Adriana Trigiani - Very Valentine

“ Capisce. What are you doing for dinner?”

“To tell you the truth, I was going to order up and watch a movie.”

“Why?”

“That’s what I do when I’m alone.”

“But you’re not alone. I’m here.”

Gianluca, like all men of a certain age, looks best in fading sun. The gray in his hair turns silver, his height is magnified, and his strong features throw just the right amount of shadow on his bone structure, giving the impression of youthful invincibility or wise old warrior. Take your pick. I size him up as a night breeze happens through. I could do worse for a dinner companion, plus, the idea of eating alone in the attico suite without Roman borders on self-punishment. So I say, “Let me get dressed.”

I check my BlackBerry while Gianluca waits in the lobby. Roman has sent a total of eleven text messages, all of them dripping with apology when they’re not loaded with promises of great sex and endless sampling of regional wine. I scroll through the texts like they’re a Chinese take-out menu and I’m trying to get to the noodles. I have decided to stay mad at him for the time being, and I believe I am entitled. Instead of texting Roman, I dial my mother.

“Ma, how are you?”

“Forget me. How are you?”

“I’m on Capri. You don’t have to pick Gram up at the airport.”

“I heard all about it. She called. How nice she has a good friend to show her around. She must have made wonderful alliances on her travels.”

“Are you watching Jane Austen?” My mother’s turns of phrase are a dead giveaway that she’s on a British bender.

“ Sense and Sensibility was on last night. How did you know?” she says. “Listen, honey, she told me about Roman. I’m sorry. What can I say? The man has an all-consuming career. This is the price of success. You’ll just have to be patient.”

“I’m trying. But Ma-the bathing suit?”

“To die for?” she squeals.

“If you’re Pussy Galore in a James Bond movie.”

“I know! It’s so retro and chic. Very Lauren Hutton Vogue 1972.”

“The belt?”

“I love the belt! They’re good rhinestones.”

I knew she’d defend the paste. “Ma, it’s too much.”

“On Capri? Never. Liz Taylor and Jackie O vacationed there. Believe me, they dazzled at the pool and why shouldn’t my daughter?”

“ That’s how you justify this suit?”

I hang up the phone and slip off the hotel robe. I take a bath with the Quisisana shower gel that’s loaded with shea butter, vanilla, peach, and some woodsy pine. I smell so good, I could fall in love with me tonight.

I pick out a cute black skirt and a white blouse with billowing poetry sleeves. Somewhere in my mother’s old magazines, there was a dog-eared page with a picture of Claudia Cardinale on a Roman holiday, and she wore a similar getup. I pull out silver sandals with a simple pearl closure on the ankle. I spritz on my Burberry and head for the elevator.

I walk the long hallway to the main entrance. All sorts of couples of different ages are dressed for dinner and milling around the lobby. I walk through them and go outside. Gianluca is waiting for me at the outdoor bar. I wave to him. He stands as I approach.

“I ordered you a drink,” he says. My drink rests on the table with his. He pulls out my chair. I sit, and then he does. He picks up his drink and toasts me. “I’m sorry your trip didn’t work out the way you had hoped, Valentina.”

“Roman will be here on Wednesday.”

“Bene.”

“However, I won’t be nice to him until Friday.”

“Why do you let him treat you this way?”

“He’s running a business. Sometimes things are out of his hands.” I can’t believe I’m defending Roman, but the tone in Gianluca’s voice makes me defensive. “You don’t know him. All you know is that he was supposed to come to Capri, and he had to cancel, but he’ll be here as soon as he can. It’s not the end of the world.”

“But this is your first visit.”

“Right.”

“You should see it with someone you love.”

“I will see it with someone I love. Just not today.”

We finish our drinks and join the throngs of visitors on the small cobblestone street that weaves through town. We walk for a while and then Gianluca steers me off the busy street and through a wooden gate. He closes the door behind us.

“This way,” he says, leading me through a garden and under a portico to the back of the building. Carved into the side of the mountain is a small restaurant, built on the incline. Every seat is taken with people who look more like locals than the fancy guests of the Quisisana. No Bulgari jewels, Neapolitan gold, Prada purses, or cashmere here. Just lots of clean, pressed cotton with embroidered details and fine leather sandals. I fit right in. These are my people, the working class, relaxing after a hard day’s work.

The maître d’ smiles at Gianluca when he sees him. He shows us to a table overlooking the bluffs to the sea below. The tables remind me of Ca’ d’Oro, intimate and beautifully set. I must remember to bring Roman here. “What’s this restaurant called?” I ask.

“Il Merlo. It means blackbird,” Gianluca replies.

We sit at our table. The waiter doesn’t bring a menu, just a bottle of wine. He opens the bottle and pours.

“La sua moglia, bianco e rosso?” the waiter asks.

“Rosso,” Gianluca tells him.

“Excuse me. But did the waiter just call me your wife?”

“Si.” He grins.

“Oh, okay. Either you look young, or I look old. Which is it?”

Gianluca laughs.

“Not funny. In my family old is something to avoid and deny until death, when it doesn’t matter anymore.”

“Why?”

“Well, for one thing, it’s a downer.”

“What does that mean?”

“A downer is the opposite of hope. La speranza. Non la speranza.”

“Ah, so…I’m too old for you.”

“I don’t mean to insult you,” I say. “But your daughter is almost my age. Well, not almost. I could be her sister.”

“I see.”

“So, it’s really Mother Nature talking, not me. I don’t think you’re old, in fact, in many circles a fifty-two-year-old is young. Just not for a thirty-three-year-old woman.”

The waiter brings us tiny shrimp in olive oil and a basket of small rolls. Gianluca scoops up the shrimp with the bread. I do the same. “How old is Roman?” Gianluca asks.

“Forty-one.”

“So, he could be my brother.”

“Technically, yes.” I scoop up some more shrimp. “I guess.”

“But he is not too old for you.”

“Oh, God, no.”

Gianluca nods his head slowly and looks out to sea. Between the coconut-and-rum cocktail at the hotel, and the wine I’m sipping now, I’m feeling chatty. “Look, Gianluca, even if you were thirty-five, I could never go out with you.”

“Why not?”

“Because your father is dating my grandmother. Now, if that isn’t a Jerry Springer episode waiting to be Tivoed, I don’t know what is. If your father married Gram, you would be my uncle. Are you beginning to see the picture here?”

He laughs. “I understand.”

“Look, you’re a handsome man. And you’re smart. And you’re a good son. These are all wonderful attributes.” I scan Gianluca for more positives. “You have your hair. In America, that would send you to the top tier of Match.com. I just don’t think of you that way.”

Gianluca reaches across the table and dabs my chin with his napkin.

“I cannot argue with that,” he says.

I lean on the railing of the balcony outside my room as a full moon pulls up over the faraglione, throwing silver streamers of light on the midnight blue water. I feel full and happy after that delicious dinner. Gianluca can be a lot of fun for an older man. I like how Italian men take care of things. He reminds me of my father and my grandfather, and even my brother, all of whom swoop in, like the Red Cross, during a crisis. That’s why I’m so impatient with Roman. I know what he’s capable of, so when he can’t fix something, I assume it’s because he doesn’t want to.