Adriana Trigiani - Brava, Valentine

“Me too.” I reach into my purse for Gianluca’s handkerchief. My brother’s sweet comment, coming from a guy who isn’t known for those, moves me.

“Why are you crying?” Alfred says.

“Oh, I don’t know, about a million things.” I rarely cry, so when I have a good sob, it’s about everything . I’m sad about my relationship with my brother, who I will never be close to after a lifetime of trying. I cry about the changes ahead back home, and how much I will miss Gram. I weep because I don’t have a date to this shindig and because world peace has not been achieved in my lifetime. I just let it flow.

The door to the restaurant opens, and a woman enters. She’s a knockout, a tall blonde in a jet-black mink coat. My mother looks up-she has a sixth sense whenever a sable enters a room.

Every head in the room turns to drink in the sight of this mysterious goddess, and the men’s heads stay turned. It’s as if invisible LoJacks have been attached to their necks and rotated in her direction. Yes, she is that beautiful. “Maybe she is here to pick up take-out,” I say to Tess.

“Don’t think so,” she says softly.

The bombshell is followed by Gianluca, who guides her by the arm to the table. He helps her out of her coat. The men exhale like they’ve found middle C on the pitch pipe as they drink her body in. Her shape is lushly proportioned: tiny waist, ripe bust and hips-like a bow tie on its side. Her bella figura lives up to her bella faccia .

“You got to be kidding me,” Tess says under her breath. “Gianluca brought a date ?” Tess yanks her purse from the chair she was saving for him and shoves it under the table. “He’s on his own.”

I’m stunned. Maybe I’ll switch seats. There’s an empty next to the bachelor Gepetto.

Gram, unaware of the goddess, leans over me and takes my hand. “Valentine, what did you think of the ceremony?”

“It was perfect.”

“I think so.” Gram smiles. “How was the carriage ride?”

“Like a hayride to the pumpkin patch,” Aunt Feen complains loudly. “Bumpy, rickety and annoying…like old age.” Then she picks up her glass of champagne and drains it like she’s dousing a parched houseplant upon returning from a two-week vacation at the shore. Tom quickly refills her glass.

“It was quaint,” I correct her.

“Too much hoopla.” Aunt Feen dabs her lips with the napkin. “Simplicity should be a goal in life.”

Gianluca brushes past us to greet the guests at the far end of the table.

Tess scoots her seat back.

“Where are you going?” I don’t want her to leave me.

“I’m going to say hello to the blonde,” she says.

“Why?”

“It’s a fact-finding expedition,” she says, then whispers, “make friends with the enemy.”

“I’m going with you.” I take a swig of champagne and follow my sister. When I stand, my pearls rattle like Marley’s chains in A Christmas Carol .

“Hello!” Tess says to the lady.

“Ciao.” The mink lady’s blond hair cascades over her bare shoulders, accentuated by a portraiture sweetheart neckline on a black velvet strapless (of course) cocktail dress. Her green eyes are framed by thick black eyelashes. She’s downright hypnotic. She wears a luscious perfume that has the scent of lavender and honey. I can’t tell how old she is, and it doesn’t matter. She’s one of those women who can’t be placed in a particular decade.

“ Parla inglese? ” Tess chirps.

She replies, “ Un po .”

“Che nomme? ” I ask.

“ Mi chiamo Carlotta ,” she says. Then she points to Tess and me. “ Sorelle? ”

“Si , si , siamo sorelle .”

Tess says, “ Teodora é la nostra nonnina .”

“Boy, that Rosetta Stone program paid off,” I compliment my sister.

“Si ,” Tess nods proudly.

My father, brother, and the men from the village gather around behind us, squeezing us closer to Carlotta. We encircle her like contestants in a cakewalk, and guess who’s the coveted grand prize, the Lady Baltimore layer cake?

Tess and I step back, our personal space violated by this intruding pack. This room is not large to begin with, and it’s best if everyone stays seated, but Carlotta is a lure, and her beauty and whatever else she’s got have created a tight stag circle around her. Tess and I turn to go back to our seats, and we have to actually push hard to break the seawall of men to return to our places.

Carlotta throws her head back and laughs as she chats with the adoring men. She is captivating. If I were Gianluca and had to choose between her and me in this moment, I’d go with Carlotta.

I look down at the garlands of pearls around my neck. This morning, they were chic, and now they seem more plastic than fashionable faux, more childish than sophisticated, and about twelve strands too many. I’m the overdecorated lower branches of a Christmas tree where the kids have free rein to hang ornaments. Cluttered. In contrast, Carlotta wears a simple gold chain around her long neck, 24K for sure. It nestles in her ample cleavage like two tributaries feeding into the Mighty Miss-i-ssip. The rope of gold glitters against her tawny skin.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Jaclyn says.

“I’ll bet you don’t.”

“You’re younger,” Jaclyn reasons.

“I don’t think that matters.”

“Well…you’re every bit as attractive as she is.” Tess’s brow furrows as she observes her husband pour Carlotta a glass of champagne. Even Charlie Fazzani is smitten.

“Let’s face it-she could do the Anita Ekberg turn in the Trevi fountain in La Dolce Vita better than Anita Ekberg. I could do the same scene, and all I’d be is…wet.”

Gianluca has joined the boys as they vie to dazzle Carlotta. I put my champagne flute down and head for the kitchen.

The kitchen is twice the size of the dining room. A chef, a tense man in his forties, and two cooks prepare the meal.

“ Avrebbe bisogno di un po’ d’aiuto? ” I ask.

The chef breaks a smile and shakes his head that he doesn’t.

“ Le dispiace se rimango a guardare mentre lavora? ”

He nods that I may. Better to be in this hot hell than the one in the dining room.

The cook pulls a large strainer out of a boiling vat of pasta. The steam sends clouds of mist over the worktable. The chef reaches up and grabs a copper pot shaped like a wok with a handle and puts it on a low flame. Then he spoons butter into the pan, followed by cream and a handful of sugar. Then he opens a small bottle of liqueur. He leans across the worktable for me to sniff. It’s a sweet brandy of some sort.

“ Questo l’ho fatto io . E’ un liquore fatto di pesche e more ,” he explains.

He drops a bit of the liquor into the butter and cream, then swishes the mixture around. The sweetest scent of a summer garden loaded with thickets of ripe berries rises from the pot.

The cook takes the pasta shaped like delicate rosettes and spills them into the pan of sauce without losing one to the floor or leaving one in the strainer. The chef lifts the pot to the worktable and flips the mixture, without using a spoon, until the rosettes are coated in the buttery cream sauce.

The second cook takes small plates and ladles the pasta onto the plates. The chef takes sprigs of sugared violets and places them in the center. The waiters gather the plates on their arms and exit to the dining room.

“ Mangia! ” the chef says, clapping his hands, shooing me out of his kitchen. But I want to stay. I want to watch him create our meal. I want to learn and retain his techniques. I want to wash dishes, scrub pots, anything, just so I won’t ever have to go back into the dining room and have to face this long meal of many courses with my family and Carlotta and Gianluca and the mess of it all. I’ve hit the wall. I want to go home. To the United States of America. To sleep in my own bed. Alone.