Adriana Trigiani - Very Valentine

“Well, we never do, do we? It’s all fine until you actually submit to the call. Then, overnight, it’s a relationship, all compromise and negotiation. Once he loves you, and you love him, you have to figure out where it’s going and what it means, where to live and what to do. Really, if you boil it all down, love is one giant headache.”

Gram laughs. “You just feel that way today. When Roman takes you in his arms on this balcony, you’ll forgive him. You will if you’re my granddaughter. In our family, we’re built to overlook things that make us unhappy.”

“Gram, that’s the single most unhealthy thing a woman can do. I’m not going to overlook what makes me unhappy! I’m going to seek my own happiness. Why would I settle for less?”

The phone in the room rings. Gram closes her eyes and turns her face to the sun as I go to answer it. She is not about to argue with me.

“Gram, it’s your inamorato . He’s downstairs. He’s got your bags. He’s ready to sweep you away to his cousin’s villa.”

Gram gets up out of her chair and smooths her skirt. “Come with us.” She looks at me tenderly.

“No.”

Gram laughs. “Are you sure?”

“God, Gram, I’m a lot of things, but a third wheel ain’t one of ’em.”

Gram takes her purse and goes to the door. I follow her into the hallway and press the elevator button. The brass doors open and Gram gets on. “Have fun,” I tell her as the doors close. The last thing I remember is her face, shining, bright with anticipation of her reunion with Dominic.

I wake from a nap on the balcony. The sun is low in the sky. I check my watch. It’s four o’clock in the afternoon. Great, I slept three solid hours. I stand up and look down to the pool. The navy-and-white umbrellas are still up. I see a woman doing laps.

My luggage rests by the closet in the bedroom. I lift out stacks of clothing, new outfits I saved for my week with Roman. I find the red Macy’s bag that Mom sneaked into my suitcase. I open the bag. It’s a new bathing suit. I take the black Lycra suit out of the bag. “No way,” I say aloud as I hold it up in front of myself before the mirror.

Mom bought me a black one-piece bathing suit (so far so good), with a plunging V-neck in the front. Forget plunge, this is a nose-dive. The straps are shirred and wide and create a matching deep V in the back. That would be fine, except for the wide rhinestone belt that anchors the waist across the front. It has an enormous buckle with two interlocking C ’s. Faux Chanel when people around here are wearing the real thing. I check the seams on the side of the belt. It’s sewn on. Even if I could remove the belt (and who could since they don’t allow travel scissors through security), it would leave a gaping hole in the fabric and what this suit doesn’t need is more peekaboo.

As I pull the straps of the suit up over my shoulders, I can’t believe my mother bought me this suit. I’m selling something in this getup and it isn’t full coverage. I’m Gypsy Rose Lee on the Italian Riviera, dressed by a determined stage mother whose goal is an engagement ring.

To be fair to Mom, this was probably the only bathing suit in captivity that had a rhinestone belt, and everyone knows that my mother never saw a Swarovski crystal she didn’t like. And it is a one-piece bathing suit, which can be flattering, but this one is so revealing it needs a turtleneck under it.

I look at my reflection in the full-length mirror. The V in the front is so deep it exposes parts of my body that have never experienced direct sunlight. I turn around and look over my shoulder. The back looks okay, but that has more to do with the construction of the suit than my body.

There’s a tag on the suit that says slimsuit, so the rear end of the thing is double backed, which means extra coverage à la the old Spanx. I pose like John Wayne and hang my thumbs on the belt buckle like it holds the directions to the cattle drive. How can I possibly leave this room? I look like the girl who was kicked out of the chorus line for showing too much skin back in the days when they showed a lot . After about ten seconds of internal fashion debate, the blue pool calls to me. What the hell, I tell myself, nobody knows me here, and there surely has been more cleavage on display at the Quisisana. I pull on my black capri pants and hoodie over the suit. I put on my sunglasses, take my key and wallet, and head down to the pool.

A young Italian boy runs over with a towel when he sees me standing at the side of the pool. “Grazie,” I say as I tip him.

The water is the same shade of turquoise as the ocean, made more deeply blue against the contrast of white trim and white statuary in the shallow end. Beyond the low walls, the waiters set the tables for dinner, unleashing a series of dark blue awnings overhead. I look around. There’s no one in the water, and only one woman on a chaise reading David Baldacci’s Simple Genius. I have the pool to myself. Heaven.

I unzip my hoodie and slip off my capris. I wade into the warm water until it’s up to my neck. I shuffle the water on the surface with my hands. I lift my feet off the bottom and float in the silkiness. I extend my feet in front of me, until I’m floating on my back. I close my eyes and let the gentle rolls of the water envelop me.

The late-afternoon sky is powder blue, and a breeze from the grove beyond the hotel carries the scent of ripe peaches. After a while, I swim over to the lion statuary in the shallow end. I catch the water in crystal bursts as it flows through my hands. The warm water and soft breeze comfort me as the sun sets. What will I do for dinner? I have no plans, so I swim.

Back and forth I go, from the shallow to the deep end, doing a slow Capri version of laps, owning the pool. My arms hit the water in rhythmic strokes, and soon I’m panting. I float on my back again. I imagine, years from now, I’ll remember this, me in a tacky bathing suit, alone at a glamorous resort. I think about Gram’s advice to overlook what makes me unhappy. Hilarious, as she seeks her own happiness this minute at a villa with Dominic.

The pool boy snaps the umbrellas down, signaling that the pool is closing. The umbrellas look like blue pins sticking into the purple sky. He straightens the chaise longues into a wide circle, then rolls a hamper of towels behind a rattan screen.

“Valentina?” I hear someone call my name. I pirouette in the water and look toward the voice.

“Gianluca?” I shade my eyes from the setting sun. Gianluca kneels by the pool, holding my towel. The lady with the thriller, and the pool boy, are gone, it’s just Gianluca and me. “What are you doing here?”

“I couldn’t let Papa drive to Naples alone.”

I climb up the steps and out of the pool. Gianluca holds the towel, and like everything else in Italy, he moves slowly as he hands it to me. I extend my hand, dripping water on his arm. I pat his arm where the water goes. Then I open the towel and wrap it around me like a cape.

“Coco Chanel?” He points to the belt.

“Chuck Cohen.”

“Chuck Cohen?” he says, confused.

“It’s a knockoff.”

“Si, si,” he laughs. “Outlet?”

“Yeah, yeah.” I hold up my hand. “My mother is an outlet queen. Long story.”

“Mi piace.” Original or not, he likes the suit.

“Gianluca, I’m in no mood to flirt. Let me warn you. I’m basically a blowfish filled with so much angst, that if I hit a wall, I’d explode. I’m supposed to be with my boyfriend on this romantic island; instead I’m alone and just north of miserable. Capisce? ” I pull the towel tightly around me, like a bandage. I am the walking wounded in a towel embossed with a giant Q.