Adriana Trigiani - Very Valentine

“Mom, now you can trim another five years off your age,” Tess offers.

“At least! If eighty is the new sixty, that makes me forty!”

“And that makes me a perv.” Dad sips his drink. “With your fuzzy math, I’m old enough to be your father.”

“Nothing wrong with an older man,” Mom says and shrugs.

“Alfred is on his way,” Gram announces.

“He told me he wasn’t coming.” Mom goes behind the bar to pour Gram a Manhattan.

“I told him he had to come.” Gram puts her tote bag on a stool by the bar. “I’m tired of this silly feud. I’ve seen enough of them in my lifetime. A family fight stagnates, then over time turns into a hundred-year war, and nobody remembers what the argument was about in the first place.”

“My sediments exactly, Ma.”

“ Sentiments,” Mom corrects Dad.

“Should we wait for Alfred to begin?” Roman asks Gram. “I’ll go ahead and bring the food out,” he says on the way to the kitchen.

“Need me?” I ask him.

“I got it,” he calls over his shoulder.

I catch Roman’s exasperated tone. My family has done nothing but complain since they arrived. My boyfriend got a very tired look on his face when my family rehashed the Pamela Christmas tiff. No one should have to live through that twice.

“The sketch of the wedding gown arrived.” Gram hands me a large gray envelope marked BG from her tote. “Hand-delivered by Bergdorf Goodman.”

The sketch of the wedding gown we are to design a shoe for is rendered in ink and watercolor on a heavy sheet of drawing paper. The silhouette shows shards of chiffon, which look like they’ve been cut with a steak knife and sewn haphazardly onto a fitted sheath. It looks like a dress made of fine silk that accidentally ended up in the washing machine. It’s dreadful.

“Who needs shoes with this gown? You need a coat.” I give the design to Tess.

“One that buttons from neck to ankle.” Gram shakes her head. “Who is Rag and Bone?”

“Two hot designers,” I tell her.

Mom puts on her reading glasses and peers through them at the design. “Oh dear, is there some sort of new austerity program in place?” She hands it off to Jaclyn. “I don’t understand why they wouldn’t use someone like Stella McCartney. She’s classic and romantic and whimsical.”

“And your mother was in love with her father. Paul was her favorite Beatle,” Dad chimes in.

“I’m not going to apologize for my good taste,” Mom says and swigs her drink. Roman brings a tureen of ravioli to the table.

Jaclyn gives me the design. “Why can’t things be pretty? Why does everything have to be so ugly?” Jaclyn weeps, then bangs her hands on the table. “What is wrong with me? Why am I crying?” she sobs. “I’m not crying inside my mind-inside my mind, I’m sane! It’s just a dress. I don’t care about that dress,” she blubbers. “But I can’t stop…” Roman goes behind the bar and pulls out a box of tissues. He places them on the table, next to Jaclyn.

“Now, now.” Mom puts her arm around Jaclyn to soothe her.

“God, I wish I could drink! Four more months with nothing to take the edge off!” Jaclyn puts her head in her hands and cries, “I need booze!”

Roman exhales slowly as he surveys the table. He has the same look on his face that he did during the fight on Christmas Eve. He’s trying not to judge, but he’s definitely annoyed. Good food doesn’t matter when you’re serving it to angry people.

Alfred pushes open the entrance door, bringing a brisk shot of cold air in with him. Alfred extends his hand to Roman. “Nice to see you again,” he says with a tone as chilly as the winter wind he dragged in.

“I’m glad you could make it,” Roman says pleasantly, but he looks as though he’s got six Roncallis too many in the restaurant already.

Alfred doesn’t move to take off his coat. Instead, he surveys the tops of our heads, refusing to make eye contact. He finally walks over to Mom and kisses her on the cheek. He shakes Dad’s hand. “I can’t stay. Gram asked me to show up and say hello, but I have to get going soon.”

Tess looks down at her empty appetizer plate, while big wet tears drop onto Jaclyn’s sweater like dew. “What’s the matter, Jaclyn?” Alfred asks her.

She sobs, “I don’t know!”

“Please, Alfred. Stay at least for the antipasto,” Dad implores him. What can Alfred do? Say no to his sick father?

Alfred pulls out a chair. “Just for a minute.”

“Great.” Roman forces a smile. “I’ve got a fresh antipasto, followed by a specialty of the house, a truffle ravioli, and then we’re having pork roast with roasted root vegetables.”

“I’d like to see the menu,” Dad jokes. Everyone laughs except Roman.

We take our seats. Alfred sits on the far end, next to Gram. Dad sits at the head of the table on one end, while Roman takes the seat at the head of the table closest to the kitchen. We dig into a platter of rolled salami, sweet sheets of pink prosciutto, glossy olives, sun-dried tomatoes, hunks of fresh parmesan, and flaky tuna drizzled in olive oil. Roman puts a basket of homemade bread, fresh from the oven, in rotation around the table.

Jaclyn passes the sketch of the dress to Alfred.

“What’s this?”

“The Bergdorf dress.”

He looks at it. “You got to be kidding.”

“It’s definitely a design challenge,” I say, forcing a smile.

“You really think that this is going to change the course of the shoe company?” He shakes his head.

“We can only try,” I say evenly, resisting the temptation to snap back at him. I take the sketch from him and slip it back into the envelope, placing it on the table behind me. A dull quiet settles over the table. Roman surveys our plates, making certain his guests have what they need. He stands quickly and replenishes our wineglasses.

“Dad, how are you feeling?” Charlie asks.

“Pretty good, Chuck. You know, I get a burning sometimes, in my nether parts-”

“Not while we’re eating, honey,” Mom says.

“Hey, he asked. And I do get a burning sensation.”

“When are you going to Italy, Gram?” Alfred changes the subject.

“April. Valentine is going with me.”

“Why?”

“I’m going to meet the suppliers,” I explain.

“April. I love Italy in April,” Roman says as he sits back down.

“You should join us.” I squeeze Roman’s hand.

“I just might.”

“I’d invite myself along, but it’s planting season in Forest Hills,” Mom says gaily.

“For the record, we can’t fit any further flora and fauna on Austin Street.” Dad waves his fork at Mom.

“Honey, you say that, and then, voilà, there’s another gorgeous rhododendron or strip of yellow phlox thriving somewhere in the garden.”

“There’s always room for phlox,” I say and pass the bread to Jaclyn, who finds the word phlox so funny, she can’t stop laughing. “Now what?” I ask her.

“I don’t know,” she giggles. “It’s like I had too much sugar and I’m on the scrambler at Six Flags. On the inside, I’m not laughing. I swear,” she laughs. “Bah-ha-ha.”

“I never had those mood swings when I was pregnant,” Tess says.

“Who are you kidding? It was like Glenn Close with the curly perm moved in. You hid in closets. You read my e-mails. You swore I was having an affair,” Charlie says.

“I don’t remember that at all,” Tess insists. “But childbirth? That’s another story.”

Tess rips a piece of bread in two and butters it. “They say you forget, but you don’t.”

“Tess, you’re scaring me,” Jaclyn says. Tom pats her hand.

Roman looks at me and raises both eyebrows. He stands, picks up the tureen, and goes around the table serving the ravioli. I can see he’s about to snap, between Dad’s burning groin, Tess and Charlie’s fussing, and Jaclyn’s weeping, this isn’t exactly the kind of light dinner conversation that goes well with handmade ravioli. What’s the matter with my family anyhow? They almost seem annoyed to be here, as if coming to dinner at a hot Manhattan restaurant was a supreme sacrifice. On top of their surly moods, they seem oblivious to the amount of work Roman has put into this meal for them.