Adriana Trigiani - Very Valentine

“I know.” He smiles.

“I guess love finds willing victims no matter where, no matter when. It’s like anything in life, really, including disease. We’re all fair game.”

“Why are you-”

“Sarcastic? It’s a hard shell covering another hard shell.”

“Why do you push love away, as if you can find it every day?”

“I thought we were talking about my grandmother.”

“Talk to me. You’re afraid of me. I’m not what you dreamed of.”

“How do you know what I dream of?”

“It’s very simple. You make no time for the cook even though you love him. Or perhaps you believed you loved him, so now you’re obligated. The woman you are, the woman of passion, comes through when you’re working. Then, you’re at peace. With men? No. With leather? Very much so.”

“You’re wrong. I would welcome a man who welcomes me as a woman and a shoemaker. But a man, at least the ones I know, might say it’s fine for a woman to be devoted to her career, but what they mean is: not so devoted as to take time away from him. I can have my big life, but it must fit into his big life, as the perfect handkerchief in the most tailored breast pocket. Sacrifice-to use a Catholic word, and to be exact-is what it takes. Men want total surrender. They need it.”

Gianluca laughs. “ You know what men require?”

“Don’t make fun of me.”

“If you know what a man requires, why not give it to him in order to provide you with your own happiness?”

I look out at the river. And then, my moment of personal transformation comes toward me like the deck lights on the night run of the Hudson River Water Taxi. The illumination happens slowly and surely. First, in the far distance, the lights are dim and flicker in the murky waves, then, as it moves closer to shore on the Manhattan side, the beams turn into searchlights, guiding the boat into the harbor in bright, unrelenting light. The kind of light that cannot help but reveal the truth in all its detail. Suddenly, I see myself, clear and plain. “Dear, dear Gianluca…,” I begin.

He seems surprised that I address him tenderly.

“Roman Falconi needs a wife at the cash register of Ca’ d’Oro, just like his mother was there for his father in their restaurant. You need a friend. You need a woman who can drop everything and go sit by a lake…that one with the cranes…”

“Lago Argento.”

“Right, right. A woman who can sit with you at this stage of your life and be there. You want peace and quiet and nature. You want to coast.”

“Now, you analyze me.”

“Gianluca, it’s true. Listen to me. I am completely attracted to you. I was blindsided by that attraction. I had a boyfriend when I met you, and frankly, you are not my type. You are, however, handsome, and you have beautiful hands, and the sexiest thing of all, you’re a good father. But I’m not for you. I’m not for any man right now. In fact, in this moment, I choose art. I choose the bliss that comes from creating something from the labor of my own hands.”

“You don’t have to choose one or the other. You can have love and work together.”

“But I can’t! I tried. I spent the last year trying to be there for Roman. I can’t spend the next one trying to be there for you. Everybody winds up disappointed and sad and unfulfilled…”

“This is what you believe?” He shakes his head.

“This is what I know.”

Gianluca looks out across the Hudson River, as I’ve done so many times. He sees a dull gray waterway, whereas I see a river that connects to a wider ocean, a universe of possibility. He doesn’t like my river at all, I can tell.

After a while, he says, “Your city…is very noisy.” He goes to the door and I hear the door snap shut as he goes back down the stairs into the house. I turn to my river that has never let me down. It’s my constant, my muse. I lean over the railing and look up and down the West Side Highway, which in sunset looks like an unfurled bolt of violet Indian silk punctured with tiny mirrors. This is the river I love and the city that is my home. Yes, it’s noisy, but it’s mine-just how I like it.

Gram’s Thanksgiving table has a flock of construction-paper geese down the center, made by her great-grandchildren. I light bright orange candles in the candelabra underneath the chandelier. Gabriel helps my sisters bring the platters from the kitchen to the table. I give Gabriel a quick hug. “Thank you for coming.”

“My pleasure. I needed a reason to pound my own cranberries, and your invitation gave me the perfect excuse.”

“Is Roman coming?” Mom asks me.

“He sent a cobbler.” I always thought it was funny that he made his girlfriend, the shoemaker, a cobbler . “He had to work,” I lie. Instead of making this holiday about my breakup with Roman, I decide to be as vague about it as my mother has been about her age all these years. Roman and I tried to make time for each other after Gram got out of the hospital, but between filling orders in the shop and taking care of her, I didn’t take care of him. We decided to take a break.

“Nobody works harder than Roman,” Mom sighs.

Tess hands me a pitcher of ice water to fill the glasses on the table. She follows me with the gravy boats.

“You’re not going to tell Mom about Roman?” she asks quietly.

“Nope.”

“She was curious about Gianluca, you know.”

“There’s nothing to tell.” I avoid looking at Tess, who knows the whole story: the moon over Capri, the kisses, the grotto. In her mind, that’s a lot of nothing.

“There’s plenty to tell! You fell in love with Roman, and then you were hit by lightning again in Italy with Gianluca. Two fabulous men in one year! That’s a fairy tale. You’re Cinderella with two, count them, two princes.” Tess straightens the cloth napkins next to the plates.

“Oh yeah, except when I tried on the slippers they were sample-size six. And I’m a nine.”

“So cram,” Tess says.

“I tried ! But let’s face it: this is one Cinderella who’s going to make her own slippers.”

We gather the family around the table. Dad sits down at the head of the table, and Gram at the other end. He raises his glass.

“Let us first give thanks for the good health of our family, especially Ma’s recovery from her spill. And then, while we’re at it, let’s thank God for the new Teodora, baby T.”

Jaclyn rocks her new baby in her arms.

He continues, “And as per usual, Lord, we give thanks for the surprises life holds. Ma’s engagement springs to mind, and why wouldn’t it? That was a shocker. Gabriel, it’s good to see you-”

As with most of my father’s prayers, they don’t have actual endings, so we look at one another and gamely make the sign of the cross around the table so we might serve the food.

“I just want everybody to see this.” Tess holds up In Style magazine. “I am so proud of you.” Tess passes around a glossy picture of Anna Christina, the star of Lucia, Lucia, wearing a pair of Angel Shoes, in coral calfskin with gold angel-wing embellishments. I sent Debra McGuire a pair in California and she asked for five additional pairs, one of which wound up on the feet of a rising movie star.

Mom looks at the photograph proudly. “I love them. They’re very Valentine.”

“The orders will pour in. I just know it,” Tess says supportively.

When the magazine reaches Alfred, he looks at it and passes it along to Pamela, who, for the first time since she met my brother, seems duly impressed with his family.

“Have you set the wedding date, Gram?” Jaclyn asks.

“Valentine’s Day in 2009 in Arezzo,” Gram says, smiling at me. “I adore that holiday and my granddaughter’s name, so there it is.”