Brava, Valentine

by Adriana Trigiani

  After a few moments, Bret pulls away from me. “I’m going to go. I don’t know why I came here.”

  “You can always come here. I’m here for you,” I promise him.

  He looks around. Clearly, the man I knew, unflappable and strong, is breaking before my eyes. There’s a desperation to him now. Of course there is. The life he built is over.

  “You have plans,” he says. “You have your family.”

  I’ve known Bret since I was a girl, and I’ve never seen him like this. “You can’t go. Come with us. We’re going to Tess and Charlie’s.”

  “I can’t. I should go home.” When he says the word home, a look of complete devastation fills his eyes.

  I take Bret in my arms. I hold him close, his face against my neck as he begins to cry. I take the coat and pull him inside, to warm him. “It’s okay,” I whisper. “It’s okay.”

  I feel his lips against my neck, and then softly on my cheek. The ease we have, the comfort we feel with one another, all the history, wraps around me like fine cashmere. I want to comfort Bret. I want to hold him. I want to be here for him. His warm tears turn cold against my cheek. I feel his lips against mine. He pulls away at the exact same moment I do.

  “I’m sorry,” he says.

  “No, I’m sorry.” I can’t believe what just happened. What did I do? I wanted to comfort him, not kiss him.

  I hear the snap of the screen door behind me. I turn. I look for Gabriel, but it isn’t him.

  It’s Gianluca.

  I have a feeling of doom in my gut, but I can’t leave Bret alone. I look to Gianluca, and extend my hand, and I’m about to explain the kiss, but he has already pushed through the screen door and is gone.

  “Val, I don’t know why I kissed you. I shouldn’t have,” Bret says. “Forgive me.” He lets go of me and goes to the door. I implore him to stay, but he’s down the steps before I can stop him again.

  I turn to follow Bret, pulling the coat close to me. I have to find Gianluca and explain what happened. He’ll understand when I tell him that Bret’s wife left him on Christmas Eve. I was only trying to help. The kiss was a total accident. I bury my hands in the pockets of Gianluca’s coat.

  Deep inside, there’s a box in the pocket. I feel its size, and its velvet texture.

  My heart begins to race. Instead of going down the stairs, instead of following my instinct to do the right thing and go to Gianluca and explain, I stay.

  I move to the trellis, where the roses were, by the light. I reach down into the pocket and pull out the box. I know I shouldn’t, but I open it. It’s an emerald-cut diamond, in a polished platinum setting. Dramatic and brilliant, its facets grab the blue light and it glistens in the dark.

  I snap the box shut and shove it into Gianluca’s coat pocket.

  A wave of sheer panic peels through me. Marriage. A husband. A life. Am I ready for this? And then, I’m deeply ashamed for having looked…for ruining everything.

  Couldn’t I tell that Gianluca’s intention from the very beginning was to marry me and to take care of everything? Gianluca did not change when he fell in love with me; he remains who he always was: a traditional man. And I am his great love. He has made this as clear as the white-hot diamond that hides in his coat pocket.

  I look up into the sky and search it as if a sign will appear to guide me forward, something, anything, to help me understand what I’m supposed to do, what I’m supposed to say.

  I look for the moon. But it is nowhere to be seen. I look for light, from anywhere, from the stars, but there are none. Not even a cloud passes over to remind me that the sky is always in motion—changing. Instead, it is bleak and completely still. Not a clue as far as my eye can see. Where are the puzzle pieces that June made for me in the night sky? They too are gone.

  I race down the stairs. Gianluca is in the kitchen with Gabriel, packing up the desserts.

  “Bret said to tell you he was going home,” Gabriel says.

  “Thanks.” I take off Gianluca’s coat and place it on the back of one of the dining room chairs.

  “Okay, we’re all set,” Gabriel says. “Let’s go, kids.”

  I go to the closet for my coat. I pull it on. “What do you want me to carry?”

  “The Tupperware,” Gabriel says. “In the shopping bag.”

  I’m afraid to, but I look over at Gianluca, who takes a seat on one of the stools at the counter. He snaps the lid shut on the cooler that rests on the counter and locks it.

  “Gianluca, if you don’t mind, take the carryall, please?” Gabriel says.

  “I’m sorry, Gabriel. I’m not going,” Gianluca says quietly.

  “Why not? You don’t feel well?”

  “No,” he says.

  “Well, then, the last place you need to be is a fish fry. Is it your stomach? There’s Brioschi in the cabinet. Throw a capful in a glass of water and chug. You’ll feel better in no time.”

  I can’t look at Gianluca, but I feel his gaze on me.

  “Gabe, I can’t go either,” I say.

  “What’s your problem?” Gabriel looks at Gianluca and then at me. “Okay, okay, I get it. Little Christmas Eve private time going on here. A little whoo-hoo-hoo by Ye Olde Tannenbaum.”

  “Yes, that’s it,” I say.

  “So, what do I tell the family? That you’ve been hit by a bus?”

  Gianluca doesn’t answer. So I say, “Yeah, that’s fine.”

  “They’re gonna be pissed. Especially Tess. She ordered steamers. You know that requires a head count.”

  “She’ll be all right,” I tell him. “Will you be okay getting to the train?”

  “Screw the train. I’m taking a cab.”

  “To Tess’s?”

  “That’s right, sister. A yellow cab all the way to Jersey. Merry Christmas to me,” he says, gathering up the bags and carryall. “Have fun you two,” he says. “Don’t wait up for me,” he calls as he goes down the stairs. The entrance door in the foyer snaps shut behind him.

  Gianluca stands and turns to face me. He folds his arms and leans against the marble counter. I stand behind the chair and run my hand over his cashmere coat.

  I remember this same standoff from the Spolti Inn, when I didn’t have any idea what Gianluca wanted from me. Now I know, and I’m still standing behind a chair for protection.

  “Let’s go up to your roof,” he says. “I need air.”

  I follow him up the stairs with dread. He called it my roof. That’s a bad sign. The last time he was in New York, when Gram fell, he came up to this same roof and asked me to choose him, and I couldn’t. He didn’t like my river then, and now he probably detests it. I’ve ruined everything all over again.

  Gianluca pushes through the screen door and walks out onto the roof. He goes to the wall that overlooks the Hudson and leans against it. I stand next to him. It’s a clear Christmas Eve. The city is quiet, just a car or two on the West Side Highway. Gianluca looks out over our corner of the Village. Finally, he asks, “Did you kiss him or did he kiss you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “It’s important.”

  “His wife left him. She has fallen in love with someone else. She told him tonight.”

  “And you comforted him?”

  “No. He couldn’t be comforted.”

  “Then why did you kiss him?”

  “I went with Bret for almost ten years. From the time I was a teenager to my late twenties. He was my first love,” I explain.

  I’m thirty-five years old and I’ve read all the books that advise women to stay mum about their romantic past with their current lover. But my romantic history is a simple one, and he’s met both Bret and Roman Falconi already. Besides, the eighteen-year age difference means that Gianluca has a certain wisdom about love and life. And after the past couple of nights we’ve shared at the Soho Hotel, honesty is the only choice on the room service menu.

  “Do you want to go back to him?” Gianluca looks at me.

  Tears well in my e
yes. “No.”

  “Then why did you kiss him?”

  “I don’t know, Gianluca. But as soon as it happened, I knew it was wrong. I don’t love him in that way. I feel sorry for him—he’s losing everything.”

  “Pity is always a woman’s downfall when it comes to men,” he says. Then he walks away from me.

  “Please try and understand.” I follow him.

  “Va bene,” he says with resignation. He goes to the far side of the roof and looks out over the West Side Highway. We stand in silence for a very long time.

  “I wish you’d yell at me,” I say.

  “You were being kind. That’s something to admire.”

  “I don’t feel very admirable right now.” The kiss was bad enough, but I feel worse about the ring in his coat pocket. The Christmas I dreamed of is slipping away.

  “It was a mistake,” he says.

  “A big one. I don’t love Bret. I don’t love any man as much as I love you. I want to spend my life with you. Every day of it.”

  Gianluca takes my hand. “You’re cold,” he says.

  “Please. Just yell at me. Let it out. Get it over with. I did something wrong. I hurt you.”

  He kisses my hand. “I forgive you,” he says simply.

  “Why?” I can’t believe he’s calm. If the situation were reversed, I would be throwing ceramic pots off the roof in a blind and jealous rage. “How can you forgive me?”

  He takes my face in his hands. “Because I love you.”

  And then he kisses me. He pulls me close, and whispers in my ear, “And I trust you.”

  And there it is. Trust—the elusive goal, the foundation of true love and Gianluca’s gift to me on this Christmas Eve, given freely and without reservation. He believes me. He knows what I say is true. Trust was the secret of my parents’ reconciliation, the balm that will heal Alfred and Pam going forward, and for me? Trust means I can be secure in the knowledge that no harm will come to my heart. Trust means we will figure out a life plan that includes his dreams and mine. Trust means I have someone who loves me and is on my side even when I fail, come up short, or do something rash. Gianluca proved that tonight. I can trust him because he knows to trust me.

  “Oh, Gianluca, let’s go.” I hold him close. “They’re waiting for us in Jersey.”

  “I don’t like the Feast of the Seven Fishes.”

  “You don’t?”

  “I want my Christmas Eve with you. And only you.”

  “I don’t deserve you,” I tell him.

  He holds me. “There is only one way to fix this.”

  “How? I’ll do anything. I’ll even paint your house.”

  “That’s not necessary.” He laughs.

  “What can I do?” I ask him.

  “Marry me,” he says.

  I take a deep breath. “You know, I read an article once…”

  Gianluca rolls his eyes.

  I continue, “A man never asks a woman to marry him unless he’s certain she is going to say yes.”

  “I like that article.” He smiles and takes my face in his hands. “But I would rather have the answer from you.” Gianluca pulls me close. He already knows the answer, but the gentleman that he is, the man that I love and know him to be waits patiently and trusts that my answer will be the right one.

  “Yes,” I tell him. “I will marry you.”

  He kisses me, as Greenwich Village spins indigo and green and Christmas red around us.

  At last the midnight blue sky opens up, and the moon, a milky pearl, pushes through. Silver light dances on the water of the Hudson River in a shower of sapphires.

  “What do you think of my river now?” I ask him.

  He looks over the wall, past the highway, and down the Hudson. “I like your river,” he says. “I like it very much.”

  Acknowledgments

  I dedicate this novel to my sister Lucia Anna “Pia” Trigiani whom I have idolized since the day I was born. Pia is gifted, but down to earth. She is wise, but never condescends. Pia throws great parties; she’s an elegant hostess, but she is also an attorney, which means she knows how to clean up a mess. Wherever Pia works or plays, she brings people together and makes a family. I have always counted on her for the big stuff and the little things, too—in all matters, Pia has never let me down. As life goes on, I realize what a rare thing this is, and so, because I could never possibly thank her enough—Pia, this one’s for you!

  At HarperCollins, I am published by a stellar group of people led by the discerning Jonathan Burnham. (Nobody fights harder to get every detail exactly right.)

  Lee Boudreaux, my editor of enormous strength and taste, is the writer’s gift that keeps on giving, sentence by sentence, book by book. Lee’s right arm, Abigail Holstein, is talented and kind, a rare combo. Leslie Cohen designs beautiful tours and gets the word out with style and grace. Christine Boyd dreams up marketing schemes and we all follow happily. Virginia Stanley keeps me front and center with my beloved librarians and it’s a good thing because my mother was one! The jacket art, perhaps more important than good teeth, is designed by the brilliant Archie Ferguson and the dazzling Christine Van Bree.

  Also at Harper’s, my evermore gratitude to the hardworking and diligent: Brian Murray, Kathy Schneider (she moves heaven and earth and crates of books), Michael Morrison (the champion), Angie Lee, James Tyler, Kyle Hansen, Tina Andreadis (you want a Greek girl running your press), Katherine Beitner, Jocelyn Kalmus, Cindy Achar, Lydia Weaver, Miranda Ottewell, Michael Siebert, Emily Bryant, Doug Jones, Carla Clifford, Kathryn Pereira, Alexis Lunsford, Jeanette Zwart, Andrea Rosen (special market queen), Josh Marwell, Brian Grogan, Kate Blum, Carl Lennertz, Carrie Kania (tops in trade paper and accessories), Jennifer Hart (delight with an Internet bullhorn), Stephanie Selah, Alberto Rojas (clone him), and Meredith Rusu. Allison Saltzman of Ecco provides advice and guidance—always appreciated! Sandi Mendelson and Cathy Gruhn at Hilsinger Mendelson are dynamic, fun, and work harder than ten men.

  At William Morris Endeavor, where the work ethic rivals those of Italian stone masons, Suzanne Gluck represents me with smarts, panache, and understanding. The tireless Nancy Josephson has been my agent and friend since I was young, and she gets the 3:00 a.m. call, because she’s amazing and because she’s the only friend I have who is still up and on her BlackBerry at that hour. My thanks also to Global Graham Taylor, beautiful Michelle Bohan, Sarah Ceglarski, Caroline Donofrio; Cara Stein (perfection), Alicia Gordon (her mother should be proud), Natalie Hayden, Philip Grenz (his mother should be proud), Erin Malone, Tracy Fisher, Elizabeth Reed, Eugenie Furniss (my UK angel), Claudia Webb, Cathryn Summerhayes, Becky Thomas, and Raffaella de Angelis (who will get you published in countries you’ve never heard of and then you want to visit).

  In Movieland, thank you Diane Nabatoff, Larry Sanitsky, Claude Chung, the Sanitsky Company, Lou Pitt, Julie Durk, Rita McClenny, Richard Thompson, Susan Cartsonis, and Roz Weisberg.

  Thank you, Michael Patrick King, for your wise counsel as we keep the faith.

  Everybody needs a brass section: thank you, Elena Nachmanoff and Dianne Festa, for all you do, and all you are!

  The world of Buenos Aires, Argentina, unfolded in Technicolor through the eyes of Osvaldo Cima, Irwin B. Katz, Diane Smith Rigaux, and Dr. Armand Rigaux. Thank you for your guidance and valuable input.

  My everlasting gratitude to my teachers of the Wise County public school system, and beloved librarians, Mrs. Ernestine Roller, Mr. James Varner (the bookmobile!), and Ms. Billie Jean Scott, who recommended books I treasure and reread to this day. Ms. Faith Cox, a great educator, has always been a wise mentor, and good friend.

  Thank you, Costanzo and Antonio Ruocco of da Costanzo, Capri, Italy, for your craftsmanship and knowledge in the art of shoemaking. The Italian translations were provided by Dorina Cereghino-Hewitt, and further Italian pizzazz from Gina Casella. My grandfather, shoemaker Carlo Bonicelli, was the inspiration for this series of books.

  Thank you to the world
’s best assistant, Kelly Meehan, the fabulous Molly McGuire, and our diligent intern, Allison Van Groesbeck. Jean Morrissey is a crack copy editor and without her, I’d be lost. Jake Morrissey offers endless and free advice, and I hope I’m always smart enough to take it. My love to all my Saint Mary’s sisters around the world with whom I share memories and a lot of laughs.

  Ann Godoff, thank you for opening the door to my literary career. Thank you in the UK to the dazzling Amanda Ross of Cactus TV for the Richard and Judy Book Club.

  Bravo and grazie mille: Dolores and Dr. Emil Pascarelli, Kate Benton Doughan, Sharon Hall, Adina and Michael Pitt, Cate Magennis Wyatt, Steven Wyatt, Laura Bermudez, Ian Chapman, Suzanne Baboneau, Nigel Stoneman, Mary Ellen Gallagher Gavin, Nelle Fortenberry, Jasmine Guy, Rosalie Posellius, Joe O’Brien, Greg D’Alessandro, Wendy Luck, Ruth Pomerance, Rosanne Cash, Liz Welch Tirrell, Rachel Cohen Desario, Gail Berman, Debra McGuire, Donna Gigliotti, Nancy Bolmeier Fisher, Constance Marks, Catherine Brennan, Antonia Trigiani, Craig Fisse, Todd Doughty, John Searles, Jill Gillet, Kim Hovey, Libby McGuire, Jane Von Mehren, Laura Ford, Debbie Aroff, Meryl Poster, Gayle Perkins Atkins, Christine Krauss and her Sonny, Joanna Patton, Bill Persky, Mario Cantone, Jerry Dixon, Tom Dyja, Carmen Elena Carrion, Cynthia Rutledge Olson, Susan Fales Hill, Wendy Luck, Doug Leibacher, Mary Testa, Sharon Watroba Burns, Barbara and Tom Sullivan, Jim and Mary Hampton, Amanda D’Acierno, Dee Emmerson, Joanne Curley Kerner, Jack Hodgins, Elaine Martinelli, Sally Davies, Sister Karol Jackowski, Sharon Ewing, Beth Hagan, Jane Cline Higgins, Alex Marvar, Brownie and Connie Polly, Veronica Kilcullen, Rosalie Signorello Ciardullo, the fabulous Vechiarelli family (led by Beth Vechiarelli Cooper), Max and Robyn Westler.

  Thank you, Tim and Lucia, for making our home the most peaceful place on earth, and when it isn’t—even better.

  And now a word about the chapters—the titles are all Frank Sinatra songs recorded when my grandparents were young, and my father younger still. Now that they are gone, I find their music a comfort, and even insightful. I remember stories told about places they went, dreams that came true, and some that didn’t. Whenever my family gathered when I was small, I remember the music, and those great Italian boys who delivered it with gusto, whether it was Perry Como, Louis Prima, Tony Bennett, Dean Martin, Jerry Vale, Al Martino, or the Chairman of the Board himself. Sometimes I wish I could go back and stand next to the record player with the gold mesh sides and the brown leather top as they sang…and swang, but alas, those moments are gone. So this is my way of remembering.