Brava, Valentine

“I hope so.”

“You know, I feel for your brother. It’s no secret that I’ve always thought he was a prig. He’s sanctimonious, and those are the first ones to fall. And when they do, they hit the ground hard, like a lead pipe. The pious types are tortured by their own weakness.”

“I’ve learned a lot about Alfred since he came to work here. For the first time in his life, my brother is making mistakes. It’s been painful to watch, but at least he’s learning from them.”

“Do you think his wife knows?” June asks.

“I told him not to tell Pamela anything about it-ever. No good would come of that.”

“You’re right. I am not one for true confessions-not ever. I think they’re cruel. Besides that, time is the only thing that can soften the impact of a hard fall. Always has and always will.” She sips her coffee. “So, what about you?”

“I’m trying to get over Gianluca.”

“Still? Have you written to him?”

I shake my head that I haven’t.

“Why don’t you try?”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Sure you do.”

“No, June, I really don’t.”

“Why don’t you start by writing how you feel about him?”

“I don’t think he’d believe me.” During our fight, I flailed around, unable to express my true feelings. He stood firm while I grappled. This is the difference between an impulsive woman and a wise man. He knew what I was going to say before I said it.

“Of course he would. He’d believe you,” June assures me. “He’s in love with you.”

“He was in love with me. He was so furious with me that he got on a plane and went back to Italy. He crossed continents to get away from me.”

“You’re under his skin.”

“In a bad way.”

“That is yet to be determined,” June says. “You know, when you went with the chef, I was worried. Roman wasn’t as smart as you. Nice guy. Roving eye-I don’t blame him, he can’t help that, it’s in a man, or it’s not. But this Gianluca is different. He really understands you. I don’t think you should walk away from that so quickly. Why don’t you call him?”

“I’d just cry.”

“Then write to him.”

June goes to the desk and pulls typing paper off the printer. She grabs a pen from the cup. “Here.” She hands me the paper and pen, clears the corner of the cutting table, and kicks the rolling stool toward me. I sit.

August 28, 2010

When I write the date I realize the entire summer has passed without a word between Gianluca and me.

Dear Gianluca,

I don’t know if you remember me, but we were together in Buenos Aires in June and I made you so angry you got on a plane and went home. I think about you every day and feel terrible, then there’s the night, when I feel worse. I’m writing this letter to apologize for being such a fool. I never meant to mislead you or to hurt you, but I managed to do so many things wrong that I lost you. I hope that you’ve found happiness with a normal woman who treats you well. But if you haven’t, I know a real nut here in New York City who would give everything she has to see you again. I’m writing this on thick paper from the printer, because it’s an impulse letter and I’m not stopping to run up the stairs for pretty stationery. (At least I’m not writing to you on the back of a button order form or a water bill.) I remember how it felt when you held me the whole night through, and how I wished I could reach up and push the sun back over the horizon just to buy a few more hours of that bliss. But I can’t control everything-and maybe I control nothing. I only know that my heart is broken without you-and maybe sometime, if you can forgive me, you might think about coming home.

Love,

Valentina

This has been the summer of broken hearts (mine) and paint fumes (Gabriel’s). When Gabriel was done with the Re-Fabulous (as he calls it) of the second floor, he turned his attention to the roof. He allowed me to keep the tomato plants (mainly because we eat them), but everything else needed and received a facelift. Those items that could not be refurbished were banished.

He sanded the old wrought iron table and chairs and repainted them deep lilac. He made new seat cushions for the seats (Cecil Beaton-inspired, bold black-and-white stripes).

Saint Francis of Assisi got power-washed and painted eggshell white. He fixed the hose in the fountain-which my mother swears has been broken since 1958-and now free-flowing with sacred water once more, it is affixed with tiny pin lights (for night drama), and scattered with blossoms in the clamshell.

He even painted the old black charcoal grill a deep lilac to go with the furniture. “It looks like a spaceship for my people,” Gabriel said when he stood back and viewed his handiwork. “Italians?” I said. “No, the gays,” he corrected me. Our grill now resembles a giant L’Eggs egg, the container for fine women’s hosiery formerly found at D’Agostino’s on a spin rack.

The final and most dramatic touch looms overhead. Gabriel made (by himself!) an awning out of lavender duck cloth. He trimmed the Greek key edges in white, and stretched it across four brass poles, anchored into the roof. This canopy creates an al fresco living room. My mother is overjoyed-finally, she has access to a glamorous outdoor space worthy of the ritziest guests at the Carlyle Hotel.

I press the flesh of ruby red tomatoes. Gram would be so pleased. It has been a great summer for tomatoes. I sent her pictures of the harvest over e-mail, and she returned the favor by sending me a picture of Dominic standing at the base of a twelve-foot sunflower that he grew in their backyard in Arezzo. We have a healthy competition between our transcontinental gardens.

I pluck the ripe tomatoes and place them carefully in a basket. I’ve lined up four bushel baskets: one for Mom, one for Tess, one for Jaclyn, and one for Alfred.

The newly painted screen door snaps open.

“Hi.” Mackenzie looks around the roof. “Gabriel said I’d find you here.”

“Here I am. This is a nice surprise,” I tell her.

“Wow, what a burst of color up here. Lots of purple.” She comes out onto the roof, shielding her eyes from the sun that has begun its late afternoon descent over New Jersey. Mackenzie is dressed in black linen pants and a cropped white jacket with bell sleeves. Her te

“Isn’t it great? Gabriel has redone the building. Except the workshop, of course.” I dig my trowel at the base of the tomato plants. The rich, dark earth turns easily. “Bret said you had a di

“We’re going to Valbella on 13th Street.”

“It’s very romantic. Just the two of you?” I ask.

“Yeah.” She looks around the roof as though she’s searching for something she has lost.

“A little pre-back-to-school/end of summer celebration?”

She just looks at me without answering. This friendly visit is not so friendly. “Valentine, I know about you and Bret.”

“Excuse me?”

“Oh, come on,” she says impatiently. “I know he still has feelings for you.”

“Feelings?” Is she kidding? I hold up my hands in floral garden gloves with spores of plastic grips on the backside. “You could not be more mistaken. We’re old friends. And that’s it.”

“I’ve read the e-mails.”

“What e-mails?”

“Let me quote. ‘You’re the best, what would I do without you?’ You sign love-and x’s and o’s. I’ve seen them. I’m not stupid-those mean hugs and kisses.”

“But that’s the way I sign off-I do that with everybody. Customers even. I just sent a big round of XO’s to Craig Fissé at Donald Pliner. You can’t be serious.”

“Okay, fine, whatever. But you’re doing it with my husband, and I don’t like it.”

“I won’t sign my e-mails to Bret in that fashion anymore.”

“Whatever.” She looks away.