Adriana Trigiani - Brava, Valentine

“We can do that,” she says.

I clap my hands together. “That would be great.”

“I’m going to need a timeline.” Kathleen types into her laptop.

“And we need to review the terms of the loan,” Alfred pipes up. “Of course, of course.” Kathleen closes her laptop and gives Alfred her card. “Give me a call-we’ll make an appointment for you to come in, and you’ll be off to the races.” She turns to me. “You are not invited. The highest and best use of you is right here in this shop making these glorious shoes. You let us worry about the rest.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever loved anyone so much in my whole life,” I exclaim.

“That doesn’t say much about us.” Bret points to Alfred and then himself.

“Well, you guys are all well and good, but Kathleen has the money. And now, we’re going to have the Bella Rosa .”

I spent about an hour at Kate’s Paperie on 13th Street searching for the best stationery upon which to write to Gianluca. Every time I reread his letter, I find something new. It’s good to be adored.

When things go well at work, it frees me up to think about my personal happiness. When there is a problem in the shop, I become consumed by it, and I don’t rest until there’s a solution. Gabriel says the downfall of women is that no matter what we achieve in our work lives, we don’t feel successful unless we have a man at home. I argue with him about this, because I don’t believe it. I’m not that kind of woman. For me, fulfillment comes from taking a scrap of leather and cutting it to the specifications of a pattern, carving a stacked heel from wood, and sewing trim on a buttress. There is nothing like the satisfaction I get when I make something with my own hands.

I am my best self, the most alive I can be, when I’m creating in the shop. I would never admit this to a man I was interested in, but it’s the truth. Love is not the main course in the banquet of my life. It’s dessert. My mother would say that’s why I’m still single. And my sisters would say that I’m lying. But I know this to be true, that love is my treat, my tiramisu, because I’m living it.

I have not been tempted to scrap my life in Greenwich Village and get on a plane and go to Italy to be with Gianluca, even though I crave the idea of him. I know about women who drop the lives they lead in one place to go and be with a man in another. I’m fascinated by their impulse to choose the possibility of love over the certainty of work. I would never leave my work behind for a man, no matter how scrumptious he might be. I am, however, interested in romance on my own terms, and in my own time. I’m no master craftsman when it comes to love, strictly an apprentice in training.

I dump four different boxes of stationery onto the kitchen table. There’s the classic airmail blue onionskin paper, a box of note cards with various sketches of Palladian villas (too Italian), a box of plain white stationery with a black mock grosgrain trim (too Upper East Side), and finally, plain ecru note cards with a simple embossed gold heart. I’m going with the onionskin.

March 5, 2010

Dear Gianluca,

When I was twelve years old, Siser Theresa Kelly FMA required me to write the Prayer of Saint Francis of Assisi twenty times in order to commit it to memory. It worked. I will, when I see you again, take you through the poetry of God’s instrument of Peace. In the meantime, I first and foremost would like to thank you for the most beautiful letter any man has ever written to me. I am humbled by the simple beauty of your words. Your feelings are real and true. Now, I’d like to tell you about mine. I was not looking for love, and I’m still not sure if I should be. I think about you constantly, and even in my mind’s eye, you thrill and excite me. Could this be love? I don’t know. Could it one day be love? I don’t know the answer to that either. But I surely wonder what would have happened that night at the inn. And here’s what’s true for me: I dream of the possibilities.

Love,

Valentine

I cross out the e in Valentine and replace it with an a .

Gabriel looks out the window on the Saturday commuter train to Chatham, New Jersey. I balance a paint set for Maeve’s birthday party on my lap, while Gabriel holds the Eloise compilation, wrapped in pink tissue paper and tied with green yarn.

“You’re not over Roman,” Gabriel says.

“Why do you say that?”

“Because you won’t give it up for Gianluca.”

“I thought my letter was funny and tender.”

“It was filled with doubt. An I don’t know here, an I don’t know there. What do you know? Certainly not the contents of your human heart. You didn’t know nothin’ writing to him. And Saint Francis? Who mentions a saint in a sex plea?”

“What should I have said?”

“For starters? Not that . The letter should have been filled with erotica. You either want the man or you don’t. Or maybe this ocean between you is just too big. Maybe you need a local love. What about Roman?”

“What about him?”

“Maybe you should go back with him.”

“I’m not going to get back together with Roman just so you can get a seat in his restaurant.”

“It’s as good a reason as any.”

“For you . Forget it. I’m not calling him.”

“Maybe he’s done with Becky Bruschetta…,” Gabriel muses.

“You mean Caitlin Granzella.”

“He only went with her because she was easy pickings. She’s there , working for him in the restaurant. That should be a lesson to you. A man eats what’s in the cupboard.”

“Listen to me, Gabriel. Roman and I are done. I have no strings to pull over there any more, so fall in love with somebody else’s osso bucco already. There are a thousand Italian restaurants in New York City-”

“Ca’D’oro is pretty spectacular.”

“Furthermore, if you love me, and I think you do, you don’t want me to spend my life following my husband around to make sure he’s faithful.”

“You need to get real. And fast. A man can only be faithful in the beginning. You cannot sustain fidelity beyond a month. Six weeks max even if the sex is otherworldly, electrifying, and explosive. Magical sex. But that’s why they call it magic -because poof, in an instant, it disappears like Siegfried and Roy’s white tiger. No, the truth is, you have to watch your man like a hawk. Any man. I know. I am one.”

“I don’t have trust issues,” I assure Gabriel.

“Really,” he says.

Before I can argue the point, the train pulls into the station in downtown Chatham. It’s blustery and wintry cold in March as we deboard. I pull the directions out of my pocket. Mackenzie and Bret’s house is just a couple of blocks away, according to the map he drew.

We make the turn up Fairmont Avenue. Staying on the sidewalk, we pass lovely homes, which, even in barren winter, have manicured lawns and evergreen touches in the landscaping.

At the top of the hill is Bret’s home, a stately red brick Georgian with two white pillars anchoring a glossy black door with brass embellishments. It’s the best house on the block. The street in front of the house is packed with cars. It’s a big party. An enormous bunch of pink balloons tied to the railing sways in the wind.

As we climb the steps, there’s a wreath of white baby roses on the door dotted with small gift packages wrapped in gold. Glittering white letters spelling out MAEVE are fixed in the flowers. More handmade touches by the perfect mother; and I know one when I see one, because I grew up with the best.

“I hope the book I brought is enough to cover the plate.” Gabriel rings the bell. “This looks fancy.”