Adriana Trigiani - Brava, Valentine

He looks up at me, and the expression on his face is heartbreaking.

“Listen, Valentine. I know you don’t really need me in Argentina. I just need to get away.”

My brother is suffering. I’ve never seen him like this. No matter how I felt about him all of these years, and how he perceived me, he’s in pain, and he needs to talk.

“Alfred, what is going on in your life?”

My brother gets tears in his eyes. The last time I saw him get misty was at our grandfather’s funeral. They were a lot alike, and Alfred felt he was losing the most important man in his life when Grandpop died. Nothing we could say or do would cheer him up. He seems as sad in this moment as he was that day.

“I’m a jerk,” he says. “I never intended for anything like that to happen.”

“Are we talking about Kathleen?” I ask.

He nods. “I thought I’d go my whole life living in a way that I believed in.”

“So…it did happen.” Clearly, I didn’t catch a first kiss. I caught a hot in-the-middle-of-an-affair kiss that was about to become more. “What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know.”

His answer shocks me, because my brother always knows exactly what to do.

“What do you mean, you don’t know?” I say gently. “You have Pamela and the boys. Does she know?”

He shakes his head no. “I haven’t let her know anything lately. It took me two weeks to tell her when I was let go from the bank. I got dressed every morning and got on the train as usual. I’d come into the city and sit in Central Park and think. And then at five, I’d get back on the train and go home, having rehearsed a way to tell her what happened-and then I’d get home and I couldn’t tell her I’d… failed .”

The thought of my brother wandering around the city in a suit with no place to go brings tears to my eyes. He could have come here, to the shop. We could have had coffee at Gram’s table. He could have gone to the roof to be alone and think. But Alfred couldn’t admit defeat-not even to his own sister.

“Alfred, listen to me. The wolf has been at the door so many times over the years that we invite him in for manicotti. At least we have this business to hang on to, and this little shop might save all of us. Our great-grandfather built something for us, and long after his death, he continues to take care of our family-through these shoes. It’s a beautiful thing-not a failure-to work here. We own it. It’s ours .”

“I’m ashamed of myself,” he says quietly. “I judged our grandparents all these years. You know, I thought they were simple, and that was a lesser thing-to be simple-to work, plain and hard, till you were so tired your back ached so deeply, you couldn’t stand up. Grandpop would put in such long days, working so hard, he had to soak his fingers in ice water at night.”

“I remember. The calluses on his fingers never went away.”

“And now I’m here. Just like he was-they were. I went to a fancy school and got a big degree, and now I’m back here.”

“Is it so terrible?”

“No,” Alfred says softly.

“So why are you sad?”

“Because…it’s not enough.”

“Oh, boy.” I take a sip of my coffee. “So that’s why Kathleen.”

Alfred doesn’t answer.

We sit in silence until he says, “I’m sorry you walked in on us. I’m a hypocrite. Maybe you even like that I’m one.”

“Come on, Alfred.”

He looks up at me. “At least let me be ashamed of myself.”

“Too late. Self-flagellation is not going to help you now.”

“It’s over. With Kathleen, I mean.”

“That’s a start.”

“What else can I do? I can’t even face myself. I have to tell Pamela.”

“Oh God, no! You can’t tell her. This is one secret you need to keep until you’re dead.”

“But I’ve broken my vows! I have to ask forgiveness.”

“What good would it do? Pam’s already terrified about the future. She’s not a girl who can heavy-lift. She’s a good woman and a fine mother, and I’m sure a pretty wonderful wife, but she’s not one to stare into the fire and find the meaning. Keep this to yourself. Forever.”

“But how can I move forward if I don’t tell her?”

“You got dressed and went to an imaginary job for two weeks and never told her! You’ve proven that you can keep a secret. You’d only hurt her, and the truth of the matter is you’d end up feeling better and she’d end up feeling worse. As the guilty party, you have to bear the burden here, not Pamela. Love builds in a series of small realizations.” I quote Gianluca’s letter to my brother. As soon as it’s out of my mouth, I’m surprised I retained it, and even more surprised that I believe it. But in an instant, I see exactly what Gianluca meant.

“And then once it’s built?” Alfred asks. “Then what?”

“You hold on, I guess.” I take a deep breath.

Alfred nods. “That makes sense.”

“Try and remember why you chose Pamela in the first place. Go back to the beginning. Think of the things you couldn’t live without-and the things you couldn’t wait to live with-and then marry her all over again.”

“All right, Sis.” Alfred turns and goes back to his work.

I wipe my eyes on my sleeve. My brother hasn’t called me “Sis” since we were kids. He needs me, and in all my life, I never thought he would.

On top of everything else I’ve had to learn, I have to learn how to be a sister to my brother again. I imagined battling my brother in our version of the Hundred Years’ War for the rest of our lives. For what? For validation. And here it is, the moment when he needs mine.

Talk about shame. I have it. I thought if I ever had the chance to one-up Alfred, I would make him pay, and enjoy every second of his misery. But he’s my brother, and his unhappiness and broken heart are as real as my own.

I Skype Gram. Her face comes up on the computer screen.

“Take me through your pizelle recipe. I have a little competition going with Gabriel.”

“Got a pencil?”

I nod that I do.

“Okay, melt down a pound of butter and set it off to the side. Then take one dozen eggs, three cups of sugar. Beat those together. Then drop in two tablespoons of peach schnapps. Throw in four tablespoons of vanilla. Then take seven cups of flour and eight teaspoons of baking powder-add the dry to the wet. Then, preheat my press-it’s in the kitchen…”

“I got it.”

“…and take my shot glass-you know, the one with the Empire State Building on it?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s the one. You dip it into the bowl of batter. I don’t know why the shot is the exact amount of batter you need, but it is. Pour batter onto the hot griddle-but in the back, not in the center. And it will spread-and when it bubbles up, lower the top half of the iron down-and then it’s seconds before it bakes through.”

“Thanks, Gram.”

“How’s Alfred?”

“He’s all right.” I smile. “You might even say we’ve hit a new level of understanding. It turns out that Alfred Michael Roncalli is a human being.”

“You didn’t know?” She laughs.

“You’re the one who made him a saint.”

“I think your mother had something to do with that.”

“A little. But you’re the one who encouraged her.”

“True. What did he do that made him human?” Gram asks.

“He failed.”

“Even bankers make mistakes.” Gram shakes her head. “Was it a doozy?”

“It was. And he was sorry.”

“I’m happy you could forgive him.”

“I did better than that, Gram, I helped him figure out how to forgive himself.”

“I’m proud of you,” Gram says, then adds breezily, “Gianluca stopped in this afternoon.” Gram’s nonchalance is completely transparent. She leans into the screen and whispers, “Am I not supposed to know anything?”