Страница 23 из 73
I dump four different boxes of stationery onto the kitchen table. There’s the classic airmail blue onionskin paper, a box of note cards with various sketches of Palladian villas (too Italian), a box of plain white stationery with a black mock grosgrain trim (too Upper East Side), and finally, plain ecru note cards with a simple embossed gold heart. I’m going with the onionskin.
March 5, 2010
Dear Gianluca,
When I was twelve years old, Siser Theresa Kelly FMA required me to write the Prayer of Saint Francis of Assisi twenty times in order to commit it to memory. It worked. I will, when I see you again, take you through the poetry of God’s instrument of Peace. In the meantime, I first and foremost would like to thank you for the most beautiful letter any man has ever written to me. I am humbled by the simple beauty of your words. Your feelings are real and true. Now, I’d like to tell you about mine. I was not looking for love, and I’m still not sure if I should be. I think about you constantly, and even in my mind’s eye, you thrill and excite me. Could this be love? I don’t know. Could it one day be love? I don’t know the answer to that either. But I surely wonder what would have happened that night at the i
Love,
Valentine
I cross out the e in Valentine and replace it with an a.
Gabriel looks out the window on the Saturday commuter train to Chatham, New Jersey. I balance a paint set for Maeve’s birthday party on my lap, while Gabriel holds the Eloise compilation, wrapped in pink tissue paper and tied with green yarn.
“You’re not over Roman,” Gabriel says.
“Why do you say that?”
“Because you won’t give it up for Gianluca.”
“I thought my letter was fu
“It was filled with doubt. An I don’t know here, an I don’t know there. What do you know? Certainly not the contents of your human heart. You didn’t know nothin’ writing to him. And Saint Francis? Who mentions a saint in a sex plea?”
“What should I have said?”
“For starters? Not that. The letter should have been filled with erotica. You either want the man or you don’t. Or maybe this ocean between you is just too big. Maybe you need a local love. What about Roman?”
“What about him?”
“Maybe you should go back with him.”
“I’m not going to get back together with Roman just so you can get a seat in his restaurant.”
“It’s as good a reason as any.”
“For you. Forget it. I’m not calling him.”
“Maybe he’s done with Becky Bruschetta…,” Gabriel muses.
“You mean Caitlin Granzella.”
“He only went with her because she was easy pickings. She’s there, working for him in the restaurant. That should be a lesson to you. A man eats what’s in the cupboard.”
“Listen to me, Gabriel. Roman and I are done. I have no strings to pull over there any more, so fall in love with somebody else’s osso bucco already. There are a thousand Italian restaurants in New York City-”
“Ca’D’oro is pretty spectacular.”
“Furthermore, if you love me, and I think you do, you don’t want me to spend my life following my husband around to make sure he’s faithful.”
“You need to get real. And fast. A man can only be faithful in the begi
“I don’t have trust issues,” I assure Gabriel.
“Really,” he says.
Before I can argue the point, the train pulls into the station in downtown Chatham. It’s blustery and wintry cold in March as we deboard. I pull the directions out of my pocket. Mackenzie and Bret’s house is just a couple of blocks away, according to the map he drew.
We make the turn up Fairmont Avenue. Staying on the sidewalk, we pass lovely homes, which, even in barren winter, have manicured lawns and evergreen touches in the landscaping.
At the top of the hill is Bret’s home, a stately red brick Georgian with two white pillars anchoring a glossy black door with brass embellishments. It’s the best house on the block. The street in front of the house is packed with cars. It’s a big party. An enormous bunch of pink balloons tied to the railing sways in the wind.
As we climb the steps, there’s a wreath of white baby roses on the door dotted with small gift packages wrapped in gold. Glittering white letters spelling out MAEVE are fixed in the flowers. More handmade touches by the perfect mother; and I know one when I see one, because I grew up with the best.
“I hope the book I brought is enough to cover the plate.” Gabriel rings the bell. “This looks fancy.”
We hear music and chatter and laughing and kids whooping inside. Gabe takes a deep breath. “I hope there’s a bar.”
Bret’s wife, Mackenzie, opens the door, balancing her toddler, Piper, on her hip. “Valentine, Gabe,” she says. “You made it.”
“The ride was delightful,” Gabe says.
Mackenzie laughs. “Now you know why I never go into the city. Well, there’s also the fact that I don’t want to leave the city once I’m there.”
Mackenzie is willowy, on the sporty side, with blue eyes that match her cashmere sweater. Her blond hair is the color of ginger ale, and her legs are still tawny from their midwinter trip to Disney World in Florida. She wears a simple beige wool skirt and matching Tod’s flats.
Maeve, the birthday girl, is dressed like a fairy, with net wings that light up anchored to her shoulders. She peeks at us and then runs past when she sees it’s two grown-ups.
“Bret! Your friends are here!” Mackenzie calls out. “Come on in,” she says to us.
Gabriel shoots me a look at the mention of “your friends.”
Mackenzie has never really accepted us because we were part of Bret’s life before she was. To be fair, I wouldn’t want any ex-fiancée hanging around my husband either. Her demeanor with us manages to be warm, yet simultaneously chilly, like the first full day of spring.
According to Bret, Mackenzie made it very clear that she wanted marriage and children from their first date, so their romance progressed at lightning speed a year after our breakup. But those were the years when books like The Rules and Marry the Man of Your Choice topped the best-seller lists; women felt pressure to issue ultimatums, and men felt like they had to cave in, or at least Bret did.
It’s as if Mackenzie caught Bret in a butterfly net in Manhattan, carried him into New Jersey, and let him loose directly into the pages of House Beautiful. Even with children ru
Mackenzie has decorated the house in a polished and understated way. The furniture is Georgian, all sleek lines and black polished wood accents. A delicate chintz of mint green and beige covers the sleek sofas. The straight-backed chairs have striped seat cushions, with a bit of navy blue trim thrown in to complement the wood. An oval Berber area rug trimmed in navy gives the large room a cozy feel.
There are plenty of polished silver frames filled with family moments on beaches, at parties, and in high chairs. Over the mantel hangs an oil painting of Mackenzie in an elaborate bridal gown. It’s obvious that she, like me, grew up idolizing Princess Diana. The portrait is right out of the Great Hall of Althorp.