Adriana Trigiani - Brava, Valentine

“And what’s the first?” He smiles.

“Complimentary.”

He laughs as he shows me to the glass doors that lead through the outdoor gardens to La Mansion, a French inspired villa, the original hotel building behind the modern tower. As he opens the doors, soft teal beams of light shoot up from the ground onto the stone façade, etched in scrollwork. Romantic balconies jut out over the garden, spilling over with greenery and lush white blossoms. The effect is pure Marie Antoinette, Rococo details and neoclassical design in the heart of Buenos Aires.

I follow the porter outside and through the gardens to the entrance. I tiptoe, looking over the hedges to the oval swimming pool, anchored by waterfalls. The pool is the color of lapis, a blue so deep it’s practically indigo. The surface shimmers in the light as though it’s been sprinkled in gold dust.

The porter opens the door to my room, which isn’t a room at all but an opulent suite, with a large living room decorated in moss green and honeysuckle yellow, in French toile and deep rose velvet. “It’s too much,” I say aloud.

The porter nods. I’m sure he’s heard that before.

He loads my luggage into a closet as big as my bedroom in New York. I tip him, and he goes, leaving me to wander through the beautifully appointed rooms. I open the louvred doors that lead out onto the balcony. The breeze blows through and billows the silk draperies like regal capes.

The balcony has a view of La Recoleta. The endless sky over the city’s many neighborhoods is not obstructed by buildings or mountains. The city below seems carved into the earth like an intricate mosaic of colored tiles. The stars poke through the night sky like silver straight pins.

I kick off my shoes and lie back on the king-size bed. I’ve fallen into a vat of feathers, and the pristine white sheets carry the scent of a clean summer day. Paper crackles under my back. I must be lying on the breakfast order form. I reach under and pull out the paper. But it’s not a menu. It’s an envelope addressed to me, in a familiar script, handwritten with a fountain pen, in cobalt ink.

A total surprise. A letter from Gianluca. I open the envelope slowly, so as not to tear it. I pull out the letter inside, unfolding the sheer paper carefully. Okay, signor. Redeem yourself.

14 maggio 2010

Cara Valentina,

I hope you had a restful flight, and that your room, with its balcony, pleases you. I know you like to sit outside at night, under the moon.

I’m in the tower on the eleventh floor, looking out over the city. I am taking a swim at the pool by the mansion. Perhaps you would like to join me.

I put the letter down. Dear God. My heart is pounding. I think I’m having a stroke. I could use Aunt Feen’s blood pressure cuff right about now. He is here . In Buenos Aires. Now! Right now! In the next building! I inhale deeply and continue to read his words.

…then, if it pleases you, I thought we would have dinner. If you are tired, of course I understand, and will see you in the morning. And only…if that also pleases you.

Love,

Gianluca

I spring off the bed like I’m tinsel that’s been shot out of a New Year’s party horn. Please me? Oh, he has no i dea.

I go to my suitcase in the closet and zip it open. I shuffle through the ziplock bags lined up like selections in the frozen food bin of a grocery store, searching for my bathing suit. Did I pack one? No. Now what do I do? The gift shop! I wonder if the gift shop is open.

As I turn to go to the hotel manual by the phone to call the front desk, I see a box on the closet shelf, tied with purple ribbon. My name, in Gianluca’s familiar script, is written on the tag.

I open the box. It’s a bathing suit. A tasteful yet sexy black one-piece maillot, with a plunging V in the front and sheer black mesh panels on the sides. It’s a classic suit. And it’s retail; this is no Chuck Cohen knockoff from the Loehmann’s sale bin.

I take off my clothes and slip into the suit. Even the mirrors in this hotel are flattering. Then I remember it’s chilly outside. I plow through my suitcase again and find a black velour hoodie and pants. (My mother insisted I bring it; “It’s casual chic for breakfast in the hotel,” she said. Yes, yes, Mama is always right.) I pull it on over the suit. I slip into a pair of black Bella Rosa flats, and grab the keys.

I almost skip through the mansion foyer and out the door to the gardens. Then, like an eighteenth-century duchess in a maze looking for her lover, I zig-zag until I figure out a direct path, and run through the hedges, toward the pool, to him.

I slow down as I approach the deep blue water, lit from within.

The pool reminds me of the lakes inside the Blue Grotto in Capri. The surface ripples in the breeze. I look around. I’m alone. No Gianluca. Was it a dream? Did I imagine the invitation? No, I couldn’t have-who dreams up a new bathing suit? But I read the letter so fast-maybe I missed the instructions. Did he say to call first? I’m about to turn to go back to the room to call him when I hear, softly, from behind:

“Ciao.”

I turn to face Gianluca. In this light, he’s actually more handsome than he was at Gram’s wedding. How is this possible?

“How was your trip?” he asks.

“Who cares?” I throw my arms around his neck. He laughs. The strong tilt of his nose and his firm jawline are as sleek and fine as the carved river stones that form the waterfall behind him.

“How do you like the room?” he asks.

“Did you upgrade me?”

“I cannot upgrade you. You cannot upgrade the very best.”

“Do you always say the right thing?”

His expression, his eyes, the color of the deepest night sky, so clear, say more than his letters ever could about how he feels about me.

Gianluca takes my hands in his. The rush of feelings that goes through me is familiar, yet completely new. I reach up to embrace him, I kiss his cheeks, his nose, and then he pulls me so close, my face rests in his neck like a velvet collar. His lips find mine, and this time, I’m ready.

“Did you come alone?” he whispers in my ear.

“Yes.”

“No nieces?”

“No.”

“No nephews?”

“Uh-uh.”

“No Aunt Feen?” He kisses my ear.

“No, none of the above.”

“Just you? Alone?”

“I swear.”

He kisses me tenderly. I’m lost in the moment-I forget the country, the hemisphere, the place. As we kiss, I could be anywhere-we are anywhere, the corner of Hudson Street, or the platform of the train station in Forest Hills, or high on the cliffs of Anacapri when the moon is out-it doesn’t matter. There is no world outside this kiss. Everything is a blur, forgotten, gone. The wind rustles the satin leaves of the eucalyptus trees, filling the air with the scent of clean mint.

“Do you really want to swim?” I ask.

“Do you?”

“Well, the suit fits.” I unzip my hoodie.

Gianluca laughs. “Then we swim.”

I dive into the pool; the water is as warm as a bath.

Gianluca dives in and finds me in the water. His arms wrap around me like silk ropes. I kiss his neck. “Your last letter was terrible.”

He laughs. “Too short?”

“It read like instructions for assembling a washing machine.”

“My apologies.”

“If you’re going to seduce me…”

“Tell me how.”

“As if you need instructions.”

“Tell me what you need.”

“I don’t know. I like when you compared me to a peony. That was good. And when you write how you feel. That’s always good. Here’s the deal, Gianluca. Have I mentioned that I like to say your name? It has the entire history of Italian civilization in its delivery. At least I think so.”