Adriana Trigiani - Brava, Valentine

Gabriel looks around at the skyscrapers of brown paper boxes in my living room and is about to ask, “What saddle?” when he realizes that I’m joking. “Oh, ha, ha. You .”

“Really, you have more stuff than a holding cell at the Met. Every period in interior decoration is represented here.”

“Except early American. I loathe it. I like Abraham Lincoln as much as the next guy, but I can’t abide major furniture that looks like it was whittled.”

“Me neither.”

“I know I have a lot of stuff. But I dream of a summer home in Bucks County. I imagine it-in full. And everything you see here is a part of the backdrop of that dream. I see a four-story white clapboard farmhouse with black shutters on a green hill in Pennsylvania, surrounded by clear acreage. There’s a swimming pool, a patio with slate floors, a kitchen with copper pots and a butcher-block island, and sumptuous interiors.

“I imagine parties in my home with guests who fascinate-Doris Kearns Goodwin and Tina Fey in one corner, with the Coen brothers and Lady Gaga in another. Oh, look! It’s Tony Kushner arguing theater economics with Joe Mantello. Michael Patrick King zings with bons mots as Mike Nichols intercepts them. Imagine a tan and freckled au naturel Frances McDormand reading aloud pithy scenes from Arsenic and Old Lace , while Bartlett Sher looks on and then gives a Juilliard critique. Afterward, we have grappa and cigars by a roaring fire, and after Mary Testa sings a couple of numbers from The Rose Tattoo , we discuss the fate of our national theater-that is, of course, if there’s one left by the time I buy my dream house.

“Oh, Valentine, I have big, big plans for my enormous life! And when I’m able to afford it all, and yes, that means buying it all for cash, and installing full-grown trees just like Moss Hart did sixty years ago because I, like he, am not one to wait, I will fill that house with things that matter to me. Decor that inspires me. Furniture that moves me. Basically all the stuff you see right here.”

“So what do we do with it in the meantime?”

“We can use it here.”

“Okay, how about this. How about you redecorate the living room with your things-these prized possessions…”

“They are prizes, believe me.”

“I agree. But whatever doesn’t fit, or you don’t think works, you put in storage.”

“Fair enough. I definitely can afford storage because you gave me such a break on the rent.”

“I’ll offer Gram’s stuff to my family. Except the farm table. The table has to stay.” I run my hand across the edge of the table that has been the center of our family gatherings since before I was born. I can’t imagine this apartment without it. “That’s the only rule. This table, in this very spot.”

“No problem. I like the table,” Gabriel agrees. “But I may want to refinish it.”

“Permission granted.”

“And we’ll keep the chandelier. I’ve always loved that touch of Venice.”

Gabriel and I immediately fall back into our old college roommate dynamic. It’s an easy give-and-take-I let him do whatever he wants, and he rides roughshod over me like a cowboy on horseback galloping through a dry creek bed in the Great Plains during a cattle crossing.

“Is this a record player?”

“RCA Victor. Truthfully, though, I use it for an end table.”

“Does it work?”

“I don’t know. I never turned it on. We’ve got all of Gram’s old Sinatra albums upstairs.”

“Brilliant! I can redecorate to Old Blue Eyes. Francis Albert will be my muse.”

“I’m going to go down and lock up the shop,” I tell him. “June and Alfred went home hours ago.”

“How’s the shipment coming?”

“Our twelve-hour days are paying off. Harlene Levin at the Picardy Shoe Parlor in Milwaukee is going to get her order on time.”

“Need me?”

“Nope.” I go to the top of the stairs, think better of it, and poke my head back into the apartment. “What’s for dinner?”

“Chicken Florentine, a fresh tossed dandelion salad with steamed artichokes, and a crème brûlée for dessert.”

I place my hand on my heart. “I love you.”

“Why wouldn’t you?” he says.

I go down the stairs and push the door of the shop open. June left the work lights on over the iron. I move across the room to turn them off, grabbing the keys to lock the window gates as I go. Then I notice that June has already rolled them across the glass and locked them.

I go to flip off the work light. But then I stop, sensing I am not alone.

Someone is in the far shadows of the shop, where we organize the shipping. I freeze. I can’t believe the security alarm didn’t go off. My thoughts whirl, we’re being robbed, who is it, what do they want, what do I do? But the burglars don’t move. They don’t try to flee. I realize they don’t know I’m here.

I squint to see who it might be.

I gasp, letting go of the breath I held in fear. Kathleen Sweeney, who was here for a meeting, is in the arms of my brother. They are kissing passionately, and don’t hear me or see me until I step back toward the entrance door to escape and accidentally drop the keys. In the quiet they sound like steel hitting iron.

Kathleen scurries into the bathroom, while Alfred turns away.

“Alfred. What are you doing?” I barely get the words out.

He doesn’t answer me.

“What is going on here?” I put my hand to my head, knowing full well what I have seen, yet not wanting to believe it.

Alfred doesn’t answer.

I put the keys on the table and go out the shop door, closing it behind me. I climb the stairs-my legs are weak beneath me, but I take them two at a time, wanting to put what I’ve seen, and now know, behind me.

GABRIEL OPENS THE OVEN AND pulls out a rack of fresh scones. The apartment fills with the sweet scent of butter, eggs, and vanilla, which makes me ravenous, and also reminds me of Gram, and the delicious cakes she would make from scratch whenever we had down time in the shop.

Gabriel and I don’t chat much in the morning, but we have fallen into a comfortable routine. I put on the coffee, while he retrieves the Times from the entry downstairs. He comes upstairs, hands me the paper, and goes into the kitchen. Gabriel is from the Land of the Proper Breakfast. There has to be something hot served, or it’s considered cheating. For example, Gabriel doesn’t eat a bagel out of the sack or pour himself a bowl of cereal. Breakfast is bigger than that.

A bagel must be oven toasted, then served on a platter with a dollop of cream cheese, a fan of smoked salmon, chives, and capers, with a side of fresh-squeezed orange juice. Eggs are on the menu three times a week, either poached or scrambled or whipped into a healthy scrapple of fresh onions, peppers, spinach, and egg whites in a skillet.

I believe my new roommate is adding years to my life span with his healthy eating habits (if I skip the desserts!). I never drank pomegranate juice until he moved in, and now every Sunday morning I have a glass.

Despite all Gabriel’s positive influences in the health department, I’ve been having trouble sleeping. The apartment, usually neat and tidy, is in disarray while Gabriel sorts through his boxes and figures out what to keep and what to store. Down in the shop, June and I do our best to keep the mood light, but it’s nearly impossible, since Alfred, who used to invoke my wrath, now drains the same well of emotion leaching my pity. Who would have thought after years of avoiding him, now I’d be worried about him.

I can’t mention Kathleen and The Kiss to him, and he certainly isn’t volunteering an explanation. We never communicated well, and now it’s worse. The jabs are gone, replaced with self-loathing silence. I long for the days when I could ignore him, and just do my work. But now he’s made that impossible. He has changed. Imperious Alfred has been replaced with a sullen version, practically depressed, and terribly sad.