Adriana Trigiani - Brava, Valentine

“But why?” Jaclyn, not yet thirty, does not remember life before cell phones and e-mail. “How long does the mail take from Italy? Isn’t it years? Mom sent us a postcard from Italy, and she’d been home three weeks when the card arrived. Why would you bother with all that when you can text him?”

“He’s not a technical guy,” I tell them.

“He’s old.” Jaclyn shrugs, satisfied that she’s cracked the Vechiarelli code.

“Yeah, he’s older… ish , but it’s not that. He really pays attention to the people around him. It matters to him how he spends his time. I don’t know him that well yet, but everything he does, everything he says, has meaning. He thinks things through. I’ve never met anyone like him.”

“Do you think it’s serious?”

“Don’t buy your bridesmaid dresses.”

“But Bendel’s is having a sale,” Jaclyn whines. “I got my eye on a Rodarte sample.”

Tess turns to me. “Don’t let her push you. There will always be perfect dresses and weddings to wear them to. You make sure he’s right for you. Take your time. Eventually, you’ll know for sure if Gianluca is The One.”

“I hate to disappoint you, but I don’t know if I believe in that anymore.”

“Of course you do! Look at us!” Jaclyn says. “One Charlie! One Tom!”

“Well, it’s worked out well for you guys. I’m different.”

“You always say that, but you’re really not that different from us,” Tess says.

“Believe me, I wish I was exactly like you. You get an idea in your heads, and you see it through. Some people go for the brass ring, and you went for the diamond version. It worked out for you. But I never fall in love with men who do what I want to do. There’s always a conflict.”

“Maybe this is it. Maybe Gianluca will compromise,” Tess reasons.

“When is he coming over to visit?” Jaclyn asks, hoping that gown she likes will still be on sale when Gianluca convinces me to take the next step.

“He’s running the tannery alone now. I don’t think he can take time off.”

“So you have one of these Jane Austen romances where there are letters but no actual sex.” Tess sounds disappointed. “No action. Just words.”

“Poetry,” I correct her.

“What does he say in the letters?” Tess asks.

“None of your business.”

I will not make the mistake of showing my sisters the letters from Gianluca. Gabriel’s dissection of Gianluca’s letter left me stone cold. June’s assessment helped because she put her opinion in the context of her extensive life (and love) experience. The last place I’m going to look for validation is my immediate family. I’m long past the days when I have to run everything I’m feeling by my family.

As the last single person in a family of married people, I have become their final frontier, their project . They will not rest until I’m taken. I would prefer they use their energy to help Mom install her dream lily pond on Austin Street instead of meddling in my love life.

Mom pushes through the swinging doors that lead to the interior of the hospital. She is dressed head to toe in yellow. Sunshine gold. Mike Roncalli has brought a splash of color therapy into Manhattan’s palace of healing.

“Oh, girls! All clear!” Mom embraces the three of us and begins to cry. “Every time I set foot in here and we get a decent report, I realize how completely out of my mind with worry I am every single day. Ordinary life can drain you.”

“Yes, it can,” I agree.

“It’s not the big things, you know-it’s the maintenance. But thank God and Saint Teresa, who never fails me, Dutch is all clear for now.”

“I’ll text Alfred,” Jaclyn says.

“Thanks,” Mom says, tightening the belt on her yellow princess coat. Something bothers her still. “You know,” she says, “your dad notices that Alfred never comes on these appointments.”

“He’s back at the shop, Mom,” I tell her. “He’s researching-”

“Don’t make excuses for him. You make the damn shoes, Val, and you find the time to come here and be with your father and me. No, your brother doesn’t get it. And you know what? He never will! He will hold a grudge against your father until the day he dies.”

“Let’s hope not,” Tess says diplomatically.

“What is it?” Mom throws her hands up. “Why can’t children forgive their parents? We don’t set out to disappoint you. We really don’t. And when we do, we are the first to know it-and as far as I can tell, your father has made reparations. Not that he would use that word-”

“Or pronounce it.” I nod.

“But honestly,” Mom continues, “the man has made all matters of restitution to me, to his family, to his God. Furthermore, he has tried time and time again to open up the channels of communication with your brother, on Alfred’s terms, and he’s been rebuffed. Every single time! Daddy isn’t selling himself as some perfect parent. He’s well aware of his failings, as I am of mine. But for God help me, it’s been twenty years. It’s almost a non-memory for me at this point. But, for your brother? It’s a fresh gash.”

“That’s just Alfred,” Tess says. “You’re not going to change him, Ma, don’t let it bug you.”

Mom considers this. The sadness and anger leave her face as quickly as if she were wiping them off with one of her premoistened makeup sponges. “You’re absolutely right. Alfred will get it when he gets it. But, please, my trio of angels, don’t let my peevishness ruin your day. You are the best! Each of you have so much on your plates, with children and work and husbands and…” Mom looks at me. “Overseas enchantments. Yet with all you have to do, your father and I must have done something right, because you always show up for us.”

“Where are we gonna go, Ma? We’re family,” Jaclyn says.

We sit and wait for Dad to dress and join us, and I think about my brother, and how somebody is always angry with him. That can’t be good for Alfred. It’s sad that he’s missing out on this great moment with us. Relief is an instant balm, but it has to be earned. Alfred ignores the agony, and then he misses the joy. He doesn’t make any emotional investment in us. Maybe he saves it all for Pamela and his sons.

Or maybe they, like us, know the truth: none of us are good enough for Alfred, whether we were born after him, gave birth to him, fathered him, or married him. Alfred’s standards are so high no one can reach them. I have to remember to tell Bret to keep this in mind. I can’t have Alfred derail my relationships at the Angelini Shoe Company because he has unrealistic standards-or because he doesn’t want to see the sister who never measured up succeed despite herself.

“I know this is against your religion…,” I say into my cell phone. I stand on the corner of 14th Street and 8th Avenue, with one hand over my ear and the other clutching my phone. “…but I had to do the modern thing and call you.”

“Valentina?” Gianluca could not be happier to hear from me.

“I have good news. Dad got a great report at the doctors.”

“ Va bene! ” Gianluca is thrilled by the news, and just as happy to hear from me.

“I wanted to tell you.” A bus pulls up at the stop and decompresses with a loud blast as the steps are lowered closer to the sidewalk. “Sorry about the noise. I’m outside. On my way back to the shop.”

“The noise is not a problem,” he assures me. “I am happy to hear your voice.”

“Gianluca?”

“Yes?”

“Be patient with me.”

“Valentina.”

The soothing sound of his voice, the way he says my name, blankets me. I want to let him know what he means to me, that I couldn’t wait to get home and write it on the onionskin paper. Suddenly, it felt urgent. It only takes a trip to Sloan Kettering to remind me how short life is, and that there’s nothing wrong with a little prioritizing. “I’m not as good at this as you are, at expressing myself. I…” I pause and think.