Adriana Trigiani - Brava, Valentine

“It’s an exciting time for us. And it’s exhausting. I mean, not as exhausting as children…”

“Oh, it’s a different thing entirely,” she says. “I used to put in twelve-hour days in the office, and still have enough energy to meet Bret for dinner and clubbing. Now, I’m bone tired by six o’clock. Stay single. Keep your freedom. This is all overrated. Bret has all the adventures in the family,” she jokes.

But is she kidding? I can’t tell. “I’m sorry about the late meetings at the shop.” I realize that the statement sounds suspicious, so much so Mrs. Fitz raises an eyebrow. I cover quickly, throwing my brother into the mix to make everything seem innocent, which it is . “Bret and Alfred are a real think tank. They’re brainstorming with the Small Business Administration, doing the loans, raising the money. I do the heavy lifting by making the shoes.”

Even Mrs. Fitz seems relieved that I dug myself out of that one.

“I should make you a pair of shoes to thank you,” I tell Mackenzie.

“Size eight,” Mackenzie says. “Someday, I’ll need them. You know, when I’m back on Madison Avenue trying to impress clients, instead of hiring a pirate for birthday parties.”

Pirate Billy Bones stands before the mantel in the living room. He’s the handsome actor, David Engel on dry land, dressed up like Captain Hook without the hook. He has a blacked-out tooth and wears striped MC Hammer pants and a pile of gold chains around his neck. A wide-brimmed hat with a plume matches the stuffed parrot on his shoulder. At his feet rests a large plastic treasure chest. The children gather closely around him, while the adults form a semicircle just behind their offspring.

Gabriel sips his drink, takes in the pirate’s opening joke, grimaces, and pivots back to the kitchen. Gabriel may not like children, but he enjoys children’s theater even less.

Bret puts his arms around Mackenzie as they laugh at the pirate shtick. But Mackenzie tenses and, after an awkward pause, removes his hands from her shoulders. Bret continues to watch the show and places his hands in his pockets instead.

I wonder if she has any idea that Bret was being pursued by his sexy assistant last year. I think not. Mackenzie is appropriate , and the truth of that is dramatized in every nook and cranny of this party. She invites all of Bret’s family over, including Uncle Rehab, the dry drunk. Her largesse is admirable. She makes sure everyone is comfortable, that the food is delicious, the bar well stocked, and the entertainment fun. She really is a wonderful wife, straight out of a storybook. But does she want to be?

Is there a perfect life waiting for any of us? I always believed it until, of course, I took the trip to out there . Here in Chatham, sadness has a different hue. Mackenzie doesn’t struggle with survival, as I do in the city. She struggles with her unmet potential, or the nagging question, Is this what my life was supposed to be? I imagine she doesn’t have an answer. If she did, she would embrace her husband, and she certainly wouldn’t complain about making necklaces out of cereal. But something is going on out here, and it’s not the dark suburbia written about in my mother’s magazines. This is about personal fulfillment and the best and highest use of an intelligent woman’s time.

This is the dilemma that hangs over this birthday party like the hand-painted mural of clouds and breaking sun on the ceiling in the breakfast room. Mackenzie is not happy.

“When are we leaving?” Gabe whispers in my ear. “I can’t eat one more carrot stick dipped in ranch dressing. I even had the cotton candy.”

“What do you think of the pirate?”

Gabriel checks him out head to toe. “Cute. But he’s straight.”

“Well, that’s that. We’re outta here.”

Pirate Billy Bones takes his final bow. The children stand and jump up and down, screaming in gratitude.

We weave our way through the guests to say good-bye to Mackenzie and Bret and their girls.

Maeve gives me a big hug while Piper extends her chubby arms to me and falls out of her mother’s embrace into mine.

“I could take them home,” I tell Mackenzie.

“Anytime.” She laughs.

The foyer is cluttered with pink goody bags.

“Do not take a goody bag,” Gabe says.

“It’s rude if you don’t.”

“Do we need a Little Mermaid blow-up beach ball and a SpongeBob tabletop croquet set? Sorry. Pass.”

The commuter back to the city arrives right on time at the tiny station just off Chatham’s Main Street. I climb up the steps and see that the train is mostly empty, yet I have a hard time deciding which seats to take.

“What’s the matter with you?” Gabriel chooses our seats. “There’s no first class on a commuter. Just grab anything.” He takes the window, and I sit down next to him.

“Something’s wrong,” I say.

“No kidding. You look ashen. Oh, no. Was it the guacamole?”

“I didn’t have any.”

Gabriel pounds his chest lightly. “I did.”

“What didn’t you have?”

“A makeout session with Uncle Rehab. But he wanted to-believe me. I know why he drinks.”

“You do?”

“Closet. In it. Can’t get out.” Gabriel shrugs.

As the train careens out of Chatham and rolls through Summit, a strange feeling comes over me again.

I can’t describe it, but I’m troubled about something. I’m unsettled by the party. By the conversations. By the atmosphere.

I close my eyes and imagine the party again. And then, I remember when Piper fell into my arms and held me tightly. There was something about that moment that was profound. Something happened when she hugged me and wouldn’t let go. I’ve held a lot of babies, and done my share of babysitting my nieces and nephews, but this embrace, from this little girl, was entirely different. It had meaning beyond the moment. Dear God. This isn’t the cry for motherhood women get, is it?

1 aprile 2010

Cara Valentina,

I just returned to my new home. I took the rooftop apartment in the old printing press off the square in Arezzo. It has many aspects of the original architecture but is restored with all the modern conveniences. The floors are gleaming squares of white granite that, when hit by the sun, nearly blinds me. I will be shopping for rugs in Florence.

I had dinner with Teodora and Papa this evening. My father is so happy. He is devoted to Teodora. You are not to worry about her. They fill their days with long walks. They cook together in the kitchen. They go to Mass every morning at the church, and according to my father, after they pray, they return home to make love. What a life!

Tonight, at dinner, the conversation was about you. I hope you understand that your grandmother has great faith in you and holds your talent in high esteem. Also, it is important for you to know that I have not discussed my feelings for you with them. And it isn’t because of our families. It is out of respect for your feelings, and the hope that they will grow.

Love is built in a series of small realizations. It begins with a laugh-yours, the first day I met you in our shop. I heard your laughter long after you were gone. I still do. Then, your face, which I remember in detail, even as I write this. How beautiful was your expression of wonder when you held the fragile silk façonné at the Prato mill. I carried that image with me when you returned to America. I still do. And then our kisses. A kiss (not the stolen kisses in Capri, but the kisses at the inn, where it was your idea and mine, as it should be) holds the meaning of love. I dream of yours and of you.