Very Valentine

“I need it,” he says.

I go into the kitchen and pull a bottle of Poggio al Lupo out of the wine rack. “So do you think you can get us into Ca’ d’Oro?” Gabriel sits down at the counter.

“You’ve heard of it?”

“You really don’t get out much, do you?”

“Only when you invite me.” I pour Gabriel a glass of wine, then one for myself.

“New York magazine called it the season’s hottest Italian debut. I’ve been trying to get a reservation since he opened. Will you please call him?”

“I’m not calling him.” I toast Gabriel. “Salute.”

Gabriel toasts me. “Why?”

“I came home from grocery shopping and he was sitting here at this table speaking Italian to Gram, who was completely besotted with him. Let her call him.”

“You can trust a man who reveres women of a certain age.”

“I don’t know about that. He wasn’t here to relive Gram’s memories of postwar Manhattan. He wanted to meet the woman he saw naked on the roof.”

Gabriel’s eyes widen. “He’s the guy who saw you?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. He probably thinks I’m an exhibitionist.”

“Well, he must have liked what he saw.”

“You will do anything to get a table at his restaurant.”

Gabriel puts his hands in the air. “I’m a foodie. It’s serious to me. Okay, so-what’s he like?”

“Attractive.”

“What a tepid word.”

“Okay. He’s tall and dark and straight on, he could even be considered handsome. But from a certain angle, his nose looks like he’s wearing Groucho Marx glasses, the ones with the plastic nose and the eyebrows.”

“The Italian profile. The occasional curse of our people.”

“How do I look?” I ask Gabriel, revealing my dress under my coat in a Suzy Parker pose.

“Appropriate,” he decides.

“And you thought attractive was a tepid word! Appropriate is worse!”

“That is to say, you look just right to see an ex-boyfriend whom you almost married who is now married to someone else. I like the ruching.”

“This is Gram’s dress.” I straighten the rosettes of silk ruffled across the hem.

“She looks better in it than I ever did,” Gram says as she comes in from the hallway. “What’s this fancy party you’re going to?”

“Bret Fitzpatrick’s company party on the roof of the Gramercy Park Hotel.”

Gabriel smooths his thick bangs off to one side. “It’s a private club now. I’m glad Bret figured out how to wheel and deal to become whatever it is that he is. What is he again?”

“Some fund-management thing.” I place a small canister of mints into my evening bag. I have two reasons for going to this party tonight. First, I’m still thin from Jaclyn’s wedding. Second, I need Bret’s help figuring out how to finance my future. I don’t trust my brother to have my best interests at heart as he restructures our debt. Bret could be a big help. “Bret is a vice president of something. To be honest, I don’t understand what he does.”

“Why would you? You’re a cobbler and me, I’m the maître d’ at the Café Carlyle. Let’s face it. We’re service people, while your ex-lover Bret…Sorry, Teodora.”

“Gabriel.” I stop him before he can dig himself in any deeper. I pour Gram a glass of wine and give it to her.

“I’m happy to hear that my granddaughter is a woman with a full life.”

“Do you need anything before I leave?” I ask.

“No, thank you, I’m going to heat up the pe

“Did you know your boyfriend Roman Falconi has a hot restaurant?”

“He knew all about tomatoes,” Gram says proudly. “And he spoke beautiful Italian.” Grams folds her hands gratefully, as if in prayer. “I thought he was wonderful.”

“You’re a sucker for an accent,” I remind her.

“So am I,” Gabriel says longingly.

“I just wish you’d be careful about who you let into the house.”

“Valentine, relax. Roman is Barese. I knew his great-uncle Carm a hundred years ago. He was a regular at Ida De Carlo’s, on Hudson Street. And I’ll bet you weren’t nice to him, were you?”

“Nice enough to get a di

The roof of the Gramercy Park Hotel is a posh indoor/outdoor living room, with glazed walls filled with immense, colorful paintings; thick Persian rugs; low, lacquered furniture; and a fireplace, blazing in the cool autumn night. A chandelier of green glass foliage and twinkling white lights hangs over the aerie like a canopy in a fairy forest. The cityscape seems to fall away in the distance, and from here, the skyscrapers look like black velvet jewelry boxes strewn with pearls.

This isn’t old New York, where club hopping included the Latin Quarter and El Morocco. This is brand-new New York, where hoteliers are impresarios, and their elegant salons compete for a wealthy, co

“Valentine!” Bret excuses himself and comes right over to us. He kisses me on both cheeks. Then he gives Gabriel a big hug. “It’s a reunion!”

“Don’t use that word.” Gabriel gives Bret a good slap on the back before letting go of him. “We sound old when you use that word.”

“Well, I’m older than you, so I can call it whatever I want,” Bret says, smiling. “It’s great to see you guys. Thank you for coming.”

“Who are all these people?” Gabriel looks around.

Bret lowers his voice, “Clients and their friends. One of our partners in the hedge fund is a member here.” He looks at me. “I thought you’d get a kick out of this.”

“It’s something else,” I tell him.

“You look great, Valentine,” Bret says as Gabe heads to the bar to get us each a drink.

“So do you.” And he does. Bret looks like a successful Wall Street financier who has earned his place at the top. His custom-made suit shows off his height, while his Ferragamo dress shoes show his good taste. His light brown hair is thi

When I first met Bret, he was a brilliant working-class kid from Floral Park, with a burning ambition to make it. He used to mow the lawn for a big Wall Street broker who promised Bret a job if he went to college and got a degree in finance. Bret did even better. He was valedictorian of his class at Saint John’s and then went to Harvard Business School. In ten years, Bret shed the old life and slipped into a new one, which fit him like a tailored shirt from Barneys. There’s a lot of history between us, but it’s never awkward. Bret excuses himself as he is pulled away by a distinguished-looking older man in a suit.

Gabriel returns with my drink. “It’s a hee-toe,” he says, giving me the glass.

“What’s that?”

“I don’t know. Mow, glow, flow, something-hee-toe. Everything you drink now is a hee-toe.” Gabriel takes a sip.

“Or a teeny. A Gabetini, Valentini. Brettini.” I try the drink. “This hotel is not as I remember it.” I look over the edge of the roof to the treetops of Gramercy Park, a deep green island filled with beams of gold light from the old-fashioned streetlamps. The park is enclosed by a wrought-iron fence, and is placed in the center of a square composed of traditional brownstones and grand prewar apartment buildings. “I remember when my friend Beáta Jachulski got married here. It was before the Europeans bought it. It used to be so cozy and the food was delicious. That was before the Age of Enlightenment. Did you see the paintings in the lobby?”