Adriana Trigiani - Brava, Valentine

“Your father cheated too?”

“Of course.”

“Is it inevitable?”

“There’s a study. Around sixty percent of all people in long-term relationships stray. Except, I don’t go by those statistics. They say five percent of all people are gay, but that number can’t be right-if you count up the hairdressers alone, you got at least fifteen percent of the general population right there. I think men have a hard time being men. Straight men at least.”

“Why?” I ask.

“Women give men a place to go. A man is a useless piece of equipment whose purpose is lost if it were not for women.”

“What are you talking about?”

He nods, warming to his subject. “It’s like this. A man might go out and get a job, but only for someplace to go during the day. And he’s only working that job to give the money to his wife. And then, if he does really well…to buy her good jewelry. And only because she asks for it. Diamonds aren’t a man’s idea. The first woman sent the first man into a hole in the ground, and when he emerged with the first diamond she looked at it and said, ‘It’s too small. Dig farther.’ Men are not ambitious outside of their desire to impress women. A woman, in return, gives a man’s life shape. A context. A place to go. It’s very simple.”

“You mean that every man is motivated not by ambition or power or wealth, but because he wants to please a woman?”

“Absolutely. Think about it. A straight man doesn’t care about surroundings, or good food-unless we’re talking Mario Batali or Tom Colicchio, but they’re an anomaly. No, women are the inspiration behind anything that has ever been invented, made, or built by men. Women, in fact, rule the world because of that power, and I’ve always thought it a waste that they don’t see that.”

If Gabriel is right, and I think he could be, I might still have a chance with Gianluca. If he lives to love and please a woman, why not me?

Gabriel continues, “If there were more of us, gay men would rule the world, because we have it all. We know how to create a place to go, and we like being in it. We’re homebodies with flair. We are. But we’re outnumbered by the straights. No, this life…is all about women. When you girls say it’s a man’s world-well, if only that were true! I’d be loving it. You ladies should own your power. You need to pick up the ball and run with it. I only use that analogy because of all the football talk at dinner.”

“Sorry about that. The men in my family mistook your lovely table for a tailgater.”

“If only straight men could take that passion they have for a ball flying through the air, and apply it to making the world better, they could fix global warming, ocean dumping, and mountaintop removal in the time it takes me to stuff a turkey.”

“Or make twenty individual soufflés.”

“I am handy, aren’t I?”

“Beyond.” I reach over and take Gabriel’s hand. We look up at the midnight blue sky.

“What’s to become of us, Valentine?”

“What do you mean?”

“We’re thirty-five years old.”

“That’s not old,” I say.

“It’s not young either. Do you ever think about the future?”

“I try not to.”

“You live in a bubble.”

“I like my bubble. It’s blue and shiny. And you should know, you did the interior decorating.”

“So stay there.” Gabriel smiles. “It’s a gorgeous Tiepolo blue, and it works well with your skin tone.”

“Thanks.” I don’t have the heart to ruin Gabriel’s holiday by admitting that I spend a lot of time worrying about the future. Time is passing, and I feel I have nothing to show for it. Sometimes I flip through my sketchbook and remember places and times, the color of the afternoon sun on old bricks or the exact shade of red on a cardinal that landed on the bench in Hudson River Park while I was drawing, but in general, I’m amazed at how quickly the days fade in my memory. What will I remember about these days ten years from now? Will I agonize that I didn’t do enough to build a life with a man that loves me? Will I be like June, who knows how to party but likes to go home alone? “Gabe, I have an idea. I don’t want to get the number elevens between my eyes. Why don’t you worry about the future for both of us?”

“Not a problem. Once this economy turns, I’m going to start to save money, and I’m going to get rich. I’m going to plan for my retirement. I’m going to need a lot of cash. A gay man living on social security on a fixed income? I don’t think so. The only fixed item I want in my life is that North Star up there.” Gabriel points up to the sky, where small specks of silver peek through the blue. “No, I’m going to need cash that flows . I need a big budget-just for decorative lamps. I’ve got a plan. How about you? What are you going to do with the second half of your life?”

I think for a moment. When I’m on this roof, I feel anything is possible and I have since I was a child. I search the sky as far as I can see beyond the point where the Hudson River meets the Atlantic Ocean. The answer lies somewhere between here and there, the home I love and know, and the greater world beyond, which I’m not so sure of.

Finally I say, “I want to love a man who can be true.”

“Aim low, wouldja?”

I laugh. “That’s all I want. And one other thing. Don’t ever leave me.”

“Where am I gonna go?” Gabriel asks.

“I don’t know. Away. Somewhere. My family is crazy.”

“I’ve seen worse,” Gabriel assures me.

The autumn moon slips behind tufts of low, gray clouds. “A storm is rolling in,” I say. And while I can’t be sure about the weather, somehow, when I say it aloud, it sounds like a promise.

GABRIEL AND I CARRIED OUR first Christmas tree home from Jane Street and decorated it last night-two full weeks before Christmas. We like a blue spruce scent for as long as we can have it.

I carry my morning coffee over to the sofa and put my feet up. There’s nothing like the twinkle of sky blue, soft gold, ruby red, and bright green lights glowing deep in the branches first thing in the morning. Watching the lights reflect in the old glass ornaments is the closest I will get to inner peace. This has been some year. Gabriel and I couldn’t decorate the tree fast enough. We figure, with the way our family holidays have been going, celebrate early and celebrate often, because you never know.

“Val, Alfred and Bret are downstairs.” Gabriel stands at the top of the stairs.

“Is June in?”

“Any minute.”

“I’m on my way.”

I follow Gabriel down the stairs and into the shop.

Bret gives us each a report. “So here’s what’s happening. In about an hour, Shelley Chambers DaSilva is going to come into the shop and observe. She wants to see what inspires your designs, how June and Gabriel cut patterns, and Alfred’s role as your brother and business partner. She’s a consultant, and she reps the major department stores. They send her out to see how you create your product. She’s on the lookout for a solid operation with good business practices. She’s looking at you, Val, to understand your approach and sensibility and how Angelini shoes fit in their overall selling plan.”

“You should show her your new sketches. Like the La Boca ,” Alfred says. “That’s a real calling card.”

“Thanks.” I look at my brother, who has been here since dawn. His methodical style, left over from years as an executive in the banking industry, comes in handy on mornings like these, when we have to present our wares to a wider world. The folders are neatly labeled on the cutting table; there’s a cup of number 2 pencils, a pot of coffee brewing, and a small box containing batteries and cords in case Ms. DaSilva’s laptop needs a boost. Alfred considers every scenario always. I’ve come to rely on his sense of detail in business. “Have you told the rep about our production deal in Buenos Aires?”