Adriana Trigiani - Brava, Valentine

I have not had the true love I had hoped for in my life, and now, I wonder if it is even possible. Many men, except the poets, seem to search for this particular love, and they find it somehow, in words and intention. But me? I do not know. There was a moment in the church when I thought I saw it, in your eyes, your face, your beautiful face. Later, when I found you in your room at the inn, I wondered if it could be true, that you might reciprocate the feelings I had, and turn my longing to kisses. Now, I hope. Do you feel as I do?

My love,

Gianluca

Oh, for Godsakes. I have to sit down. I’m thirty-four years old, and no one has ever written me a love letter. Full disclosure: there’s an old shoe box in my mother’s attic with evidence to the contrary. I saved notes I passed in school with Bret (the phrase that sent me swooning then was “You’re my girl” written in pencil on lined school paper). And I did put the text messages sent by Roman Falconi (“Love U”) in a place called permanent memory on my phone. But I’ve never received a letter on onionskin paper stamped “Par Avion,” written in indelible ink, that described me as “beautiful” and “longed for,” or specifically asked me what I want and what I need, romantically. This is a first.

I imagined that if I was ever presented with a letter describing such ardent feelings, in plush and meaningful sentences, that of course I would believe them. I want to believe them. I’d like to think that every now and again, I could render a man weak -but this isn’t the English countryside, and I’m not Jane Eyre, and he’s not Mr. Rochester riding up on his horse to the manor where he hides his mentally unstable wife in the attic. Or is he?

I go to the ironing board and plug in the old equipment, as I have done by rote many mornings. I need something to do, because I don’t want to think about what I want to do with Gianluca. When I was a girl, I bought my mother’s lines about one man for every woman, referred to it in passing as “a lid for every pot,” “a hat for every head,” “a glove for every hand”(oddly, no “shoe for every foot,” despite the fact that we are in the business). Nevertheless, I thought my life in love would go as my mother’s had before me, even though every conscious decision I have ever made regarding my future followed the motto “Whatever Mom did, do the opposite.” My mother kept it simple. The old “One God, one man, one life” is the philosophy she built her life upon, but it has not panned out as a realistic path for me.

I lick my finger and test the base of the iron. I leave my finger there a second too long and burn it.

I should never pick up a hot iron when I’m distracted.

“Whoo hoo!” June calls from the doorway. She plows in wearing so much winter gear, I can barely see her face. Her bright blue coat is the only touch of color on this dank morning. She carries a bag with coffee for us from the deli. “Don’t yell at me. I got doughnuts. We need to celebrate!”

As June takes off her hat, gloves, and coat, she listens carefully as I tell her the story of Gram’s wedding day. When the story turns to night, she sits, peels the plastic lid off the paper coffee cup, and stirs. She leans in as I tell her about Gianluca showing up at my room at the Spolti Inn.

When I’m done, she breaks her doughnut in half, giving me the larger portion. “It’s always the man you don’t make love to, the one who wanted you and didn’t have you, that’s the man who will never forget you,” she says. “The anticipation of sex is often more thrilling than the reality.”

“Who are you kidding?” I look at June, who stores the sexual history of Greenwich Village since 1952 in her boudoir drawer like a satin nightie.

“No harm in trying to make you feel better.” She laughs. This is what I love about June. Sex is God’s greatest gift to the planet, with a sense of humor coming in a close second. Gram taught me how to make shoes, but June has taught me it’s important to let go-and have fun.

“Okay, and all right,” she says. “I would have liked the story better had you actually made love to the Italian. At my age, we want to hear all about it because we don’t get it so much anymore. So now we’re both frustrated. Why didn’t you and Gianluca leave the hotel and find a quiet spot somewhere to make some noise?”

“I tried! I don’t even have kids, and my night was ruined by one. It’s like Chiara knew her frazzled auntie was going to get lucky and had to do anything she could to stop it. Now I know why they call it getting lucky-because when you don’t get it, you feel cursed.”

“I don’t mean to add to your stress levels.” June dunks the last bite of her doughnut in her coffee. “But we need to talk.”

June rolls the work stool close to me and places her hands on the table. Her bright red hair is braided in small pigtails that rest on her shoulders. Her rhinestone-studded reading glasses anchor her bangs off of her face. At seventy-one, June is in great shape; her porcelain complexion is flawless from a life of avoiding the sun. Only the creases around her mouth, a legacy of years of smoking, tell her age. She still wears bright blue eye shadow, bohemian East Village style, with leggings and a multicolored voile print smock over a turtleneck. June could be any ex-dancer in New York City. “Honey, I’m old,” she says.

“Never.”

“Never has arrived. And it’s brought varicose veins and memory loss along for the ride. Here’s the deal. I’m tired. I don’t know how much longer I can cut patterns for you.”

“Is something wrong?” I panic. Two hours on the job as boss, and I’ve already lost my key employee.

“You mean like a disease or something? Oh God, no…unless years of smoking weed has finally caught up with me. But I don’t think it has. I unwind with God’s gift to the garden and so far, so good. No, it’s not my health that’s forcing this decision. It’s the number: seventy-one. Seven. One. My wrists hurt, and my fingers are getting stiff with arthritis. I think I need to retire.”

“And do what?”

“Well, I thought I’d sit around and listen to Miles Davis and paint my toenails. And I’d like to catch that show The View live-I love that Whoopi.”

“You want to watch TV and hang out? May I join you?”

“Absolutely not. You have a name to make for yourself.”

“I don’t want to do this without you.”

“Sure you do. And you can. And you will. Valentine, you know, your Gram’s marriage was a wake up call. I’m a little younger than she is, of course, but one year over the age of seventy is equivalent to ten years under seventy. Time is slipping through my hands like cheap satin.”

“Anybody can die at any age, June.”

“Yeah, but when you’re over seventy, you’re more likely to die. And I want to relax with the time I have left.”

“When do you want to leave the company?” Tears sting in my eyes.

“Once you get the Bella Rosa going, I think I should go. And we should think about getting someone in here who I can train.”

“Okay.” But it’s not okay. I can’t imagine working without June. And I don’t want to work with anyone else. We rarely argue, we figure out how to solve a problem without drama, and we even like our coffee the same, light no sugar.

“Look, it’s not the end of the world. Things change, Valentine. I’m sure you don’t want me keeling over on the pattern table.”

“Actually, I would like that.”

June laughs. “You’ve had enough of us old girls around. Teodora understood that. She cleared out so you could have your own life. And with Alfred starting…”