Adriana Trigiani - Brava, Valentine

“Sure, sure. You can send it right to Gabriel.”

“How’s the roommate situation working out?”

“I love it. Gram, you won’t believe the changes he’s made. The house is beautiful.”

“He’s got the energy to do it. I never did.”

Before Gram met Dominic, especially in the years after my grandfather died, I noticed that it was all she could do to put in a workday downstairs and then go up the stairs for dinner. Toward the end, I took over most of the chores; I would do the shopping and the cleaning. But beyond a coat of fresh paint, in the same colors that had always been on the walls, we never did much to upgrade our living space. Now I understand why she kept the same sofa for thirty-five years. There wasn’t the time or energy to look for a new one. Making shoes takes stamina; the business takes its toll on our time and resources, and whatever is left goes to the essentials.

“You will love the new look,” I promise her.

“I’m sure I will.”

“So have you seen Gianluca?” I ask.

“Not a lot. He’s been traveling to Florence quite a bit.”

My stomach turns. I imagine Gianluca in his Mercedes with a willowy redhead draped across the front seat, one of those Italian girls who speaks four languages, gives a great neck massage, and makes a killer dish of linguine alle vongole.

Gram continues, “The tannery is busy. Gianluca’s always working, it seems.”

“Yeah. Me too.” I couldn’t sound less enthusiastic. “Has he asked about me?” It’s out of my mouth before I can take it back.

“Gianluca?” Gram leans in. “No, he hasn’t, honey.”

“Well, do me a favor. Don’t tell him I asked you if he asked about me.”

Gram looks confused. And she should. Gianluca accused me of being a child, and I sound like one. At least he didn’t burden Gram with the whole Buenos Aires saga-although part of me wishes he had.

“Okay,” she agrees. After a slight pause she continues, “I’ll get that stuffing recipe right out to you.”

“Thanks.”

The screen goes black like my mood. Gianluca has totally moved on. No agonizing and regret for him! How adult! Maybe he’s even checking in on Carlotta from time to time-after all, nothing like reigniting an old fire and basking in that familiar glow. This is going to be a lovely holiday season around here. Thanksgiving and then Christmas, with a fresh pine tree, and me-single, lonely me…pining.

I wake up to the scent of fresh sage, pumpkin, and bread baking on Thanksgiving morning. I’m about to roll over and go to sleep, when I hear:

“Val, time to get up! I need a pair of hands down here.”

I sit up in bed and look out the window. The treetops along the Hudson River Park have only flecks of gold left on their mostly bare branches. The gray river looks like a shard of hammered silver where the sun hits the surface. “Coming!” I holler.

Gabriel is in the kitchen, running the mixer. He wears a black-and-white bandana around his head. He turns the mixer off. “Do the table for me. I spent half the night glittering the place cards.”

Gabriel dipped miniature fresh pumpkins in orange glitter, then stuck a small green flag, on which he had written the guest’s name in calligraphy, next to the stem.

“My, we are fancy.”

“Is there any other way?” Gabriel goes back to fluffing his pumpkin mousse.

June made a tablecloth out of orange cotton, and trimmed it in white fringe. I center it on the table. Then I take the tray of pumpkins and place them one by one down the center of the table on either side. I set the table with Gram’s china, which Gabriel set out and counted.

“No kiddie table?”

“I don’t believe in them. Sitting at the kiddie table scarred me for life. I won’t visit that agony on your nieces and nephews.”

“Hey, it’s your party.”

“And yours,” he reminds me.

I unpack a large solid chocolate turkey from Li-Lac’s on Hudson Street and place it on a gold serving dish. I open a bag of orange, green, and silver foil kisses and surround the turkey. The details of the table design were decided on a legal pad a week ago. I follow Gabriel’s plan down to the placement of the last foil kiss.

“What time are we expecting the family?” I ask.

“Noon. They’re going to the parade till eleven. Then they’ll catch Santa in Macy’s Square, hop the subway to Christopher, up to the roof for hot apple cider and chestnuts, and downstairs for carving of the bird. We’ll eat promptly at one thirty.”

“You play serious ball, my friend.”

“Have to. I’m doing soufflés for dessert. Can’t have those sitting around like Barney, the Macy’s balloon, when he hit the streetlight on Broadway and deflated. Not a good idea.”

“I love you for many reasons, Gabriel. Your soufflés might be number one.”

“Thank you. I love being loved by you. And I hope none of your love affairs work out-ever.”

“Well, Gabriel. You don’t have to worry about that. I am destined to be alone. You know what gay men and I have in common?”

“I’m dying to know.”

“We were not raised for happily ever after. That’s another reason why you and I have the perfect marriage. You understand that. I’m going up to the roof to start the grill,” I tell him.

“That’s a good wife,” he says as I go.

I grab the large cast-iron skillet and head up to the roof.

Gabriel winter-proofed the garden, and instead of putting old feed sacks on the plants, he took muslin from the shop and draped it over them, tying the material at the base of the containers with enormous red ribbons. Everything that man touches turns into art.

I load the charcoals onto the grill. I take a long matchstick and light it, throwing some lighter fluid on the coals. They ignite into orange flames, the exact color of the stubborn leaves that remain on the top branches of the maple trees across the highway.

I lean over the roof ledge and look down the Hudson to where the river opens up into the Atlantic Ocean. Gianluca is just an ocean away, I’m thinking, as I watch the white caps roll out to sea. “Stop it,” I say out loud. Stop thinking about that man! He does not want you anymore.

“Valentine.”

My mother hauls a sack of chestnuts across the roof. “Yoo-hoo.” Mom wears a pumpkin-colored suit with matching high heels. A brooch in the shape of a turkey, made with chocolate pavé stones, shines in the sun. “I didn’t want to scare you. What are you doing? You’re looking off to sea like a besmirched scullery maid in a Philippa Gregory novel.”

“Actually, I am pining. I’m going to be alone for my entire life, Ma.”

“I promise you that will not be the case.”

“How do you know?”

“A mother knows ,” she says definitively. “In the meantime, you and Gabriel have put together quite the holiday. The table looks gorgeous. We picked up Aunt Feen on the way in. She’s down in the kitchen grousing about the traffic. June is here, and she’s helping.”

“I’d better get down there.”

“Alfred called from his cell. He’s bringing the boys. Pamela is coming in from Jersey on the train.”

“Pamela didn’t go to the parade?”

“No. You know she hates crowds. She’s such a tiny little thing. She’d have been tossed to and fro.”

“Oh, yeah. Right.” Any deviation from Alfred and Pamela’s routine gives me a jolt of worry. Alfred assures me that everything is fine, but is it?

“What’s the matter?” Mom asks.

“I can’t shake him, Ma. The Italian.”

“I’m sorry.” Mom puts her arms around me. “Maybe you can go to Italy when you get the Bella Rosa launched. Maybe if you go there, Gianluca will listen to reason.”