Adriana Trigiani - Very Valentine

“You know what I mean. She’s eighty! Evidently a spry eighty,” Gabriel admits.

“It gets worse. Her boyfriend’s son put the moves on me.”

“Go for it.”

“I will not! I would never cheat on Roman.”

“Then why are you telling me this? Hey, no ring no thing.” Gabriel’s philosophy: there is no such thing as cheating unless there’s an engagement ring. “How old is Marmaduke?”

“Gianluca. He’s fifty-two.”

“Good fifty-two or bad fifty-two?”

“Good fifty-two.” At least I’m honest. “He’s gray though.”

“Who isn’t?”

“Forget I said a word. I’m in love with Roman.”

“I’m glad, because that’s the only way I can get a table at Ca’ d’Oro. And I want a table at Ca’ d’Oro as often as I can get it. Your boyfriend is the bomb.”

“He treated you well?”

“Roman pulled out all the stops. You would have thought I was the food critic for the New York Times when I barely know a pork shoulder from a lamb shank.”

“Good for you. Hey, did you check out Roman’s sous-chef?”

“Yes, I did. Her name is Caitlin Granzella. I met her on my tour of the kitchen.”

“And?”

“You’re far from home. You don’t need a mental image.”

“Gabriel!”

“All right, all right. I have to be honest. Think Nigella Lawson. Face and body. Trim but curvy. She’s built like a bottle of Prell.”

I don’t say a word. I can’t. My boyfriend has a gorgeous sous-chef and I’ve been gone for weeks.

“Valentine? Breathe. And don’t worry. I think Mr. Falconi has permanent plans for you.”

“You think so?”

“All he could talk about was Capri, and how he was going to show you everything, and how for the first time in his life he was going to take a real vacation because there was only one girl in the world he wanted to be stranded on an Italian island with-and that’s you . So don’t worry about Miss Slice and Dice in the Ca’ d’Oro kitchen. He doesn’t dream about her. He’s crazy about you.”

As we say good night, I lean back on the pillows and dream of Roman Falconi. I imagine him, the blue sea, the pink clouds, and the hot sun over Capri. As I sink into a deep and satisfying sleep, I imagine my lover’s arms around me in warm sand.

GRAM, DOMINIC, GIANLUCA, AND I did the cobbler’s tour of Italy in the week before our last day in Arezzo. We drove up to Milan and went through the Mondiale factory, buying enough buckles, clips, and fasteners to supply our shop for another ten thousand pairs of shoes.

While we were in Milan, we met with Bret’s international business connection, a group of Italian financiers who work with designers who coventure in Italy and America. They reinforced Bret’s idea that we develop a line secondary to our custom shoes. I explained to them that we were in development on that front. I mentioned the possibility of the Bergdorf windows, which was an exciting notion to them, as they have done a lot of business with the venerable Neiman Marcus Company that now owns Bergdorf Goodman.

We also went to Naples to meet with Elisabetta and Carolina D’Amico, the embellishment experts. I got lost in their shop, a playground for any designer, rooms of jeweled straps and laces, beaded links, clips and bows. The women have a sense of humor, so their work can be whimsical, shell ornaments on a sea of dyed rice, glued to look like grains of sand on a beach; or miniature jeweled crowns on cameo faces; or my favorite, the Wedding Cake, cushion-cut rhinestones in the shape of a cake across the vamp, with gold charms of a bride and groom at the top of the ankle, affixed with matching straps. Brilliant.

It’s our last morning in Arezzo, and while I’ll miss Signora Guarasci’s soup and my bed with the open windows to let in the night air, I’m anxious to drive to the airport to drop off Gram and to pick up Roman. I try not to show my anticipation because, as happy as I am to go, Gram is equally sad.

She waits for me in the hallway outside our rooms. “I’m ready,” she says quietly.

“I’ll get your luggage.” I go into her room for the suitcase. I’ve already loaded my bags into the car, along with a new duffel filled with fabric swatches. The leather and fabric I ordered are being shipped and should be at the shop by the time I get home.

Signora Guarasci is waiting for us at the bottom of the stairs. She’s made us box lunches for the trip, prosciutto and cheese panini, with two cold bottles of Orangina to wash them down. She gives us each a hug and a kiss and thanks us for our patronage.

Gram goes out the front door, takes the banister, and goes down the stairs. Dominic waits for her on the last step. I quickly skip around Gram to give them a private moment.

I go to the car, which is parked at the side of the inn, load her suitcase into the trunk, and wait. Through the thick boxwood hedge, I can see the two of them embrace. Then he dips her, gives her a kiss, backbend style, the likes of which I have not seen since Clark Gable kissed Vivien Leigh, in the commemorative DVD of Gone With the Wind.

“Papa is very sad,” Gianluca says from behind me.

I’m embarrassed to be caught spying. “So is Gram.” I turn to him. “Thank you for everything you did for us on this trip.”

“I enjoyed our talks,” he says.

“Me, too.”

“I hope you visit again sometime.”

“I will.” I look at Gianluca who, after weeks of traveling around with us, has become a friend. When I first met him, I was judgmental, all I could see was the gray hair, the big car, and a daughter nearly my age. Now, I can appreciate his maturity. He is elegant without being vain, and he has excellent manners without being grand. Gianluca is also generous, he put Gram and me first throughout our stay. “I’ll bet you’re happy to see us go.”

“Why would you say that?”

“We’ve taken up so much of your time.”

“I enjoyed it.” He gives me a slip of paper. “This is my friend Costanzo’s number in Capri. Please stop and see him. He’s the finest shoemaker I know. Besides you of course,” Gianluca says and grins. “You must watch him work.”

“I will,” I lie. I don’t plan to look at shoes much less wear them while I’m in Capri. I want to make love, eat spaghetti, and sit by the pool, in that order.

“Well, thank you.” I extend my hand. Gianluca takes my hand and kisses it. Then, he leans forward and kisses me on both cheeks. When his lips brush against my face, his skin smells like cedar and lemon, very cool and clean, reminding me of the first time I climbed in his car, the day we went to Prato. I check my watch. “We’d better be going.”

Gianluca and I walk to the foot of the stairs below the entrance of the Spolti Inn. Gram and Dominic are laughing, doing their best to make their good-bye a happy one. I touch Gram’s arm, but they keep talking as they walk to our car. Dominic helps Gram into the car, while Gianluca holds my door open. I climb in, and he closes the door, checking the handle just as he did when we went to Prato.

Gram sinks into the front seat as I start the car. She’s moving in slow motion, when all I want to do is blow this Tuscan pop stand (my father’s words) and get to the airport, drop off Gram, and pick up Roman, and at long last, let the fun begin.

I peel down the hill to the main street of Arezzo, check the signs, and head for the edge of town to take us to the autostrada.

I look over at Gram, who seemed like a peppy teenager during our stay and now shows every day of her eighty years. The white roots peek through her brown hair, while her hands, folded over her lap, seem frail. “I’m sorry,” I say, trying not to sound too chipper while she is so sad.