Adriana Trigiani - Brava, Valentine

Love,

Gianluca

“What do you think?”

June places Gianluca’s letter carefully on the cutting table as though it’s a yard of rare duchesse satin.

She removes her reading glasses and leans back on the work stool. “You haven’t been with enough men to know about love letters. These babies are rare. I never received a letter like this. And trust me, I would have liked to. The man is into details. And he has vision for your future together. He thinks things through.”

“It’s almost too much. I can’t believe it.”

“You take every salesman that walks into this shop at his word-why not Gianluca?”

“It’s like when I was a kid and I’d eat too much white chocolate-I knew I’d had enough after one bite, but I wouldn’t stop. I’d eat the whole bunny and then have to lie down. I get the same feeling when I read his letters.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“I don’t know. But I’m glad that I have the time and the distance to think about it. He’s there, I’m here.”

“How convenient. There’s an ocean between you and him that you can fill with excuses not to fall in love. I know an avoidist when I see one. But listen to me, sister. This man is one in a million-make that a billion when you factor in worldwide overpopulation. And not just because he’s tall and handsome and Italian, my favorite food group, but because this guy knows what matters to a woman. Some men go their whole lives long and never get it. This one gets it and writes it down and mails it to your door. You don’t know what you have here.”

“Oh I think I know what I’ve got. I just don’t have any idea what to do with it. When it comes to men, what do you want, June?”

“I always hoped to be seen. You know, not a spotlight thing, I got enough of that when I was a dancer. I’m talking about something deeper. I want a man to see me for who I am.”

“That’s the problem with these letters. It’s like he’s talking about a goddess.”

“That’s how he sees you. He’s describing his experience of you. I got news for you-that’s what love is. It’s how he sees you-not how you see yourself. Be the love object. And for Chrissakes, don’t object!”

“All right, all right.”

“I mean, you want him, don’t you?”

“Of course.”

“Part of getting what you want out of life is knowing exactly what to ask for.” June points at me and winks like a gunslinger in an old western. “What are you looking for?”

“I was hoping I’d recognize it when it came my way.”

“This man is for real.”

“You’re like Tess and Jaclyn. They believe in ‘the one.’ You meet a good man, fairly young, and then…that’s it. Forever.” There was a time in my life when I believed in “the one.” That, of course, was back when I had it. I’d known Bret all of my life, and then I was in my twenties and had dated him since high school, and then we got engaged. I thought that’s what happened to people-they grew up with a boy, then after years of being together and spending lots of time with each other’s families, continued the relationship into marriage. Most of the women I know followed that formula, so of course I figured that I would too. And I did, until I found something in my life that would require more of me than teaching school, which I enjoyed, or working in an office, which I didn’t. When I decided to become a shoemaker, I had to sacrifice everything-weekends, a social life, and all the things that a woman must do to make a traditional life. I just couldn’t see how I could do both-and Bret, at the time, didn’t either.

June places the letter on the table. “A man who can seduce with a turn of phrase will not disappoint in the bedroom.” June gets up and pours herself a cup of coffee. “We have all been waiting for this one, honey. And if I were you, I’d hurry up and I wouldn’t be late. Gianluca’s riding in on the night train, and the last place you want to be is the wrong stop. I’d be waiting with my bags, and by God, I’d get on board. I’d take that ride for you if I could. I have moments, even now, when I’d try. But he’s for you. You take Gianluca and run with it.”

“It sounds like I need to yank the emergency cord on the train.”

“The only urgent thing in life is the pursuit of love. You get that one right, and you’ve solved the mystery.”

“And I thought when I could figure out a way to survive in this shop by the labor of my own hands, that would be the mystery solved.”

“Two different things. Work is survival, and love sustains you. You can have work anytime. But love? Not always.”

“Why didn’t you ever get married, June?”

“I didn’t want to.”

“Maybe I don’t want to either.”

“No, you do,” she says quietly.

“How can you tell?”

“Women who take care of old people are the marrying kind,” she says.

“Gram took care of herself.”

“Yes, but you looked after her. It wasn’t a chore, it came naturally. Same with me. Nobody else calls me when I walk home from work in the snow. You always do.”

“Dear God. I sound pathetic!”

June laughs. “Not at all. You nurture people-and we need you to. But you don’t think about yourself enough. And time is passing-it really is. And when you get old, it passes even more quickly, like a lead foot on the accelerator. I hear old people on TV say they don’t have regrets. I have about a thousand.”

“Name one.”

“I would have asked for more. I would have had more.”

“But June…”

“I know, I know, I feasted my way through fifty years of men, all sizes, shapes, and proclivities. God only knows how many miles I schlepped and continents I crossed in the pursuit of pleasure. And when I look back over all the years, and all the men, I would have liked for just one of those men, to sit down, pen in hand, and tell me what he saw when I walked in a room.”

June looks out the windows and off into the middle distance.

“No, I had to guess. I had to fill in the blanks.” She whistles softly. “But you? He’s told you plain, right here on paper, what you mean to him. And if you can’t take these words in now, put the letter aside and reread it tomorrow when you’ve had time to think. Trust me, this Gianluca won’t come along again, not in your lifetime.” June picks up the letter and hands it back to me. “Unless you know something I don’t.”

June perches her reading glasses on her nose and reads the work list. I pick up a shoe and measure the welt to attach it to the heel. June opens her box of straight pins on the table, then takes her pinking shears out of their chamois pouch and places them on the table. She pushes the work stool under the table with her knee, she loads a bolt of raw silk on to the roller, and I help her snap the dowel and close the traps.

We are two women with so much more than friendship in common. We work together, and while I’m supposedly her boss, the truth is, she is mine. June knows more about the world than I ever will-and in matters of love, she would never mislead me. Teacher to student, she has never told me anything but the truth. Maybe I don’t believe Gianluca’s pretty words because he’s Italian and they’re known for their fleur-de-lis approach to life. Maybe I need hardware and nails when it comes to love, not the gentle curves of filigree. Maybe I don’t think the pretty stuff is strong enough to hold.

“I’ve always maintained that this house could use some drama.” Mom sits on one of the red leather bar stools behind the counter that separates the kitchen from the living area in Gram’s apartment. “Everywhere.” She thumbs through Interior magazine, tearing out “looks” that she thinks I might like. “The old homestead needs a total redo.”