Adriana Trigiani - Brava, Valentine

“I have no idea.”

“Because we have never ever had sex, and we never ever will. Our relationship is the most satisfying of all because we will never disappoint each other.”

I stand back from the mirror as June models the gift I bought her in the Palermo barrio in Buenos Aires. The box I sent from the hotel finally arrived. In the age of texting, old-fashioned mail seems to take a lifetime to reach its destination. “What do you think? Handmade.”

“I am loving this!” June buckles the low-slung belt of braided leather with a hammered silver belt buckle low over her tunic. She turns to see the view from the back in the mirror. “Is this sexy or what?”

“Very sexy on you.”

“You know, I’ve never been to South America. All my travels, and I never went there. I did Mexico. And a soft-spoken Mexican named Gordo.”

“So many countries, so little time.”

“And now I’m old. That bus is parked permanently. The battery is dead. And I can’t remember where I put the jumper cables.”

“I doubt that, June.” I pour a cup of coffee for June, and then one for me. “How do you think Alfred is doing?”

“I believe the affair has ended,” June says.

“Good.”

I have been playing catch-up in the shop for most of July and August. I haven’t had an in-depth conversation with my brother. We have so much to sort out about the business that Kathleen’s name has barely come up. “I think my brother realized what he had at home.”

“Maybe he did. You know, I’ve had a married man here and there. And there’s laws of the jungle where they’re concerned. Now, I say this as a free, single woman who was once upon a time involved with a married man-or twice upon a time, back in the day, and I’m not particularly proud of that. But in the case of a fella named Bob DuPont-not those DuPonts, I’m never that lucky-I learned from him that a married man doesn’t want to see himself as someone who is out there looking just for sex, even though the point of having an affair is sex, it’s exactly what you’re looking for. But we’re intellectual animals, and we like to think that there’s something more involved than the dovetailing of two libidos. But when the sex wanes-and it always wanes, honey, trust me-you have to justify the time spent. So you have a few dinners to wind down, some without dessert and some with ‘dessert,’ if you know what I mean. You have to shed tears of ‘poor us, had we only met in another time,’ but this conversation only happens after you know the affair is kaput. Then you feel cleansed. You are able to say good-bye and move forward. That’s what Kathleen and Alfred have done, I’d bet on it.”

“I hope so.”

“You know, I feel for your brother. It’s no secret that I’ve always thought he was a prig. He’s sanctimonious, and those are the first ones to fall. And when they do, they hit the ground hard, like a lead pipe. The pious types are tortured by their own weakness.”

“I’ve learned a lot about Alfred since he came to work here. For the first time in his life, my brother is making mistakes. It’s been painful to watch, but at least he’s learning from them.”

“Do you think his wife knows?” June asks.

“I told him not to tell Pamela anything about it-ever. No good would come of that.”

“You’re right. I am not one for true confessions-not ever. I think they’re cruel. Besides that, time is the only thing that can soften the impact of a hard fall. Always has and always will.” She sips her coffee. “So, what about you?”

“I’m trying to get over Gianluca.”

“Still? Have you written to him?”

I shake my head that I haven’t.

“Why don’t you try?”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Sure you do.”

“No, June, I really don’t.”

“Why don’t you start by writing how you feel about him?”

“I don’t think he’d believe me.” During our fight, I flailed around, unable to express my true feelings. He stood firm while I grappled. This is the difference between an impulsive woman and a wise man. He knew what I was going to say before I said it.

“Of course he would. He’d believe you,” June assures me. “He’s in love with you.”

“He was in love with me. He was so furious with me that he got on a plane and went back to Italy. He crossed continents to get away from me.”

“You’re under his skin.”

“In a bad way.”

“That is yet to be determined,” June says. “You know, when you went with the chef, I was worried. Roman wasn’t as smart as you. Nice guy. Roving eye-I don’t blame him, he can’t help that, it’s in a man, or it’s not. But this Gianluca is different. He really understands you. I don’t think you should walk away from that so quickly. Why don’t you call him?”

“I’d just cry.”

“Then write to him.”

June goes to the desk and pulls typing paper off the printer. She grabs a pen from the cup. “Here.” She hands me the paper and pen, clears the corner of the cutting table, and kicks the rolling stool toward me. I sit.

August 28, 2010

When I write the date I realize the entire summer has passed without a word between Gianluca and me.

Dear Gianluca,

I don’t know if you remember me, but we were together in Buenos Aires in June and I made you so angry you got on a plane and went home. I think about you every day and feel terrible, then there’s the night, when I feel worse. I’m writing this letter to apologize for being such a fool. I never meant to mislead you or to hurt you, but I managed to do so many things wrong that I lost you. I hope that you’ve found happiness with a normal woman who treats you well. But if you haven’t, I know a real nut here in New York City who would give everything she has to see you again. I’m writing this on thick paper from the printer, because it’s an impulse letter and I’m not stopping to run up the stairs for pretty stationery. (At least I’m not writing to you on the back of a button order form or a water bill.) I remember how it felt when you held me the whole night through, and how I wished I could reach up and push the sun back over the horizon just to buy a few more hours of that bliss. But I can’t control everything-and maybe I control nothing. I only know that my heart is broken without you-and maybe sometime, if you can forgive me, you might think about coming home.

Love,

Valentina

This has been the summer of broken hearts (mine) and paint fumes (Gabriel’s). When Gabriel was done with the Re-Fabulous (as he calls it) of the second floor, he turned his attention to the roof. He allowed me to keep the tomato plants (mainly because we eat them), but everything else needed and received a facelift. Those items that could not be refurbished were banished.

He sanded the old wrought iron table and chairs and repainted them deep lilac. He made new seat cushions for the seats (Cecil Beaton-inspired, bold black-and-white stripes).

Saint Francis of Assisi got power-washed and painted eggshell white. He fixed the hose in the fountain-which my mother swears has been broken since 1958-and now free-flowing with sacred water once more, it is affixed with tiny pin lights (for night drama), and scattered with blossoms in the clamshell.

He even painted the old black charcoal grill a deep lilac to go with the furniture. “It looks like a spaceship for my people,” Gabriel said when he stood back and viewed his handiwork. “Italians?” I said. “No, the gays,” he corrected me. Our grill now resembles a giant L’Eggs egg, the container for fine women’s hosiery formerly found at D’Agostino’s on a spin rack.