Adriana Trigiani - Very Valentine

“Give me the wax pencil, Val.”

I give Gram the pencil from the kit. She slides the wax over the interior of the insole, softening the leather and making it pliable. Gram slips the mule back on Anna’s foot. “Now, Anna, when it comes time to lose the shoe, just lift your toes and pull your foot out. It should slide right off. Try it.”

Anna does as instructed, lifting her foot off the floor and pressing her toe against the top of the vamp. The shoe slides off. “It works!” Anna says, smiling, her relief as palpable as my own.

Suddenly, the crew, who were standing around sending poison rays of worry our way, spring into action. They move to their positions, shouting orders, as the director settles into his seat and stares into the monitor.

Megan pulls Gram and me back into the shadows. We watch Anna Christina as she pushes the mahogany church doors open with two hands, then runs in her duchess-satin wedding gown through the vestibule, and outside, onto the landing of Our Lady of Pompeii. On cue, she loses the rigged Gilda mule as she steps onto the top step.

“It’s a tracking shot,” Megan explains. “One continuous movement.”

In what seems like the tenth time they film the sequence, the shoe falls off on cue, as it has every time. Gram and I breathe again. A man standing next to the director hollers, “Cut. Moving on.” The crew fans out, toting, lifting, pushing equipment all around us. Debra goes to the director, who has a few words with her. “You saved our asses,” Megan says, smiling. “He’s telling her he got the shot.”

Debra pats the director on the back and comes over to us. “Fougeray out, Angelini in.”

I SPRITZ SOME CLASSIC Burberry cologne (a gift from my mother during one of her Brit literary benders) on my neck then pump some into the air overhead where it settles on me in a fragrant peach-and-cedar mist. I lean into the mirror over the dresser and check my makeup. The gold-leafed mirror in my bedroom is so old the paint behind the glass has peeled into swirls of sepia, which gives my complexion an alabaster sheen. This magic mirror is my Restylane on the wall. Roman Falconi’s business card rests in the crook of the mirror, and for whatever reason, I tuck it in the pocket of my evening coat. Maybe I’ll get hungry enough to check out his restaurant sometime.

I grab my evening bag off the bed and open it, checking for my wallet, MetroCard and my emergency makeup trifecta: mauve lipstick, pale pink lip pencil, and concealer. I pass Gram, in her room, slipping out of her work clothes and into her housedress.

“Gabriel’s waiting for you,” she calls after me as I go down the stairs.

“Gram says you know Roman Falconi,” Gabriel says as I enter the living room. Gabriel is a compact version of Marcello Mastroianni with the coloring of Snow White. We met on the first day of college, waiting in a long line to sign up for theater-arts courses. The first thing he said after introducing himself was, “I’m gay.” And I said, “That won’t be a problem.” We’ve been best friends ever since. “How about a glass of wine before we go?”

“I need it,” he says.

I go into the kitchen and pull a bottle of Poggio al Lupo out of the wine rack. “So do you think you can get us into Ca’ d’Oro?” Gabriel sits down at the counter.

“You’ve heard of it?”

“You really don’t get out much, do you?”

“Only when you invite me.” I pour Gabriel a glass of wine, then one for myself.

“ New York magazine called it the season’s hottest Italian debut. I’ve been trying to get a reservation since he opened. Will you please call him?”

“I’m not calling him.” I toast Gabriel. “ Salute.”

Gabriel toasts me. “Why?”

“I came home from grocery shopping and he was sitting here at this table speaking Italian to Gram, who was completely besotted with him. Let her call him.”

“You can trust a man who reveres women of a certain age.”

“I don’t know about that. He wasn’t here to relive Gram’s memories of postwar Manhattan. He wanted to meet the woman he saw naked on the roof.”

Gabriel’s eyes widen. “ He’s the guy who saw you?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. He probably thinks I’m an exhibitionist.”

“Well, he must have liked what he saw.”

“You will do anything to get a table at his restaurant.”

Gabriel puts his hands in the air. “I’m a foodie. It’s serious to me. Okay, so-what’s he like?”

“Attractive.”

“What a tepid word.”

“Okay. He’s tall and dark and straight on, he could even be considered handsome. But from a certain angle, his nose looks like he’s wearing Groucho Marx glasses, the ones with the plastic nose and the eyebrows.”

“The Italian profile. The occasional curse of our people.”

“How do I look?” I ask Gabriel, revealing my dress under my coat in a Suzy Parker pose.

“Appropriate,” he decides.

“And you thought attractive was a tepid word! Appropriate is worse!”

“That is to say, you look just right to see an ex-boyfriend whom you almost married who is now married to someone else. I like the ruching.”

“This is Gram’s dress.” I straighten the rosettes of silk ruffled across the hem.

“She looks better in it than I ever did,” Gram says as she comes in from the hallway. “What’s this fancy party you’re going to?”

“Bret Fitzpatrick’s company party on the roof of the Gramercy Park Hotel.”

Gabriel smooths his thick bangs off to one side. “It’s a private club now. I’m glad Bret figured out how to wheel and deal to become whatever it is that he is. What is he again?”

“Some fund-management thing.” I place a small canister of mints into my evening bag. I have two reasons for going to this party tonight. First, I’m still thin from Jaclyn’s wedding. Second, I need Bret’s help figuring out how to finance my future. I don’t trust my brother to have my best interests at heart as he restructures our debt. Bret could be a big help. “Bret is a vice president of something. To be honest, I don’t understand what he does.”

“Why would you? You’re a cobbler and me, I’m the maître d’ at the Café Carlyle. Let’s face it. We’re service people, while your ex-lover Bret…Sorry, Teodora.”

“Gabriel.” I stop him before he can dig himself in any deeper. I pour Gram a glass of wine and give it to her.

“I’m happy to hear that my granddaughter is a woman with a full life.”

“Do you need anything before I leave?” I ask.

“No, thank you, I’m going to heat up the penne, drink this wine, and watch Mario Batali on the food channel.”

“Did you know your boyfriend Roman Falconi has a hot restaurant?”

“He knew all about tomatoes,” Gram says proudly. “And he spoke beautiful Italian.” Grams folds her hands gratefully, as if in prayer. “I thought he was wonderful.”

“You’re a sucker for an accent,” I remind her.

“So am I,” Gabriel says longingly.

“I just wish you’d be careful about who you let into the house.”

“Valentine, relax. Roman is Barese. I knew his great-uncle Carm a hundred years ago. He was a regular at Ida De Carlo’s, on Hudson Street. And I’ll bet you weren’t nice to him, were you?”

“Nice enough to get a dinner invitation.” I give Gram a quick kiss. I follow Gabriel out the door and down the stairs.

The roof of the Gramercy Park Hotel is a posh indoor/outdoor living room, with glazed walls filled with immense, colorful paintings; thick Persian rugs; low, lacquered furniture; and a fireplace, blazing in the cool autumn night. A chandelier of green glass foliage and twinkling white lights hangs over the aerie like a canopy in a fairy forest. The cityscape seems to fall away in the distance, and from here, the skyscrapers look like black velvet jewelry boxes strewn with pearls.