Adriana Trigiani - Very Valentine

“Angel wings.”

“I like it,” he says. “Why angels?”

“Our shop is called the Angelini Shoe Company. But the sign is very old where the rain hits it, so now it says, ‘Angel Shoes.’ So when I saw the old lady’s brooch in the piazza, it got me thinking. The great designers have a simple logo, instantly identifiable. So, I thought, what if my design incorporated an angel wing?”

“And when you put the shoes together, two wings.”

“Symmetry! And I can make the wings out of jewels, or leather, or brass. Even embroidery.”

“Anything,” Antonio says and shrugs.

“Right. Exactly!” I beam. “Thank you for sending me out there. I would never have seen the brooch.”

“Every idea I ever had for a shoe came from observing women,” Costanzo says. “You see my shop? There are thousands of combinations to be made. Just like women, no two alike. Remember this when you draw.”

I pack up my tote and go. When I return to the piazza, it is completely empty. I make my way down the hill to the hotel. When I arrive at the entrance, Gianluca is sitting outside reading the newspaper by the fading light.

“Reading in the dark is bad for your eyes,” I tell him.

He looks up at me and smiles, takes his reading glasses off, and puts them in his pocket. He pulls out the chair next to him. I sit down. “Are you going to work there every day? You’re going to spoil Costanzo.”

“I wish I could stay for a year.”

“You came here to rest.”

“I don’t want to. I don’t know if I’ll ever have the chance to come back here. Or if Costanzo will be here when I return.”

“He’ll be here. We will all be here. Except your Roman.”

“Who told you?” I lean back in my chair. Italy is getting to be an awful lot like America, where my family is hot-wired to move private information at the speed of sound.

“Your grandmother. Your mother called her.”

“My relationship is an international scandal.” I look around for the waiter. Now, I need a drink.

“He’s a fool,” Gianluca says, flagging down the waiter.

“I’m allowed to be angry at Roman, but you are not allowed to call him names. He’s still my boyfriend.” Sometimes Gianluca sounds more like my father than he knows.

“Why not?”

“I’m not breaking up with him. And even if I were, I wouldn’t do it over the phone or on one of those godforsaken text messages.”

“Good point.” Gianluca places our drink orders with the waiter.

“And by the way, it just makes it all worse when you point out what an idiot I’ve been. I do have a little pride.”

“There is nothing wrong with you,” Gianluca assures me.

“Really? I think there’s something completely wrong with a woman who won’t ask for what she needs, and then when she does, she apologizes.”

“There is a difference between trying to make a relationship work and forgiving things you should not forgive,” Gianluca says. “Your grandmother wants you to come and stay with us.”

“Thanks, but I like it here at the hotel.”

“There are some things I’d like to show you on Capri,” he says.

“Sure.” I would agree to anything, because the truth is, nothing matters now that the old vacation I dreamed of is not to be. “I’d like to show you something,” I tell him.

Gianluca raises an eyebrow in a way that borders on sexy. I will not go there.

“Relax. It’s a sketch.” I pull the pad out of the tote bag, opening it to my new shoe. Gianluca pulls his reading glasses out of his pocket and studies the drawing.

“Lovely,” he says. “Orsola would wear it.”

“Good. It’s a shoe that Gram could wear, or my mother would buy, or I would wear. I’m aiming to hit a nerve. I even have a name for them. Angel Shoes. What do you think?”

“You have so many ideas,” he says.

“Well, I’m going to need them. When this little dream of Italy is over, I’m going home to a war zone.”

“It can’t be as bad as that.”

“You know, Gianluca, this is the difference between you native Italians and those of us called Italian Americans. You live a balanced life. You work, you eat, you rest. We don’t. We can’t. We live as though we have something to prove. There’s never enough time, we eat on the run, and we sleep as little as possible. We believe the one who works the hardest wins.” The drinks arrive. We toast each other and take a sip.

“What makes you happy?” he asks.

The question catches me off guard. Roman has never asked me that question. I don’t remember Bret ever asking me either. In fact, I don’t even ask myself that question. After I think for a moment, I answer him, “I don’t know.”

“You can never be happy if you don’t know what you want.”

“Oh, okay, oracle of Capri, man-with-the-answers to life’s major questions. What makes you happy?”

“The love of a good woman.”

“Good answer. That wouldn’t have been my answer a week ago. I had the love of a good man, and I didn’t put him first.”

“Why?”

“If I’d put him first, maybe he’d be here.”

“If he were smart, he would put you first. Why do you blame yourself for the man’s terrible manners?”

“I’m pretty sure I had something to do with it.”

“That’s ridiculous. If you have love, you honor it. You take care of things you love. Yes?” Gianluca has raised his voice a bit. I remember the first day in Arezzo when Gram and I went to the tannery and he and Dominic were having a screaming match.

“Hold on there, Gianluca, don’t get all geared up like you do back at the tannery. This is a peaceful island. No yelling.”

Gianluca smiles. “Come and stay with us.”

After a month in Italy, I’m an expert on the Vechiarellis. Gianluca is all about family. He likes to herd everyone together, whether it’s around a dinner table at home, or in a car, or at a factory, and watch protectively over the lot of us, like a shepherd. He prepares the food, gets the drinks, shows the way; in general, he takes care of everyone around him. My need to be separate must seem weird to him. Why wouldn’t I stay with them in their cousin’s villa? The idea that Teodora’s granddaughter is off in a hotel when she could be in the next room, safe, rested, and well fed is anathema to him. “No thank you. I really love my room here.”

“But we have a room for you.”

“It’s not the attico suite.”

“The room at our cousin’s is very nice.”

“I’m sure it is. But trust me, it’s not this room. Do you want to see it?”

“Sure,” he says.

Gianluca follows me through the lobby of the Quisisana and down the hallway to the elevator. It’s crowded in the elevator, and we laugh at the tight squeeze. Gianluca puts his hand over the open door and guides me out of the elevator as the doors open on my floor. He follows me into my room. The cool breeze of early evening fills the suite, blowing the sheer draperies gently. The maid has placed fresh white orchid blossoms in the vase in the sitting room.

“You have to see the view,” I tell him. I point to the doors that lead to the bedroom, and open onto the balcony. “I’ll be there in a second.” Gianluca goes out on the balcony as I set my tote down and check my phone messages, one from my mother, one from Tess, and three from Roman. My mother wants me to find her an alligator bag. I don’t think she reads the paper; alligator skins are illegal. Tess leaves a message that Dad is doing great, and could I bring coral bracelets home for the girls?

I listen to messages from Roman, who tells me he loves me and wishes he were here. Three in a row with the same level of pleading passion. It’s interesting that when I let go of my anger, it brought Roman close. Maybe it’s the cocktail, but I text him: