Adriana Trigiani - Very Valentine

Gianluca listens intently to every word I say.

I continue, “I learned something about myself that morning.”

“What did you learn?” Gianluca leans toward me, waiting for my answer.

“I can find art in the worst moments. I used to believe my art had to be about the things that brought me joy and gave me hope. But I learned that art can be found in all of life, even in pain.”

As Gianluca drives us back to Arezzo, I flip through the swatches of the fabrics we selected at the silk mill. My favorite is a double-sided silk with a repeating pattern of hand-painted calla lilies. I imagine using the fabric to make an elegant slip-on mule with black velvet piping. There are just a few of our old standard choices among the swatches. I hope Gram approves. I took a big step and went ahead and placed the orders. I had a moment of complete exhilaration as I signed my name for the first time on the line on the order form marked DESIGNER.

The sun doesn’t so much set here as plunge behind the hills. Twilight seems to last for a few moments, and then the moon appears in the purple sky like a rosette of whipped cream. It’s a romantic moon, and it’s no wonder my grandmother is under its spell. “You know, your father and my grandmother-”

Gianluca takes his eyes off the road and looks at me.

I make the international hand signal for sex.

He laughs. “For many years. Since your grandfather died.”

“ That long?” How do you like that? I thought I knew all the family secrets.

“They were good friends. Now, there’s something more.”

“A lot more.”

“My father was good friends with your grandfather also. Very intelligent. Big personality. Like you,” Gianluca says as he takes a turn off the autostrada onto a small side road.

“Another lake?” I ask.

“No. Dinner.” He smiles.

Gianluca takes another quick turn onto another side road. In the clearing ahead, there’s a charming stone farmhouse lit with torches at the entrance. A few cars are parked outside.

“This is Montemurlo,” he says. “We’re halfway home.”

After we park, he places his hand on the small of my back to guide me into the restaurant. I find myself quickening my step, but he just takes longer strides to keep up with me. Once we reach the door, Gianluca motions for me to go through the empty dining room and outside to the back.

A dozen tables are set up on the veranda, hemmed in by a low wall of stacked fieldstone. Votive candles light the crisp white linens on the tables. A line of blazing torches beyond the wall throw streams of light onto a field. I hear the sound of rushing water.

In the middle distance, there’s a magnificent waterfall pouring down the mountainside and into a small lake. The moonlight on the water looks like ruffles of white lace on black taffeta. “If the food is anything like the view, we’ve got a winner,” I tell him.

Gianluca pulls my chair from the table. He seats me facing the waterfall. Then he turns his chair toward me, sits, and crosses his long legs. The last time I saw a man sit in this fashion, it was Roman, at Gram’s counter after he made me dinner.

The waiter comes over and they converse in rapid Italian and in a Tuscan dialect that is beginning to sound familiar to me. The waiter opens a bottle of wine and places it on the table. He is balding, wears glasses, and looks me up and down, like he’s buying stew meat, before he returns to the kitchen.

I close the menu. “You know what? Order for me.”

“What do you like?” he asks.

“Everything.”

He laughs. “Everything?”

“Sad but true. I’m in that lonely category of woman called Actual Eater. I have no aversions, allergies, or dislikes.”

“You’re the only woman in the world like this.”

“Oh, I’m one of a kind, Gianluca.”

The waiter brings a plate of crisp Italian toast topped with thin slices of Italian prosciutto drizzled with blackberry honey. I taste it.

“You like it?”

“ Love it. Told you. I love all food. Get me a jar of that honey.”

As the meal is prepared, we talk about our day at the mill, and the fine art of embossing leather. Eventually, the waiter brings a large serving bowl of pasta, drizzled in olive oil. Then from his vest pocket, the waiter takes a small jar. He opens the lid and removes a truffle (which looks like a lumpy beige turnip) from a small, white cotton cloth. Then, with a sleek silver knife, he makes long, smooth strokes on the truffle, which falls onto the pasta in filmy slices, until the hot pasta is covered.

“Do you like truffles?”

“Yes,” I say through a mouth full of buttery pasta and woodsy, sweet truffle. I feel odd having the truffles, like I’m cheating on Roman.

“You love to eat. Women always say they love to eat, but then they pick at their meal like birds.”

“Not me,” I tell him. “Eating is in my top three.”

“What are the other two?”

“A four-speed bicycle on a hot summer day and a John Galliano ball gown on a cold winter night.” I sip my wine. “What are your top three?”

Gianluca takes a moment to think. “Sex, wine, and a good night’s sleep.”

The good-night’s-sleep category highlights our eighteen-year age difference. My parents spend lots of time talking about sleep. However, I won’t point this out to Gianluca nor will I mention that the only older men I have ever spent time with were my grandfather and my dad. May-December romances have never been for me. When it comes to love, I like my four seasons, individually savored and spread out. I certainly don’t want to skip summer through fall and go right to winter, but spending time with Gianluca has helped me see the value of a friendship with an older man. They have a lot to offer, especially when romance is safely out of the equation. I learned a lot from him today-his advice on sewing repeat patterns alone was worth the trip. He also listens, as though whatever I have to say matters. Young men often pretend to listen, their minds on where the evening is going, and not where it actually is.

The waiter offers to bring us espresso. Gianluca tells him to wait.

“I want to show you something. Come with me.”

There is a series of stone steps off the portico that leads down to the vast field in front of the waterfall. He skips down the stairs, making it clear he’s been here many times before. I follow him.

The grass is already wet with night dew, so I slip off my sandals to walk barefoot. Gianluca reaches out and takes my sandals from me, holding them in one hand while taking my hand with the other. I find this more than slightly intimate, but I can’t figure out how to let go without being rude. Plus, there’s the wine factor. I had two glasses. I hardly ate today, so I’m floating on that wonderful cloud called double-cocktail buzz while we cross the field.

We arrive at a deep pool of water, the color of blue ink, at the base of the waterfall. He turns to me. The rush of the water is so loud, we can’t talk. I slip my hand from his and put it in my pocket. He might be older, but he’s still a man, and if I’m going to be holding on to anything, it’s going to be to Roman Falconi back home.

I hold my hand out for my shoes. He gives them to me. I skip ahead and back to our table where the waiter has left a caffè latte for me, an espresso for him, and a bowl of ripe peaches.

I climb into bed and open my cell phone. I dial Gabriel.

“How’s Italy?”

“It’s dangerous,” I tell him.

“What happened?”

“Gram has a lover.”

“Oh, that kind of danger. Let me get this straight. Gram has a lover and I’m single? Go figure.”

“Hey, I don’t like how that sounds.”