Adriana Trigiani - Very Valentine

This isn’t old New York, where club hopping included the Latin Quarter and El Morocco. This is brand-new New York, where hoteliers are impresarios, and their elegant salons compete for a wealthy, connected clientele to adorn their whimsical yet priceless settings. We’re in the thicket of new posh. My ex-boyfriend Bret Fitzpatrick holds court as the Chrysler Building looms behind him like a platinum sword. How appropriate, as this man was once my knight in shining armor.

“Valentine!” Bret excuses himself and comes right over to us. He kisses me on both cheeks. Then he gives Gabriel a big hug. “It’s a reunion!”

“Don’t use that word.” Gabriel gives Bret a good slap on the back before letting go of him. “We sound old when you use that word.”

“Well, I’m older than you, so I can call it whatever I want,” Bret says, smiling. “It’s great to see you guys. Thank you for coming.”

“Who are all these people?” Gabriel looks around.

Bret lowers his voice, “Clients and their friends. One of our partners in the hedge fund is a member here.” He looks at me. “I thought you’d get a kick out of this.”

“It’s something else,” I tell him.

“You look great, Valentine,” Bret says as Gabe heads to the bar to get us each a drink.

“So do you.” And he does. Bret looks like a successful Wall Street financier who has earned his place at the top. His custom-made suit shows off his height, while his Ferragamo dress shoes show his good taste. His light brown hair is thinning, but it doesn’t matter. He has eyes the color of gray flannel, the expression in them full of warmth. He has a face you can trust. His self-confidence is apparent, but not in any way arrogant. Bret is self-made, and he carries himself with the grace of a man who has earned it. The stoop of the shoulders of his youth is gone now, replaced with an upright military posture. He has acquired the thing that children born of privilege seem to possess at birth, and the rest of us must develop-it’s called polish.

When I first met Bret, he was a brilliant working-class kid from Floral Park, with a burning ambition to make it. He used to mow the lawn for a big Wall Street broker who promised Bret a job if he went to college and got a degree in finance. Bret did even better. He was valedictorian of his class at Saint John’s and then went to Harvard Business School. In ten years, Bret shed the old life and slipped into a new one, which fit him like a tailored shirt from Barneys. There’s a lot of history between us, but it’s never awkward. Bret excuses himself as he is pulled away by a distinguished-looking older man in a suit.

Gabriel returns with my drink. “It’s a hee-toe,” he says, giving me the glass.

“What’s that?”

“I don’t know. Mow, glow, flow, something-hee-toe. Everything you drink now is a hee-toe.” Gabriel takes a sip.

“Or a teeny. A Gabetini, Valentini. Brettini.” I try the drink. “This hotel is not as I remember it.” I look over the edge of the roof to the treetops of Gramercy Park, a deep green island filled with beams of gold light from the old-fashioned streetlamps. The park is enclosed by a wrought-iron fence, and is placed in the center of a square composed of traditional brownstones and grand prewar apartment buildings. “I remember when my friend Beáta Jachulski got married here. It was before the Europeans bought it. It used to be so cozy and the food was delicious. That was before the Age of Enlightenment. Did you see the paintings in the lobby?”

“If you think this hotel has changed, how about our Bret?” Gabriel whispers.

“He had to.” I lean against the wall enclosing the roof and look out over the crowd. “These are the people Bret has to impress. It can’t be easy.”

“You’re so forgiving.” Gabriel takes a sip of his drink. “It makes me sort of sick.”

“I’m really just proud of him,” I say. Gabriel looks at me with a mixture of understanding and suspicion. Five years have come and gone since Bret and I broke up. Tonight is proof that he would never have fit into the new life I cobbled together, like patches of leather from the workshop floor. He was destined for this.

“Well, maybe I’m just hurt because the three of us were always us, and now Bret is a them . He’s the only them I know.” Gabriel fishes a maraschino cherry out of his drink. Two more roll around the bottom of his glass.

“How’d you get three cherries?” I want to know.

“I asked.”

I watch as Bret moves from his clients over to the corner of the roof where three pretty girls in their early twenties sip cocktails and smoke. It’s chilly out, but they wear no stockings on their tanned legs, and their feet are stuffed into pumps revealing toe cleavage and a slight gap on the buttress that supports their four-inch heels. These girls buy shoes for fashion, not fit.

“I’m going to nab the sofa by the fireplace. This fancy outdoor living room is all well and good until winter sets in,” Gabriel says. “I’m so cold you could Zamboni my ass.”

“I’ll be over in a minute,” I tell him, but I keep my eyes on Bret and the girls.

Two of the young women peel away, leaving one shivering blonde with a drink in her hand. Bret leans in and says something to her. They laugh. Then she reaches forward and adjusts the flap on his tie. The intimate gesture forces Bret to take a slight step back.

A breeze kicks up on the roof, and the white lights of the chandelier dance, throwing small beams onto the floor. The girl tilts her head toward Bret. Their conversation has turned earnest. I watch them for a few moments, and then, with the cold night wind at my back, I move toward them.

I extend my hand to the girl, interrupting their conversation. “Hi, I’m Valentine, an old friend of Bret’s.”

“I’m Chase.” She looks up at him. “One of Bret’s many assistants.”

“He has many?”

“I exaggerate,” Chase says and smiles. She has the peridontically perfect teeth of a girl who grew up with all the dental advances of the 1990s, including whiteners, lasers, and invisible braces.

“Boy, you have gorgeous teeth,” I tell her.

She seems taken aback. Clearly, she’s used to compliments, but no one mentions her teeth as her first and best attribute. “Thanks,” she says.

I cross my arms and hold my drink in the crook of my elbow like a potted plant.

When she realizes I’m not going anywhere, she says, “Well, I guess I’ll go and get something to eat.” Her eyes linger on Bret. “Can I get you something?” She doesn’t ask this question like an assistant. Bret catches her tone, looks at me, then says in a very businesslike voice, “No, I’m fine. You go and enjoy the party.”

Chase turns and goes while Bret looks off over the roof, past the East River.

“You can see Floral Park from here.” I point toward the hinterlands, the borough of Queens, from whence we came.

“No, you can’t,” he says.

“It would be great if you could.” I hand him my drink and he takes a sip. “Maybe you’d remember where you came from.”

“Is that a dig?”

“No. Not at all. I think you’ve done amazing things with your life.” My sincerity is obvious, and Bret turns to face me. “So, what’s going on with that girl?” I ask him.

“You are so Italian,” he says.

“Don’t dodge the question.”

“Nothing. Nothing is going on.”

“She thinks so.”

“How do you know?’

“How long have we known each other?”

“Years and years.” Bret squints and looks over in the direction of Queens as if he can see us there, two teenagers sitting on the rectory fence on Austin Street as we talked until night came.