been at Tess’s all day, preparing the scungilli, shrimp, octopus, lobster, white flounder, clams, and mussels for our feast.

  Gianluca has gone out to run a final Christmas errand. Gabriel stands in my doorway.

  “I want to give you your Christmas present.”

  “Gabriel, you shouldn’t have.”

  “Liar. Nobody likes a gift more than you. Come on. Grab a coat,” he instructs me.

  I pull Gianluca’s dress coat from behind the door and throw it on. I pull the cashmere closely around me. It has the scent of him, so I pull it closer still.

  “Follow me,” Gabriel says.

  I follow Gabriel up the stairs to the roof.

  “Okay, now stand over there,” he tells me. “By the wall. Then turn around.”

  I shiver in the cold.

  “This will only take a second.”

  Gabriel goes to the wall in the roof’s alcove. As he returns from the corner, the roof fills with sound. With Frank Sinatra.

  I put my hands to my face.

  “That’s what I’m talkin’ about. Rooftop Ambience. The Chairman of the Board, ladies and gentlemen,” Gabriel announces.

  “I thought the roof was finished!”

  “It wasn’t done till the installation of surround sound.”

  “I love it! Thank you!”

  Frank Sinatra’s voice pours out into the sky over Greenwich Village on this blue Christmas Eve. I look down onto Perry Street, with its pools of golden light from the street lamps, as last-minute shoppers make their way home, underscored by Sinatra, who sings them home to their destinations.

  “I took all of Gram’s old albums and copied them on to CD’s, and then I made a program. Six hours of Sinatra on a loop. Hear that? It’s ‘Shake Down the Stars.’ Big hit for Frank in 1940. Real roof and sky music!”

  “Gram is going to go crazy for this,” I say. “We only ever had an AM radio up here.” I run over to Gabriel and give him a big hug. “How can I thank you?”

  “No matter what happens, you’ll always have Sinatra…Valentina.”

  This is the first time Gabriel ever called me “Valentina.” And I’m going to pretend that I don’t know what he means, because then maybe what he is about to tell me won’t be true.

  He takes a deep breath and looks at me. “We’re Tiffany candlesticks, you and me. The best of the best. But now it’s time to break up the pair. One of us has fallen in love. There’s only room for one man in this house.”

  I close my eyes. It has to be twenty degrees on the roof, but I don’t notice the cold. I’m filled with the possibilities of the life that lies ahead for Gianluca and me.

  “It had to happen someday,” Gabriel says softly. “And here it is. It couldn’t happen to a nicer girl. I’m happy for you.” Gabriel hugs me tightly.

  “But you’re the best husband I ever had.”

  “Well, maybe it’s time for me to go out there and find my own.” Gabriel sighs. “Now, come on. I hate rubbery scungilli—and it’s a long train haul to Jersey.”

  The apartment buzzer rings on the roof.

  “Is that what I think it is?”

  He nods. “Yep. That’s the second part of my gift. I put a buzzer up here—for when you’re on the roof and you get company. No more running down two flights of stairs and just missing UPS.”

  “You’re a genius! Gianluca must’ve forgotten his keys,” I say. I hit the buzzer to let him in.

  “Works like a charm,” Gabriel says proudly.

  “What am I going to do without you?”

  “You’ll see me in the shop every day. I just won’t live here anymore. It’s time for me to go on Craigslist and find a deal. Somewhere close.”

  “Please.” I hug him again. “Around the corner.”

  “I’ll try. Now, I’m going to go and pack up the timbale. I will miss the kitchen. I love a workspace with a marble counter. Oh, well. New Year on the horizon and new beginnings. I’ll send Gianluca up.” Gabriel opens the screen door. “Kiss him to Sinatra. If you do, he’ll never leave.”

  I turn up the sound system and wait. After a few moments, I hear him ascend the stairs.

  The sound of footsteps on the stairs fills me with anticipation.

  Then Bret appears in the doorway.

  “Bret?”

  Bret pushes through the door and comes to me. He is deeply upset. His face is red from the cold. It looks as though
he’s been crying. “What’s the matter?”

  “Mac and the girls are at her parents for Christmas Eve…,” he begins.

  “Uptown?” I straighten the collar on his coat. He’s disheveled. A mess. He never has a hair out of place.

  “81st Street.” He rubs his hands together. They are chapped from the cold. He must’ve been out walking for a long time.

  “Why aren’t you there?” I ask.

  “I couldn’t stay.” His eyes fill with tears.

  “Why?” I ask. I take his freezing cold hands in mine to warm them.

  “I pressed her, I guess. I had a gift for her. A sapphire bracelet…But she wouldn’t take it. She said that it’s over. Our marriage is over.” Tears begin to stream down his face. He looks like a boy, just like the boy I remember from Austin Street.

  “Oh, Bret, it’s just the pressure of the holidays,” I tell him.

  “No, it’s not the holidays. She’s in love with someone else.” He puts his hands on the wall and hangs his head. I throw my arms around his shoulders as he heaves and cries.

  I’m stunned. Even though Bret confided that there were problems, I never thought they would lead to this. I thought they would work things through, that Mac would choose her ordered life over the chaos of starting over.

  I think back to the summer, when Mackenzie stopped by, and right here on this very roof accused me of an affair with her husband. Now I realize that she already had made her mind up long before she climbed these stairs. She knew she was leaving him; she just needed an excuse to let go. Mackenzie wanted me to be the excuse. She already had someone new, and she wanted Bret to have someone too, so she could leave him without guilt.

  “Oh, Bret. I’m so sorry.”

  “I don’t know what to do. For the first time in my life, I don’t know what to do.” I pull him close to me and hold him as tightly as I can.

  “There’s nothing you can do right now. It’s Christmas, and you’ve got the girls. You have to think of your girls,” I tell him.