Adriana Trigiani - Very Valentine

“Uh-huh. Since I had braces. Plus, I happen to be a woman, so I know that she’s interested in more than fetching you a lobster dumpling.”

Bret takes a deep breath. “Okay, so what do I do?”

“You’re going to tell her you’re married to a lovely woman and that you have two beautiful daughters named Grace and Ava. Of course she knows your family because she answers the phone at the office. Or is she the assistant that actually answers the phone? Anyhow, then you’re going to tell her that she deserves a nice guy of her own. She’ll argue with you, and when she does, you’re going to tell her she’s too young. That’s a turnoff when you’re actually young.”

Bret laughs. “Val, you’re funny. Are you done teaching me a lesson?” He turns to face me.

“All done. Now you can teach me one.”

In a shorthand only old friends with a history have, he asks, “What do you need?”

“Will you help me save our shoe company?”

“What’s the problem?”

I go into a rambling explanation about Alfred, the debt, Gram, and me. Bret is patient and listens carefully. “Let me look into it,” he says. Then he says the very thing that brings me peace of mind, always did and always will, “Don’t worry, Val. I’m on it.”

I huddle in the cold taxi next to Gabriel like he’s a radiator blowing hot steam. The cab cuts through the busy intersection at Union Square.

“I’m never going to another rooftop party after August. That fireplace was for show. It threw off no heat whatsoever. It was like warming myself on a Bic lighter.”

“It was cold up there but I’m glad we went.”

“What were you and Bret talking about? Is he dumping his wife and you two are getting back together?”

“If you’ll come and work as our nanny.”

“Forget it. I hate children.”

“My nonna Roncalli was right about men. No matter how old they are, you gotta watch ’em like a hawk. Like a hawk!”

Gabriel rolls his eyes. “Just a little. You’re mean. That poor girl didn’t dare go near Bret the rest of the night. It’s like you sprayed him with something. How long do you think that Swiss miss cried in the bathroom?”

“She cried?”

“She didn’t cry, but she would have liked to take one of those stone tiki-sculpture things and clock you with it.” Gabriel leans back. “Of course, she would have needed help lifting it. Those sinewy types have very little upper-body strength. And to be smoking in the new millennium. They’re morons.”

“They’re twenty-two years old. What do they know?” I remind him. “I liked the food.”

“A little too much fig. Everybody is using fig now, in everything. Fig paste on foccacia, fig slices in the arugula, mashed fig in the ravioli. You’d think figs were a major food group.” Gabriel sighs.

“Her name was Chase.”

“Who?”

“The girl interested in Bret.”

“Chase like the bank?” Gabriel shakes his head. “ There’s a value system at work for you. Who’s her daddy? The Monopoly Man?”

“You never know. Her friend’s name is Milan.”

“Like the city?” Gabriel asks.

“Like the city and the cookie.”

“Whatever happened to going to the Bible or long-running soap operas for good names?” Gabriel clasps his hands together. “Give me a Ruth or a Laura any day. Now people name their children after places they’ve never been-it’s madness.”

“A Ruth or a Laura would never hit on her boss. A Chase would.”

“You know, I think Bret misses you.” Gabriel looks at me.

“I miss him, too. But when I was with him, I really didn’t think about my life very much. I sort of built what I was doing around him. When we broke up, I had to figure out what made me happy.”

“I don’t know, Valentine. Sometimes I think you traded taking care of Bret for taking care of Gram. You should fall in love again and have a life.” The cab pulls over to the curb on the far corner of Twenty-first Street, in Chelsea.

“I have a life!” I tell him.

“You know what I mean.” Gabriel gives me a kiss on the cheek. He stuffs a ten-dollar bill in my hand and jumps out.

I roll down the window and wave the ten. “It’s too much.”

“Keep it.” Then Gabriel waves. “Call the chef.”

I instruct the driver to take me to Perry and the West Side Highway. I lean back and watch as Chelsea blurs into Greenwich Village, the weekend carnival of the Meatpacking District in full tilt. A rambling gray warehouse is now a dance club, with strips of hot yellow and purple neon over the old loading dock, and a red-roped entrance for all the little pretty ones who await admittance. A rustic factory is now a hot restaurant, the interior decorated with red leather banquettes and floor-to-ceiling mirrors painted with the menus in cursive, while the exterior windows are covered in awnings that look like flouncing red capes in the wind.

Through my taxi window, young women like Chase walk in small packs through the pale blue beams of streetlight, like exotic birds behind glass. Rushes of color jolt the black night as they move; one wears a blouse of peacock blue, another a trench coat in Valentino red, and another a skirt of metallic lamé whose hem ruffles along her thighs as she walks. In full stride, their long legs resemble the reedy stilts of cranes. As they cross the street, they laugh as they hang on to one another for support, making sure the metal tips of their spike heels hit the center of the cobblestones, avoiding the mortar in between. These girls know how to walk on dangerous terrain.

I bury my hands in my pockets, slump down into the seat, and wonder how much of my youth is actually left. And how am I spending these precious days? Is this what my life is going to be, hard work, early to bed and up at the crack of dawn, day in and day out for the rest of my life? Is Gabriel right in assuming I’ve become a caretaker, burying myself in work and worry at the expense of my thirties? Is there even a chance he’s right?

At the bottom of my pocket, I feel the business card. I pull it out. The cab stops at the light. I study the card as though it’s a free pass to the rides at Coney Island and it’s my seventh birthday party. Ca’ d’Oro. Someplace new. Roman Falconi. Somebody new. I don’t meet men at work, I don’t even have a commute home to meet a nice guy on the train. I won’t do match.com because I look better in real life than I do in photographs, and how would I ever describe what I’m looking for when I’m not even sure what I want? Besides, there is very little risk involved in calling Roman Falconi. He gave me the card. He wants me to call him. I fish my cell phone out of my evening bag. I dial the number on the card. It rings three times and then-

“Hello,” Roman says into the phone. I hear background din. Voices. Clangs. The rush of water.

“This is Valentine.”

More noise.

“Valentine?” His vague manner says he doesn’t remember me at all. I picture him handing out business cards to strange women all over town with a wink and a smile and a promise of a hot plate of braciole. I’m about to snap the cell phone shut when I hear him say, “ My Valentine? Teodora’s granddaughter?”

I put the open phone back up to my ear. “Yes.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m in a cab on Greenwich Street. You sound busy.”

“Not at all,” he says. “I’m about to close. Why don’t you come over?”

I hang up and lean into the partition to speak to the driver. “Change of plans. Can you take me to the corner of Mott and Hester, in Little Italy?”

The cabbie crosses lower Broadway and swings onto Grand Street. Little Italy sparkles in the night, like emerald and ruby chips on a diamond drop earring. No matter what time of year you come to this part of town, it’s Christmas. The white lights strung over the thoroughfare, anchored by medallions of red and green tinsel, form an Italian coat of arms across Grand Street. Like my mother, my people require year-round glitz, even in their street decorations.