Adriana Trigiani - Brava, Valentine

The final and most dramatic touch looms overhead. Gabriel made (by himself!) an awning out of lavender duck cloth. He trimmed the Greek key edges in white, and stretched it across four brass poles, anchored into the roof. This canopy creates an al fresco living room. My mother is overjoyed-finally, she has access to a glamorous outdoor space worthy of the ritziest guests at the Carlyle Hotel.

I press the flesh of ruby red tomatoes. Gram would be so pleased. It has been a great summer for tomatoes. I sent her pictures of the harvest over e-mail, and she returned the favor by sending me a picture of Dominic standing at the base of a twelve-foot sunflower that he grew in their backyard in Arezzo. We have a healthy competition between our transcontinental gardens.

I pluck the ripe tomatoes and place them carefully in a basket. I’ve lined up four bushel baskets: one for Mom, one for Tess, one for Jaclyn, and one for Alfred.

The newly painted screen door snaps open.

“Hi.” Mackenzie looks around the roof. “Gabriel said I’d find you here.”

“Here I am. This is a nice surprise,” I tell her.

“Wow, what a burst of color up here. Lots of purple.” She comes out onto the roof, shielding her eyes from the sun that has begun its late afternoon descent over New Jersey. Mackenzie is dressed in black linen pants and a cropped white jacket with bell sleeves. Her tennis bracelet dazzles against her tanned summer skin in the late afternoon sun.

“Isn’t it great? Gabriel has redone the building. Except the workshop, of course.” I dig my trowel at the base of the tomato plants. The rich, dark earth turns easily. “Bret said you had a dinner date.”

“We’re going to Valbella on 13th Street.”

“It’s very romantic. Just the two of you?” I ask.

“Yeah.” She looks around the roof as though she’s searching for something she has lost.

“A little pre-back-to-school/end of summer celebration?”

She just looks at me without answering. This friendly visit is not so friendly. “Valentine, I know about you and Bret.”

“Excuse me?”

“Oh, come on,” she says impatiently. “I know he still has feelings for you.”

“Feelings?” Is she kidding? I hold up my hands in floral garden gloves with spores of plastic grips on the backside. “You could not be more mistaken. We’re old friends. And that’s it.”

“I’ve read the e-mails.”

“What e-mails?”

“Let me quote. ‘You’re the best, what would I do without you?’ You sign love-and x’s and o’s. I’ve seen them. I’m not stupid-those mean hugs and kisses.”

“But that’s the way I sign off-I do that with everybody. Customers even. I just sent a big round of XO’s to Craig Fissé at Donald Pliner. You can’t be serious.”

“Okay, fine, whatever. But you’re doing it with my husband, and I don’t like it.”

“I won’t sign my e-mails to Bret in that fashion anymore.”

“Whatever.” She looks away.

Her dismissive attitude annoys me. So I say, “Mackenzie, it’s impossible for me to be involved with your husband.”

“Impossible?”

“I’m in love with someone else,” I blurt. I have no idea where that came from. I’ve come to a place of acceptance about blowing my relationship with Gianluca. It’s almost as if the sadness of losing Gianluca for good walks with me through the ordinary business of my life, like an old faithful dog. I won’t tell Mackenzie that the love I profess is unrequited, and that I wait by the mailbox hoping Gianluca will write to me, or that I reread his old letters as though they’re still true.

“Oh.” She looks down at her bracelet, and spins it around her wrist by flicking the diamonds one by one.

Her nonchalance is a strange reaction, given the fact that she hiked all the way up to the roof to confront me about my internet x’s and o’s. “Mackenzie, you know good and well that I’m not involved with your husband. You know that he loves you and your daughters. What’s really going on here?”

“What do you mean?” she says.

“This phony thing you’re doing.”

The word phony catches her off guard. “Phony?”

“Trumped up. You know Bret is not interested in me. Besides, you don’t have the indignation of a woman scorned.”

“Look, I read the e-mails, and I’ve had my suspicions all along,” she argues.

“If there is a man to be trusted on the planet, it’s your husband. But you know that, because you’ve actually read the e-mails. Deep down, you know the truth. You know that they are entirely innocent. You want to tell me what you’re really doing here?”

“I don’t know what you’re asking me.”

“You’re looking for evidence against your husband. Why?”

Mackenzie does not answer me.

“If my e-mails are the most suspicious communication you’ve found, you got nothing,” I tell her.

I’m tempted to tell her how many women throw themselves at Bret, but I’m not going to engage this nonsense.

I continue, “You are very lucky to have married a good man who loves you.”

“I’m sick of hearing about how great he is. He’s not perfect. Nowhere close.”

“I didn’t say he was perfect.”

“We’re having problems, okay? But I’m sure you knew all about that, given how much time he spends here.”

“I don’t know anything,” I lie. “He only tells me how much he loves you and how proud he is of you and the girls.”

“Okay. Well, look, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I accused you of something that you aren’t guilty of. It’s just that you two have a history, and I guess I just assumed that it was more.”

I can’t believe her tone of voice. She is actually disappointed that I’m not having an affair with her husband. She came up here looking for weapons of mass destruction, and all she found were tomatoes. Mackenzie turns to go. I stop her.

“I don’t know what’s going on here, and it’s really none of my business. But what you have-you know, a good man and two beautiful, healthy girls-it’s not just a given in life, it’s an actual gift. And sometimes we mistake a malaise for something worse. You shouldn’t do that. You earn your future happiness when you fight for it. He’s worth it. You’re worth it.”

“You’re not married. I don’t think you understand.”

I hold up my trowel. “Fair enough. I’m not a marriage expert. But I have been friends with your husband since we were kids. And out of all the women in the world, he chose you.”

“I don’t know if that’s true.”

“What do you mean?”

“I chose him . I was twenty-eight. I wanted to be married by thirty. And I wanted a baby right away, so we had the baby. And then Bret really pushed for the second baby, and I went along with it. And now I’m a full-time mom.”

“But isn’t that what you want?”

“I miss the city.” Mackenzie goes to the edge of the roof and looks out over the Hudson River with the same sense of complete awe and peace that I do. If she could drink the river in, she would. She turns to me. “I miss conversations with grown-ups. I have them, but you know, I always feel like I’m cheating on my life. I’m torn every single day.”

“You’re tired. Chasing kids is the hardest work in the world.”

“I mean, I’m grateful for all I have. I am,” she says. “But the life I have…is not enough.”

“Does Bret expect you to stay home?”

“I don’t know. It’s how it’s worked out. We didn’t really talk about it.”

“Maybe you should.”

“I need a purpose. You know, something that I create. That’s all mine. Bret has a life. He goes off every morning to work, full of ideas. I remember having an idea! He’s challenged. I love a challenge. My husband goes to work, and he uses his mind. Since I quit working, I don’t use my mind. Where is my creativity?”