Adriana Trigiani - Brava, Valentine

We hear music and chatter and laughing and kids whooping inside. Gabe takes a deep breath. “I hope there’s a bar.”

Bret’s wife, Mackenzie, opens the door, balancing her toddler, Piper, on her hip. “Valentine, Gabe,” she says. “You made it.”

“The ride was delightful,” Gabe says.

Mackenzie laughs. “Now you know why I never go into the city. Well, there’s also the fact that I don’t want to leave the city once I’m there.”

Mackenzie is willowy, on the sporty side, with blue eyes that match her cashmere sweater. Her blond hair is the color of ginger ale, and her legs are still tawny from their midwinter trip to Disney World in Florida. She wears a simple beige wool skirt and matching Tod’s flats.

Maeve, the birthday girl, is dressed like a fairy, with net wings that light up anchored to her shoulders. She peeks at us and then runs past when she sees it’s two grown-ups.

“Bret! Your friends are here!” Mackenzie calls out. “Come on in,” she says to us.

Gabriel shoots me a look at the mention of “your friends.”

Mackenzie has never really accepted us because we were part of Bret’s life before she was. To be fair, I wouldn’t want any ex-fiancée hanging around my husband either. Her demeanor with us manages to be warm, yet simultaneously chilly, like the first full day of spring.

According to Bret, Mackenzie made it very clear that she wanted marriage and children from their first date, so their romance progressed at lightning speed a year after our breakup. But those were the years when books like The Rules and Marry the Man of Your Choice topped the best-seller lists; women felt pressure to issue ultimatums, and men felt like they had to cave in, or at least Bret did.

It’s as if Mackenzie caught Bret in a butterfly net in Manhattan, carried him into New Jersey, and let him loose directly into the pages of House Beautiful . Even with children running around and a party in full swing, the house is neat and in order. The foyer, with a small toile-covered bench and an enormous silver-framed mirror, sets the stage for the rooms beyond it.

Mackenzie has decorated the house in a polished and understated way. The furniture is Georgian, all sleek lines and black polished wood accents. A delicate chintz of mint green and beige covers the sleek sofas. The straight-backed chairs have striped seat cushions, with a bit of navy blue trim thrown in to complement the wood. An oval Berber area rug trimmed in navy gives the large room a cozy feel.

There are plenty of polished silver frames filled with family moments on beaches, at parties, and in high chairs. Over the mantel hangs an oil painting of Mackenzie in an elaborate bridal gown. It’s obvious that she, like me, grew up idolizing Princess Diana. The portrait is right out of the Great Hall of Althorp.

Bret comes out of the kitchen and is happy to see us. “You’re here!”

“I only come to Jersey for corn…and for you.” Gabriel gives him a pat on the back.

Mackenzie hands Piper off to Bret. “Make yourselves at home,” she says as she goes into the living room to corral the kids.

We’ve had an awkward past, Mackenzie and I. I wasn’t invited to their wedding, but after they had been married for a year, Bret invited me out to dinner with them. In the spirit of lifelong friendship, Mackenzie put aside her apprehensions and I dropped my judgments. We were actually fine with one another and had a lot of fun.

Bret is the kind of man who has to have everyone in his life get along. He can’t abide acrimony. He wouldn’t even break up with me until I promised that I wouldn’t hate him forever. Of course, he couldn’t rest until he knew I was happy for him and approved of his choice of wife. The truth is, I think Mackenzie is the best woman for Bret.

Piper reaches for me, and I take her in my arms. She puts her arms around my neck. The tension in my body goes as she holds me close. Her skin has the scent of apricots. She rubs her cheeks on mine. Babies are a balm.

“Where’s the bar?” Gabe asks.

“In the den at the back of the house.” Gabe disappears through the door. “My folks are dying to see you,” Bret says to me. “They’re in the kitchen.” He points.

The kitchen is filled from counter to table with Fitzpatricks. When they’re home in Queens, they gather in the kitchen, and evidently, when they go anywhere else, they gather in the kitchen as well. I have many memories of their family dinners, a table full of cousins, aunts, and uncles. There was always lots of laughter, plenty of beer, and hearty casseroles at their table. Bret comes from a close family like mine.

“Valentine!” Bret’s mother throws her arms around me. Mrs. Fitz looks like Mrs. Santa Claus. She has smooth pink skin, not a wrinkle on it, and thick, white hair. She’s always been warm and dear, and since the day I met her, she’s been on a diet. Her husband is tall and lanky, like Bret, and he’s nuts about her. “Look, Bob, it’s Val.”

“So great to see you.” I kiss her on the cheek. “And you look great, both of you.” I kiss Mr. Fitz.

“Look at him,” Mrs. Fitz mock complains as she turns to her husband. “He eats the same amount of fudge I do, and he’s a beanpole.”

“You know men. They got us coming and going, especially when it comes to metabolism.”

“You look wonderful.” Mrs. Fitz nods in approval. “Slim.” Mrs. Fitz and I have a brand of banter that’s all about our figures and what we eat and how we look. I wonder what she and Mackenzie talk about. “Are you seeing anyone?” she whispers conspiratorially.

“Kind of.”

“Is it serious?”

“Could be.”

“Oh, good for you.” Mrs. Fitz squeezes my hand. In one grip, I fill in what she’s thinking: sorry it didn’t work out with Bret, but life goes on, so go for it.

“Hey, everybody. The Pirate is here,” Mackenzie announces from the doorway of the kitchen. “You don’t want to miss him.”

The kitchen drains of Fitzpatricks, followed by Gabriel, until Mrs. Fitz, Mackenzie, and I are left alone.

“It’s a great party,” I assure the hostess. “The invitation was beautiful.”

“Mackenzie made them herself,” Mrs. Fitz says proudly.

“Thanks. My old career in advertising comes in handy.” She smiles. “It’s my way of staying creative. You know, making necklaces out of Cheerios is only so fulfilling.”

“Oh, don’t you worry. It all goes by like a shot-and you’ll remember these days and wonder where they went.” Mrs. Fitz takes a cookie from the Lazy Susan.

An awkward silence sets in.

This is why I don’t come to the suburbs. Mothers have a lot to talk about with one another, but what can I converse about with them? Making shoes? How can I relate to their daily lives? Wives and mothers already know the answers to the big questions that loom before a woman when she’s unattached and focused on her career: Will love find me? (It did.) Will that love make a family? (It does.) Their world seems complete, renovated, redecorated, and fully loaded. Everything is done .

A stay-at-home mother in the suburbs can plan her life for the next fifteen years. The markers are determined by the children themselves, and the calendar follows: the school year, summer vacation, birthday parties, camp, holiday breaks, and piano lessons. A stay-at-home mother knows weeks, months, and years in advance what life has in store for her. There’s an order to family life. In contrast, I have no idea what lies ahead. I don’t even know what the next six months will bring, much less the coming year. When it comes to a long-range view for my life, I’m still figuring out which pattern to cut.

“Bret is really optimistic about your company. I haven’t seen him this jazzed about a business plan in a long time,” Mackenzie says.