Adriana Trigiani - Brava, Valentine

“You can’t trust FedEx in Italy any more than you can trust the fact that the olive oil they send over here is first cold pressed. Maybe he didn’t receive it.”

“He got it. The next morning. I tracked it.” I put down my pencil and push away from the table.

“Well, you don’t want to hear this from me, but I don’t think writing a letter is enough.”

“I poured my heart out!”

“You need to call him.”

“What would I say?”

“If you called him, you could hash this out once and for all. Find out if he still loves you. Then you can let this go. I always say, never mourn a man longer than you dated him.”

“That makes sense,” I admit. “But I need a reason to call.”

“Think of one.”

I had hoped that Gianluca would receive my letter and call me . The man I knew was direct. He was always clear about his feelings. Gianluca did not write to me after he received my letter. Whatever I wrote did not compel him to contact me. I wrote the letter to find out if he still cared. If he did, I wanted to invite him for Christmas. “I’d like to invite him for Christmas.”

“Here.” Gabriel hands me the phone. “Do it.”

I flip open my cell and scroll down to Gianluca. Before I press send, I imagine Christmas without him. I will be the good auntie, playing games with the kids, dressing new dolls, assembling toys. I’ll do the dishes and help the old folks move from table to couch and back again. I’ll serve wine, cut the timbale, light the candles. I’ll be useful. The thought of another holiday spent taking care of everyone else forces me to press the button. I hit send. The machine picks up in the shop. I cover the receiver. “I got the machine.”

“Leave a message!” Gabe whispers.

“Hi. Pronto . Gianluca? It’s Valentina. Um, I’m calling to see how you are-and if you have any plans for Christmas. I’d like to invite you here. Um. If you would like to come, please call me back. You have my number. Thank you.”

I hang up. “What do you think?”

“Charming,” Gabriel says dryly and goes back to his list.

I’m in the middle of a deep, delicious sleep when my cell vibrates on the nightstand. I reach for it, groggy and half asleep, and open it.

“Valentina? Is it too late?”

I sit bolt upright in bed.

“Gianluca?”

“Yes,” he confirms. “Is it too late?” he asks again.

“For us?” I blurt.

He laughs. “No, I meant late at night.”

I could die. I look over at the clock. “Oh, it’s about three o’clock in the morning. But, I’m awake.”

“I received your letter a few days ago,” he says.

“Oh.” This is all I can say, because I feel the boom is about to be lowered. Carlotta is rolling over in bed next to him, having forced him to call me and break this silly thing off so she can move in with her mink.

“I would like very much to come for Christmas. Thank you for the invitation,” he says. “I didn’t want to call until I had my tickets. You know, it’s not easy to travel at Christmastime.”

“I know.”

“Valentina, I need to tell you something.” He continues, “It’s something you said in your letter. You assumed I found someone else. The truth is, there is no one else.”

Tears fill my eyes. I wasn’t expecting this. I was hoping, yes. But I didn’t think, in a million years, that he still cared. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” he says plainly. “There can’t be anyone else, Valentina.”

“Why?” I wipe my tears on my pajama sleeve.

“Because there’s only you.”

“I’m so happy you called.”

“I’m sure about my feelings, Valentina. Are you?”

“Nothing will ever keep us apart again, Gianluca. I want your happiness more than my own. If you called and said that you had moved on, I would have been happy for you. That’s the truth.”

When I close the phone, I lie back on the pillows and look up at the ceiling. A small beam of light from the streetlight on Perry cuts across the ceiling, singular and clear. I stare at it for a long time. This isn’t a dream. After so long, Gianluca is on his way, and with him, the best Christmas of my life.

The passengers from Alitalia Flight 125 pour through the exit doors from Customs into the pickup lobby at JFK. I scan the crowd for Gianluca.

My BlackBerry vibrates in my pocket. I fish it out of my purse. A text pops up.

“Ciao.”

I look down at the word, then to the address that the message came from. GV@roma.net.

Me: Gianluca?

GV: It is me.

Me: Where are you?

GV: I live in 21 century. Look up now.

I throw my BlackBerry into my purse and look up.

Gianluca spots me as he comes through the doors. He holds his BlackBerry high in the air, triumphantly, like a trophy. He looks gorgeous-his hair is longer, and he wears a magnificent cashmere coat, long and black with slim lapels. I never knew him in winter, so it’s the first time I’ve seen him in a proper coat. He wears jeans and a navy turtleneck sweater underneath.

I am in love.

He takes me in his arms and kisses me. All of my sadness falls away, my grief about June, my depression about Alfred and Pamela, my empathy for Bret and Mackenzie-all of it goes. It’s just him and me, and these kisses, and the scent of his skin, his neck, citrus and leather. The sounds of the airport fade around me. I don’t hear the clanging carts, the shouts of the passengers, and the cop’s whistles outside baggage; I float in his arms.

“I love you,” I tell him. I waited until he was in my arms and I could say these words in person. I hold his face in my hands.

His blue eyes narrow. “Are you sure?” he teases.

“Oh, I am sure .”

“I love you, Valentina.” We hold each other in the crowd. I feel like I’ve been found for the first time in my life. I’ve been wandering through the world looking for something, for someone, and here he is, the love of my life, the love in my life.

I don’t even know how long the ride from JFK to Manhattan takes-the driver keeps complaining about the traffic, but I don’t notice. We kiss from baggage to Barrow Street, and barely let go of one another as he checks into the Soho Grand and we make it to the room.

The coat, the luggage, my dress, the purse, the shoes, the stockings, the hat, the gloves, all fall away like cherry blossoms when the wind kicks up on the last day of spring and there’s a snow shower of petals, and the air fills with pink blossoms and all that’s left behind are the bare branches where they once bloomed.

We make love, and it’s urgent, passionate, direct-I’m making love for every woman who has ever been in love, including June, who winks through the quarter moon, and encourages me to love this good man who loves me like no one else can or ever has. “Sex is life,” June used to say. She felt sorry for people who didn’t understand that, didn’t get it, and didn’t go for it. Sex is what tells us we’re alive, and we’re connecting, and roots us in the present.

I am learning what Gianluca wants from me.

It seems such a small thing to learn what a man wants, but for me, it’s an enormous lesson. I assumed Gianluca would tell me what he needed without having to ask him. I’ve learned to ask the questions, listen to the answers, and move with it.

Gianluca’s needs are simple, but if he is denied them, life becomes complicated-or maybe he becomes complex, or maybe they are one and the same. Gianluca craves time, open hours without plans, endless walks without destination, slowly prepared food, long meals, and conversation that ends in sleep, and resumes upon waking. He also needs me to be honest. I will happily tell him the truth, because now, in his arms, I’m living it.