Brava, Valentine

Me: Disaster in Italy.

Gabe: What?

Me: Aunt Feen hammered at the reception. Was hospitalized.

Gabe: OMG.

Me: Gets worse.

Gabe: How?

Me: Alfred fired at the bank-Gram put him in business with me.

Gabe: The Apocalypse!

Me: It’s here. I’m sucking flames.

Gabe: How’s John Lukka?

Me: Learn to spell. You’re Italian. GIANLUCA brought a date to the wedding.

Gabe: Expletive.

Me: Uh huh.

Gabe: Thought at least you’d get lucky.

Me: No such lukka.

Gabe: They cut my hours at the Carlyle.

Me: No!

Gabe: It’s go

Me: It’s only February.

Gabe: OK. Hard Candy Saint Patrick’s Day.

Me: I’m sorry.

Gabe: Come home.

Me: In a hurry.

There’s a knock at the door. I ignore it.

The knock becomes a series of small, persistent taps. Guilt washes over me. What if Aunt Feen has stopped breathing? What if my dad or mom is sick? I take a big gulp of the wine and throw my phone on the bed. I give up.

“Coming.” I open the door.

“Valentina.” Gianluca leans against the sash of the door and folds his arms. The fine gray wool of his morning suit appears pressed, as if he just put it on. The only indication that he’s been through the same long day I just endured is the loosened tie, a black-and-white-striped foulard whose undone knot gives him the sexy air of formal/casual sprezzatura-even at this hour.

“Hi.” I close my eyes and inhale the familiar scent of his skin, a combination of clean lemon and spicy leather, before I take a step back into my room. I wasn’t expecting him. Ever. I am in postevent decline: my mascara is smudged like raccoon tar pits underneath my eyes, my dress is half unzipped, and I smell like cheap dessert wine. What a confluence of lovely to lure this man into my lair. “Just a moment,” I say to him. I go to the bed, snap open my evening bag, and remove his handkerchief. “Here.” I hold it out for him. “Thank you.”

“I’m not here for the handkerchief.”

“Oh.” I fold the handkerchief in half, and then, after a few moments of silence, I turn it into an origami accordion in my hand. The hallway behind Gianluca is quiet and still. The only light comes from the security lamp at the far end of the corridor.

“I hoped that I might choose the right room,” he says.

“Aunt Feen is down the hall,” I tell him, waving in the general direction of her room. What a responsible guy. He came to check on his new aunt, the one with a drinking problem.

“How is she?” he asks.

“She’s sleeping it off.”

A few moments pass. I refold the handkerchief.

“Are you going to ask me in?”

I pause. Actually, I freeze. Ask him in? For what, exactly? Maybe Carlotta rebuffed him. Just like the paste version of real pearls, I’m her substitute. Or maybe that’s not it at all. Maybe it’s a business thing, and he wants to sell me some rare calfskin for the shop. Or maybe it’s an old debt. It’s possible that I owe him for the horse and carriage. All I know is that he’s standing there waiting…for something.

Oh, if only it were me. My secret hopes for a wedding-trip tryst with Gianluca hit the ground and burst into flames the moment he showed up with Carlotta at the reception. I didn’t see that coming; a woman with a love plan never does. My instincts did not serve me well, but to be fair, when I’m with my family, they never do. My instincts focus elsewhere-usually churning around some drama they’ve created. The pursuit of potential romance and family obligations do not mix.

When Gianluca left the hospital with Carlotta, I felt rejected. Ridiculous, I know. (You ca

And then there’s the digestif element, the concept of a treat at the end of an arduous night. I deserve a little romance and male attention after all I’ve been through on this trip. Payback for being a good sport and unpaid majordomo for my mother and sisters and their families. I have been an undesignated but completely used Extra Pair of Hands (my mother’s term) since we gathered at the airport. I lug, I tip, I assist, and I corral-and I do it with a smile.

I hauled my mother’s extra suitcases, counting them as my own so she wouldn’t have to pay extra. I administered my father’s glaucoma eye drops on schedule in Italian time. I helped my sisters with their kids, the patient maiden auntie who diverted their attention in the terminal when a fight was brewing, bought them candy to shut them up, and once on board played rounds and rounds of Tic-Tac-Toe on cocktail napkins until I thought my eyeballs would blow from their sockets and roll down the center aisle and into first class.

I also served as an unpaid assistant nurse for the geriatric travelers in our party. I fetched Aunt Feen’s meds, unwrapped her crackers from the cellophane, smeared them with cheese, and upon landing, became her two-legged cane/wheelchair stand-in, which has left me with a stiff shoulder and a sore lower back.

I’ve been perfect. And all I wanted in exchange for my suffering was a little comfort from a Tuscan ta

And now, who can imagine why, my self-confidence has…waned. I’m back at Holy Agony when I turned thirteen and was caught in the coat closet by Sister Imelda in the arms of Bret Fitzpatrick after our confirmation di

“May I come in?” he asks again.

“Okay,” I answer, with a sense of defeat. “Careful of the pearls.” I gingerly kick the puddle of faux under the bed as he closes the door behind him. “There’s only one chair,” I apologize. I’m downright awkward, offering a tour of the two pieces of furniture in my room.

“I make you nervous?”

“No, no, not at all.” Only in the land of Valentine Maria Alfreda Roncalli would pent-up sexual energy translate into a case of dyspepsia.

He sits down in the rocker. He stretches his long legs out in front of him. He wears a size 13 shoe. He fills up this hotel room with a lot of man.

“Would you like a glass of…I think it’s wine?” I offer.

“Grazie,” he says.

I go to the table. There’s only one glass. Of course there’s only one glass-this is the spinster suite. I’m lucky Signora left me a bowl of free figs. “Uh, we’ll have to share,” I tell him as I pour the wine.

“Good,” he says.

I bring him the glass. He takes a sip and leans back in the rocker and looks at me.

I sit as far forward on the edge of the bed as I possibly can be without actually standing up. I sort of…perch. Let’s get the bad news out of the way first. “So, where’s Carlotta?”

“I drove her to Deruta, where she lives.”

“Oh, great.” I don’t know what’s so great about it, but too late now, I said it. “I always liked Deruta. Pretty pottery.”