Adriana Trigiani - Brava, Valentine

The winter clouds have rolled away, and all that is left is a night sky of the deepest blue, the same shade as the ink on Gianluca’s letter. I go to the edge of the roof and look down across the West Side Highway. The blinking red lights of a police car parked by the pier look like ruby buttons on black suede boots. Even this roof feels different since Gram left. It doesn’t feel safe any longer, it feels as though it can’t be trusted-as if the clouds opened up and carried her away.

This is the biggest change for me. This roof, with its tomato plants in summer and snow drifts in winter, was our sanctuary. In the fall, we would roast chestnuts on the grill, and sit by the fire, waiting for the nuts to cook through, and pop open with a soft crackle. The scent of the iron skillet on the fire and the sweet chestnuts was always a comfort.

I look over at the grill, covered in an old tarp, and wonder if I’ll bother to make the trip over to the Chelsea Market to buy a sack of chestnuts to roast. Will I continue to do the things that Gram did, the rituals that brought us such joy? Will I commit to keeping the treasures of the past alive in the present?

With every crate I unpack, with every box I sort, the list of things I must do grows. There’s the business, the building, the family obligations. I think it’s time to pull the Roncallis together and dole out the traditions, the recipes, and the assignments; to be as specific about who will do what as my mother has been in labeling her jewelry, each piece marked with a name and stored, to be given out after the moment when, God forbid, she passes on.

As I look over to the Hudson River, the expanse of black water seems to widen in the dark, like a pit of velvet quicksand. But I don’t feel consumed by my river, or by this night sky, nor do I feel small, standing downstage of the skyscrapers that loom behind me like black daggers. It’s the boxes in my grandmother’s bedroom, filled with everything my grandmother was and is, that overwhelm me. Papers, contracts, photographs, articles, sketches, and documents filled with the history of our family and the company that made us. Our history can only be told through the things she saved, and now that Gram is gone, it’s left to me to decide what’s worth keeping.

GABRIEL BIONDI WAVES TO ME from our booth in Pastis, where we have a standing breakfast date once a month, because if we didn’t keep to this schedule, we’d never see one another. Gabriel works nights at the Carlyle, and I work days in the shop, and rarely do the two schedules intersect. We chose Pastis because it’s the closest thing to a French bistro we can get in Greenwich Village. And while we live in New York City happily, once in a while we like to pretend we’re in Paris.

The antique mirrors, black-and-white-checked tile floors, and polished oak tables give the restaurant the down-home feeling of a warm, expansive kitchen. I weave through the chatty crowd. A couple of tables are packed with men in suits, but the rest are neighborhood locals who come regularly for the best eggs, bacon, and brioche in the Village.

Gabriel gives me a kiss on the cheek, his jet black hair tucked under a beret. He wears a fitted black cashmere sweater over jeans so tight they show off every hour he spends in advanced spin class at the gym. Gabriel has turned his shape into an upside-down triangle: wide at the shoulders and slim at the hips. “I got the poached eggs for me, and I ordered the French toast for you.”

“Of course you did. That’s why you have no ass and I do.”

“I have an ass. It’s just pert and shapely. Like a new peach, I like to say. Or I’ve been told.” He helps me off with my coat. “I want to know everything.”

I peel off the rest of my winter layers and pile them next to Gabriel in the booth. “You first. How are you? How’s work?”

“They cut my hours. Not good. But I have time to think about my life. Excellent. And I have time to focus on my friends. Even better. Where’s the letter?”

I open my purse. I store Gianluca’s letter carefully in a second envelope, preserving it like a butterfly saved in a ziplock bag for fifth-grade science class. The onionskin stationery is as delicate as wings, and I don’t want anything to smudge the ink or tear the paper. After all, this is a document of intention, and I’d like to honor any coming my way. “Be careful.”

“Relax. A love letter from Gianluca Vechiarelli is hardly on par with an original Shakespeare manuscript.”

“Yeah, well, Shakespeare never sent me a sonnet. This is all I got.”

Gabriel unfolds the letter carefully and reads aloud.

“‘Cara Valentina. ’ That’s a sexy start. ‘ Please accept my apologies for tonight at the Inn. I was carried away with emotions that I have been feeling for quite some time. ’ Boy, he wants you in a big way. ‘ You could not know of these feelings , for I had not admitted them to myself. ’ Smart man. Mention feelings upfront. Reel her in. ‘ But when I saw you at the church…I was filled with…great longing. ’ Longing. Huh. Aka: pent-up sexual attraction that can only be released via you, my youngish American. ‘ I have not had the true love I had hoped for…’ Translation: Never had it but now I’ve found it, and guess what? You’re it! You’re his true love. You! Cara Valentina. It’s right here in navy blue. Might as well be a marriage license, sister. ‘ Your beautiful face. ’ He’s a goner. ‘ Reciprocate the feelings… ’ Good. ‘ Longing to kisses. ’ Hot damn. Marry me , Gianluca. ‘ Do you feel as I do ?’ Wow, that’s direct.” Gabriel gives me the letter. “He’s in love with you.”

“Do you think?”

“I know . Look, a man doesn’t show up at a hotel full of family, especially your brood, and find the exact room you’re staying in and almost seduce you unless he’s cuh-ray-zee about you. Tommy Tanner wants you so badly he’d risk running into your father in the bidet just to be with you. Think about that .”

“I don’t want to fall for him.” The truth is, I don’t have time for any man right now. I’ve got a business to run and a new one to build. The last thing I need is a distraction. “I can’t fall for him.”

“Too late for that, sister.”

“I live in New York, he lives in Italy,” I say.

“There are airplanes.”

“Come on, Gabriel. It’s an impossible situation.”

“That’s why you carry the letter around like a Dead Sea scroll. It’s so impossible that you have to reread his letter over and over again to remind yourself why you can’t possibly fall in love with him. Face it, you already like/love him, and you like/love thinking about him.”

“I don’t want to like/love. I want to be the kind of person who just has fun and doesn’t get all wrapped up in it.”

“You mean the opposite of what you had with Roman.”

“Exactly,” I say.

“Well, that was different. Roman works in a kitchen, and people are always hungry. You really couldn’t compete with that. It’s primal. Gianluca, on the other hand, is a tanner, and once he cuts a few hides, he can take a break. So you’ve got a better scheduling situation with him, although there’s the geographical problem-two countries, two hearts-but really, do you need him underfoot twenty-four/seven?”

“Not right now.”

“So enjoy the attentions of an older man. And read the letters. Handwritten letters are a sex life in and of themselves.”

Gabriel is right. I read the letter right before I go to sleep and imagine what Gianluca is doing. I hear the inflection of his voice when I read, and I feel his intent. Then I think about him, and how we happened to get to this place. I remember every detail of my visit to Arezzo when we first met, how he was gruff and didn’t seem to like me at all. And then, how he made excuses to be with me during my visit, how attentive he was, and how he would make plans, pick me up, drop me off, check to see if I needed anything. And then when he came to Capri, I was swimming, and he suddenly appeared by the pool, a welcome surprise. I was brokenhearted and pining for Roman, but that did not deter him. He’s trying to build something with me. Why can’t I at least let him try?