Brava, Valentine

14. Don’t Ever Be Afraid to Go Home

WE ORDERED SANDWICH PLATTERS, LOADED with wraps, crudité trays, and fresh fruit plates for delivery from Whole Foods for June’s farewell. Never say “free lunch” in Greenwich Village to former dancers-you are assured a full and hungry house.

Toward the end of the lunch, Irv comes into the kitchen, where I’m helping Gabriel fix the last shaker of martinis for the Corps de Ballet Mourners.

“This was lovely. Valentine, I’d like you to have this.”

Irv gives me the framed nude photograph of June that graced her memorial service.

“Are you sure?” I say to him.

He shrugs. “I want you to have it. I’ve enjoyed it all these years…”

My father eavesdrops as he pulls the creamer from the fridge. “Who wouldn’t?” He chuckles.

“Irv, did you meet my dad, Dutch Roncalli?”

Irv and Dad shake hands.

“I have some photographs of me from the same show.”

“Irv was a dancer too, Dad.”

“Were you wearing pants in your picture?” my father wants to know.

“Excuse me?” Irv raises his eyebrows.

“You know, pants.” My father grabs the thigh of his suit pants and grips it.

“No, I was nude, too,” Irv admits. “The photographs were similar.”

“Why break up the set?” my father wonders aloud.

“I’ve got to get going,” Bret says, placing his plastic cup in the recycling. “I’m taking the girls to the Chatham gazebo to meet Santa.”

“Sounds like fun,” I tell him. “Thank you for coming.”

“Of course. I loved June, too.”

“And she knew it.”

Finally the last of the guests go, and just our family remains. Pamela has been antsy all afternoon. I noticed she got into a long conversation with the yoga instructors from Integral. Maybe she will find inner peace on 13th Street. She pulls her coat on to go.

“The boys are at karate. I have to pick them up,” she says.

“Isn’t your mom meeting them?” Alfred asks.

“Yeah, but I like to be home when they get home.”

“If you wait, I can go with you.”

“No, no, you stay. I can get the train.”

“But Gram would like to visit with you.”

Tess is hosting Christmas Eve with the dinner of the Seven Fishes at her house, and when she called to invite Pam, Pam was very nice, but said she hadn’t made up her mind about her holiday plans yet.

“I spoke with Gram,” Pamela tells him.

“Okay.” Alfred gives in. He kisses Pamela on the cheek. She turns to go.

“Pam?” My mother stops her.

She turns to my mother.

“I need to talk to you,” Mom says.

“Not today, Mom,” I say firmly.

“It’s okay,” Mom says, as she sips her second martini.

“No,” I say firmly. “It’s not a good time.”

I implore my sisters to help me.

Pamela throws her purse down on the chair. Then she sits down on the zebra love seat.

“All right, Ma. I’m all ears. I have no secrets in this group. Have at me. But if this is about Christmas, I haven’t made up my mind yet.”

“I know. And there’s no pressure,” my mother says.

Pamela looks at me in disbelief.

My mother stands and holds on to the top rung of her chair. “Thank you for coming today.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Pam, I was so happy when you came in the door over at Internal Yoga.”

“Integral,” I correct her.

“All right already. Integral.” Mom waves her hand.

“Of course I would be there. I thought the world of June,” Pamela says. “She was one of the last honest people on earth.” Pam looks down at her manicure.

“Where’s my mother?” Mom looks around.

“She and Dominic are down in the shop.”

“Good.”

Mom looks around the room. Only my father, my sisters, and their spouses remain. The rest of the mourners have gone.

“I’m very proud of my family.” Mom cries.

Tess hands her a tissue.

“God knows we are a flawed group. But you know it isn’t chance that brought us together. We were meant to be a family. And Pam, you are like my fourth daughter. I relate to you. I’ve lived through your pain. I understand it. Just because I like my shoes to match my bag, that doesn’t mean I’m an idiot. I have a mind.”

“Is that in dispute?” My father bites into a brownie from the dessert tray.

Mom shoots him a look. “You’ve been an excellent daughter-in-law, Pamela. You’re a wonderful mother-and I know you’ve been a good wife. This situation is not in any way your fault.”

“Thanks, Ma.” Pamela stands, so my mother can quit while she’s ahead. But my mother doesn’t.

Mom continues, “Marriage is like working in a coal mine. You hack away in the dark, day after day, busting rock, and you think you’re not getting anywhere, and then all of a sudden, this little sliver of sunlight appears and you say to yourself, Oh, that’s what I’ve been waiting for-just a little light, just a little bit of hope-a sign, maybe, that will get me through. And Pamela-it does. You cannot throw away sixteen years of love and life with someone over a stupid mistake. You just can’t.”

“Ma, Pamela needs time to think,” Alfred says.

Pamela speaks directly to my mother. “I respectfully ask you all to butt out. We’re too close-or rather, you’re too close. I’m not comfortable discussing my life with you. I have my friends to talk to-”

“Just a word of caution about friends, Pamela. I looked like a fool to a lot of my friends when I took Dutch back in 1987. They thought I had a head full of church teachings, or I was afraid to lose his pension-or the house-or that it happened on the cusp of college for our kids, and that maybe because of all that, I stayed out of fear. Well, I think you know me pretty well, and there aren’t too many dragons I won’t slay-I’m pretty tough. And so are you. I stayed because I knew I could love him again. At the time I didn’t love him-sorry, Dutch, but it’s true.”

“I knew it to be true,” Dad agrees. He leans back in the chair and closes his eyes.

“I wanted nothing more to do with him. But I stayed, hanging on to the idea that if I loved him once, maybe I could love him again. You owe it to yourself-because I promise you, many, many months down the road, you will be grateful that you stuck it out. And my friends? Now that I’m-now that I’m of a certain age…”

My sisters and I look at one another. We try not to smile.

“Now that I’m older and wiser, the very friends that advised me to kick Dutch out are remarried-and in some cases, unhappy in second marriages themselves-and we talk about staying versus going; and they admire that I listened to my own voice, and not theirs. And now I have this-the satisfaction of a life with a man that tested his love for me, and found out that he loved me all along. That’s my prayer for you. That you keep your own counsel. And whatever you decide, you will always be my daughter.”

“Thanks, Mom.” Pamela turns to go. She digs into her coat pocket and finds a clean tissue. She dabs her eyes. “I’ve really got to get home.”

“We can finish up in the morning,” I tell Alfred.

“Okay, great.” He grabs his coat and pulls it on. “Pam?”

She turns to Alfred.

“I’d like to ride home with you.”

Pam looks at him. Then she fixes the lapel on his coat.

“Okay,” she says.

They go down the stairs. My mother calls after them, “See you at Tess’s!”

My sisters and I glare at her.

“Where you gonna hang Nudie?” Dad asks Gabriel.

“Over the sofa.”

“You better put some swatches over the private areas. We got kids around here.”

The roof is lit from the apartment across the way, in the Richard Meier Towers. It seems someone finally moved into the fourth-floor apartment. But we wouldn’t know. Gabriel put up a trellis, high enough to obscure the direct view. All that comes through the lattice is the light, throwing squares of bright light on the roof.

I’m wrapped up in a down coat, hat, and mittens.

I look up at the night sky, and there’s no moon, no stars, just gray clouds in odd shapes. June filled the sky with pattern pieces tonight, just for me. I think about our conversations in the last several months of her life. I search her words and reactions for clues that might have portended her death. But I don’t think June knew. I don’t think she had any idea she was going to die. And more to the point, I don’t think she cared. My friend June was all about life-the living, and the moment.

I remember when she tried to quit work, and I wouldn’t let her. She could have retired, it was her right to insist upon it, but she didn’t. She saw the fear in my eyes when she suggested leaving me alone with Alfred in the shop. She knew I needed an ally in the transition. She was one for me, and so much more.

Then, crafty planner that June was, she trained Gabriel to take her job, even though Gabriel still keeps a night shift at the Carlyle. She made pattern cutting, one of the most serious operations in our shop, sheer fun for Gabe-he almost didn’t notice that she was teaching him a new skill that required concentration, technique, and focus. She trained Gabriel, knowing that if she succeeded in passing along all she knew, he’d be ready in the event that she could no longer work. And now that day has come, and Gabriel is ready to take over.

I picture the faces of the people that came to her memorial, such a disparate bunch of people-old artists, young dancers, gays and straights, village diehards, and of course my family. June lived in a world of her own design. How many people can say that? She chose the people in her life carefully, and then she took care of them, nurtured them, and encouraged them.

She didn’t have to become a mother; she was a mother.

“Would you like some company?” Gram says through the screen door.

“Sure, sure.” I jump up and run to the door to help Gram across the icy roof. She grips my arm as I guide her to the chaise next to mine.

I explain the seating arrangement. “Gabriel and I come up here and look at the sky.”

“It looks lovely up here. Besides you and my family, this roof is what I miss the most about my old life in New York.”

“Do you like the new look?” I ask her.

“It’s a real roof garden now.”

“When Gabriel finished the interiors, he came up here and painted and planted. And down in the shop-June trained him, and he works really hard.”

“I can tell. I looked at his pattern work. Not bad.”

“Do you think he can ever be as good as June?”

“Give him thirty years.”

I shrug. “Where am I going? I got thirty years.”

“I wish I did.” Gram smiles.

“You have a lot of time, Gram.”

“June was younger than me.” Gram turns to me. “Did she really just go fast like that?”

“Her neighbor Irv called me. I jumped in a cab, and when I got there, she was gone.”

“Isn’t that marvelous?”

“Well, I guess. For June.”

“Think about it. You get up, eat your breakfast, get dressed. Then you lie down, and cross over. I think it’s just about the best exit I’ve ever heard of,” Gram says.

At Gram’s age of course she thinks about dying and how and when it will happen. I don’t give it much thought but I probably will from now on. June’s death has rattled me. I always felt so young. But now I see the future as finite, not an endless bolt of silk that unfurls perfectly across the cutting table.

“I feel so guilty, Gram. June wanted to retire, but I wouldn’t let her.”

“Don’t you feel bad for one second. June always did exactly what she wanted to do. If she didn’t want to work, believe me, she wouldn’t have been here. I had to force her to take vacation. She never asked for time off because it’s a family-owned business, and she knew if she wasn’t there, I’d have to do her work. And she knew, once I left, when she took off, you’d have to do her work. Please don’t worry about that.”

“But, she gave up a lot to work here.”

“Why do you say that?” Gram asks.

“I don’t know. She didn’t have a husband or a family.”

“She didn’t want either of those things.”

“She didn’t?”

“No, she did not. She had a very difficult childhood. She got over it, but it left her a committed free spirit. Her goal in life was to be self-sufficient and live alone, and do exactly as she pleased. I know she was afraid about getting older, and only because she was always fearful of having a stroke and going into a home. That’s nothing new. I have the same fears. But she didn’t have a family to make decisions for her.”

“I was her emergency contact.”

“She made a good choice.” Gram pats my hand. “You know, she called me in Italy quite a bit. She kept me in the loop. She was so proud of you. June marveled at your determination to make the business more profitable. I worked here over fifty years, and I never even changed the way we record in the ledger. And look at you. I’m barely gone a year, and you’re launching a new line of affordable shoes. Your grandfather is dancing in heaven.”

I imagine my grandfather looking down at me dressed in a dapper tuxedo like Fred Astaire, leaping over the clouds to music. I never saw my grandfather in a formal suit, only in work clothes and a cobbler’s apron.

“Do you ever think about Grandpop?”

“Sure. I talk about him with Dominic. And he talks about his first wife too. When you fall in love later in life, you marry the history of the person. And I think you know how I feel about my memories. They’re my treasure. And Dominic’s are his, too.”

“You know, those letters Roberta gave me helped me understand Grandpop. No wonder he was so sad sometimes-and so prickly. He had a rough childhood, losing his mother, and then his uncle.”

Gram nods. “He did.”

“But you were a good wife to him.”

“Not good enough. I couldn’t help him beat his sadness. You know, Valentine, this is the thing. You can fall in love with someone, and believe in that person, but it doesn’t mean that you can build a life together. I never got in there with your grandfather. I don’t know how else to say it. Dominic understands me-and it’s not complicated. It was so complicated with Michael. So complex.”

“It should be easy,” I say. “You know, I think I’ve found the perfect husband.”

“Really?” Gram turns to me, surprised.

“Gabriel Biondi. Gabe and I are like those gears on a Swiss movement watch. We spin in tandem like two interlocking gizmos without a glitch. We never fight. We don’t fuss. We work together beautifully in the shop. It’s just easy.”

The clouds move overhead, rippling like pattern paper. The edges of the horizon over New Jersey, beyond the river, flutter like ruffles. June, high in the heavens, places the moon in the sky like a silver button on a blue-velvet boot. “June will never leave you,” Gram says.

“I’m counting on it.”

Gram and Dominic went out for dinner at Da Silvano’s, where the stars go. Gram used to eat there back in the 1970s when it first opened, and she wants to share the cuisine with Dominic, and hopefully find some native Italians for him to talk to.

Gabriel is at the Carlyle. Tonight, he is going to give the big boss a month’s notice. He has decided to focus on pattern cutting at the Angelini Shoe Shop as his new career, and I couldn’t be more thrilled.

Christmas is ten days away, and I’m trying to keep my spirits up. I sit here on the sofa, all the lights out except the ones that twinkle in the tree. I inhale the fresh scent of the blue spruce. I imagine the old familiar holiday rituals will comfort me this year. 2010 has been a year of loss and change.

I pull out my sketch pad and flip it open to a new, clean page. I have an idea for a new shoe for yoga practitioners. Of course, I’ll call it the June Lawton. I poise my pencil over the bare page. But, instead of beginning with the clean lines of the vamp, I write,

December 13, 2010

Dear Gianluca,

I hope this letter finds you well. Your health and happiness are never far from my mind.

Dominic and Gram are out to dinner, Gabriel is at the Carlyle, and I’m here alone for the first time since June died. I have had a lot of time to think about her and the things she taught me. I also have been thinking about how she lived. June was truly independent. She made a life for herself on her own terms. She had a way of knowing what was right for her. This is the big lesson that I’ve taken away from her death. I have been thinking about what’s right for me and how I should live going forward.

I ruined everything with you. By now, I’m sure you’ve found a good woman who loves you and wants everything in life that you do. I know it is too late for us, but now I understand all the things you said to me, and the meaning behind your words. I resisted those words because I wasn’t ready to hear what you had to say. I said I heard you, but I did not. I was too busy talking and finding ways to push you away because I believed you’d wake up one morning and see who I really was…and run.

I have pushed so hard against what I come from, and at the same time, I’m compelled to re-create it. I have never looked at my life as my own, but rather, part of a whole, which includes my family. But this year, I have seen that the boundaries in the Roncalli family were never drawn, that we rely on one another, which is good, but we also blame one another when we fail (not so good). There must be a way to invent a life that is all my own and I hope I’m learning how to do that. The first step is writing you this letter. I don’t want you to think of me as the petulant girl I was in Buenos Aires. I’m trying to grow up, and I think losing June has forced me to look at myself.

I don’t want to get to the end of my life without having loved. I’ve played at love and pretended to love, but I’ve never given myself over to my life in a way that made it my own. I was waiting for someone to come along and show me the way. Now, I realize that everyone has shown me the way. My parents, in their crazy way, see things through, even when they’d rather not. My brother, in failing, showed me it’s okay, the world doesn’t end when you screw up, and maybe letting someone you love forgive you makes you both a little stronger. Gram has shown me that you can live with your history but still experience a new life inside the old one. Well, I could go on and on. And then, of course, there’s you.

It’s hard for me to admit that I pushed you away. I like to think that you left me when you saw that I didn’t have any idea what I was doing with you. I hid behind my work, hoping that a higher purpose (Art!) would fill me up more than love. I can count on art, right? It won’t let me down because it comes from me, I create it: from my whims and fancy. But you were right. There is no art without love. Only love can open someone up to the possibilities of living and creating art. And I thought it was paint-and pencils and this sketch book and my ideas that inspired me to make art. But it’s not any of those things. It’s love. And you. It was always you.

I’m going to send this letter Federal Express International. I’m going to imagine the white truck as it motors up the hills of Tuscany in the rain. I’m going to imagine the deliveryman knocking on your shop door, and you inside, in your apron, cutting a yard of expensive kid leather with precision. And how you’ll scowl because the knock at the door interrupted your process. And then, I’m going to imagine you sitting on the work bench and opening this envelope and reading these words. And I hope when you’re done, when you get to The End, that you will know that I truly understand all that I’ve lost. I can only wish for that-and for you to have a Merry Christmas, a Buon Natale as you say in your beautiful hills.

Valentina

Gabriel and I sit across from one another at the table. We have signed up to make dessert for the Feast of the Seven Fishes, our Christmas Eve tradition. Tess and Charlie are hosting the whole family at their home this year. Gabriel wants to go all out, which means thorough planning and a shopping trip to Little Italy for supplies.

Gabriel snaps his fingers. “Hello?” He looks at me. “Could we focus here? I have a week to get this dessert for a cast of thousands together. I need your help.”

“I’m here,” I tell him. But I’m not. I’d like to skip Christmas entirely this year, and just sit home alone and weep under the tree.

“June would not like this. She would be peeved that you’re still a mess.”

“I know.” Tears fill my eyes. “It isn’t just June.”

“You didn’t hear from Gianluca yet?”

I shake my head sadly.

“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.

Gianluca’s lips travel down my neck, and I breathe from so deeply within my body, he stops to hold me. This is what it really means to be in love-this is the thing I’ve been waiting for, wondering about. I’ve been waiting to mean this much to someone.

Oh, this is a merry, merry, merry Christmas. No package, no present, no surprise of any kind could ever be this wonderful. And this night, this one, this particular moment, is for Gianluca, and for me-but it’s also for June Marie Lawton, who knew how to live.

I spritz Terre d’Hermès perfume on my neck.

I’m dressed for Christmas Eve, the Feast of the Seven Fishes at Tess’s house. I went with the silver lamé sheath I wore to Gram and Dominic’s wedding, this time, without the clutter of pearls. I’m tempted to throw them on. After all, Dad will read A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens after supper, and I could be the sound effect when Marley’s chains rattle.

Gram and Dominic have been at Tess’s all day, preparing the scungilli, shrimp, octopus, lobster, white flounder, clams, and mussels for our feast.

Gianluca has gone out to run a final Christmas errand. Gabriel stands in my doorway.

“I want to give you your Christmas present.”

“Gabriel, you shouldn’t have.”

“Liar. Nobody likes a gift more than you. Come on. Grab a coat,” he instructs me.

I pull Gianluca’s dress coat from behind the door and throw it on. I pull the cashmere closely around me. It has the scent of him, so I pull it closer still.

“Follow me,” Gabriel says.

I follow Gabriel up the stairs to the roof.

“Okay, now stand over there,” he tells me. “By the wall. Then turn around.”

I shiver in the cold.

“This will only take a second.”

Gabriel goes to the wall in the roof’s alcove. As he returns from the corner, the roof fills with sound. With Frank Sinatra.

I put my hands to my face.

“That’s what I’m talkin’ about. Rooftop Ambience. The Chairman of the Board, ladies and gentlemen,” Gabriel announces.

“I thought the roof was finished!”

“It wasn’t done till the installation of surround sound.”

“I love it! Thank you!”

Frank Sinatra’s voice pours out into the sky over Greenwich Village on this blue Christmas Eve. I look down onto Perry Street, with its pools of golden light from the street lamps, as last-minute shoppers make their way home, underscored by Sinatra, who sings them home to their destinations.

“I took all of Gram’s old albums and copied them on to CD’s, and then I made a program. Six hours of Sinatra on a loop. Hear that? It’s ‘Shake Down the Stars.’ Big hit for Frank in 1940. Real roof and sky music!”

“Gram is going to go crazy for this,” I say. “We only ever had an AM radio up here.” I run over to Gabriel and give him a big hug. “How can I thank you?”

“No matter what happens, you’ll always have Sinatra…Valentina.”

This is the first time Gabriel ever called me “Valentina.” And I’m going to pretend that I don’t know what he means, because then maybe what he is about to tell me won’t be true.

He takes a deep breath and looks at me. “We’re Tiffany candlesticks, you and me. The best of the best. But now it’s time to break up the pair. One of us has fallen in love. There’s only room for one man in this house.”

I close my eyes. It has to be twenty degrees on the roof, but I don’t notice the cold. I’m filled with the possibilities of the life that lies ahead for Gianluca and me.

“It had to happen someday,” Gabriel says softly. “And here it is. It couldn’t happen to a nicer girl. I’m happy for you.” Gabriel hugs me tightly.

“But you’re the best husband I ever had.”

“Well, maybe it’s time for me to go out there and find my own.” Gabriel sighs. “Now, come on. I hate rubbery scungilli-and it’s a long train haul to Jersey.”

The apartment buzzer rings on the roof.

“Is that what I think it is?”

He nods. “Yep. That’s the second part of my gift. I put a buzzer up here-for when you’re on the roof and you get company. No more running down two flights of stairs and just missing UPS.”

“You’re a genius! Gianluca must’ve forgotten his keys,” I say. I hit the buzzer to let him in.

“Works like a charm,” Gabriel says proudly.

“What am I going to do without you?”

“You’ll see me in the shop every day. I just won’t live here anymore. It’s time for me to go on Craigslist and find a deal. Somewhere close.”

“Please.” I hug him again. “Around the corner.”

“I’ll try. Now, I’m going to go and pack up the timbale. I will miss the kitchen. I love a workspace with a marble counter. Oh, well. New Year on the horizon and new beginnings. I’ll send Gianluca up.” Gabriel opens the screen door. “Kiss him to Sinatra. If you do, he’ll never leave.”

I turn up the sound system and wait. After a few moments, I hear him ascend the stairs.

The sound of footsteps on the stairs fills me with anticipation.

Then Bret appears in the doorway.

“Bret?”

Bret pushes through the door and comes to me. He is deeply upset. His face is red from the cold. It looks as though he’s been crying. “What’s the matter?”

“Mac and the girls are at her parents for Christmas Eve…,” he begins.

“Uptown?” I straighten the collar on his coat. He’s disheveled. A mess. He never has a hair out of place.

“81st Street.” He rubs his hands together. They are chapped from the cold. He must’ve been out walking for a long time.

“Why aren’t you there?” I ask.

“I couldn’t stay.” His eyes fill with tears.

“Why?” I ask. I take his freezing cold hands in mine to warm them.

“I pressed her, I guess. I had a gift for her. A sapphire bracelet…But she wouldn’t take it. She said that it’s over. Our marriage is over.” Tears begin to stream down his face. He looks like a boy, just like the boy I remember from Austin Street.

“Oh, Bret, it’s just the pressure of the holidays,” I tell him.

“No, it’s not the holidays. She’s in love with someone else.” He puts his hands on the wall and hangs his head. I throw my arms around his shoulders as he heaves and cries.

I’m stunned. Even though Bret confided that there were problems, I never thought they would lead to this. I thought they would work things through, that Mac would choose her ordered life over the chaos of starting over.

I think back to the summer, when Mackenzie stopped by, and right here on this very roof accused me of an affair with her husband. Now I realize that she already had made her mind up long before she climbed these stairs. She knew she was leaving him; she just needed an excuse to let go. Mackenzie wanted me to be the excuse. She already had someone new, and she wanted Bret to have someone too, so she could leave him without guilt.

“Oh, Bret. I’m so sorry.”

“I don’t know what to do. For the first time in my life, I don’t know what to do.” I pull him close to me and hold him as tightly as I can.

“There’s nothing you can do right now. It’s Christmas, and you’ve got the girls. You have to think of your girls,” I tell him.

After a few moments, Bret pulls away from me. “I’m going to go. I don’t know why I came here.”

“You can always come here. I’m here for you,” I promise him.

He looks around. Clearly, the man I knew, unflappable and strong, is breaking before my eyes. There’s a desperation to him now. Of course there is. The life he built is over.

“You have plans,” he says. “You have your family.”

I’ve known Bret since I was a girl, and I’ve never seen him like this. “You can’t go. Come with us. We’re going to Tess and Charlie’s.”

“I can’t. I should go home.” When he says the word home, a look of complete devastation fills his eyes.

I take Bret in my arms. I hold him close, his face against my neck as he begins to cry. I take the coat and pull him inside, to warm him. “It’s okay,” I whisper. “It’s okay.”

I feel his lips against my neck, and then softly on my cheek. The ease we have, the comfort we feel with one another, all the history, wraps around me like fine cashmere. I want to comfort Bret. I want to hold him. I want to be here for him. His warm tears turn cold against my cheek. I feel his lips against mine. He pulls away at the exact same moment I do.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“No, I’m sorry.” I can’t believe what just happened. What did I do? I wanted to comfort him, not kiss him.

I hear the snap of the screen door behind me. I turn. I look for Gabriel, but it isn’t him.

It’s Gianluca.

I have a feeling of doom in my gut, but I can’t leave Bret alone. I look to Gianluca, and extend my hand, and I’m about to explain the kiss, but he has already pushed through the screen door and is gone.

“Val, I don’t know why I kissed you. I shouldn’t have,” Bret says. “Forgive me.” He lets go of me and goes to the door. I implore him to stay, but he’s down the steps before I can stop him again.

I turn to follow Bret, pulling the coat close to me. I have to find Gianluca and explain what happened. He’ll understand when I tell him that Bret’s wife left him on Christmas Eve. I was only trying to help. The kiss was a total accident. I bury my hands in the pockets of Gianluca’s coat.

Deep inside, there’s a box in the pocket. I feel its size, and its velvet texture.

My heart begins to race. Instead of going down the stairs, instead of following my instinct to do the right thing and go to Gianluca and explain, I stay.

I move to the trellis, where the roses were, by the light. I reach down into the pocket and pull out the box. I know I shouldn’t, but I open it. It’s an emerald-cut diamond, in a polished platinum setting. Dramatic and brilliant, its facets grab the blue light and it glistens in the dark.

I snap the box shut and shove it into Gianluca’s coat pocket.

A wave of sheer panic peels through me. Marriage. A husband. A life. Am I ready for this? And then, I’m deeply ashamed for having looked…for ruining everything.

Couldn’t I tell that Gianluca’s intention from the very beginning was to marry me and to take care of everything? Gianluca did not change when he fell in love with me; he remains who he always was: a traditional man. And I am his great love. He has made this as clear as the white-hot diamond that hides in his coat pocket.

I look up into the sky and search it as if a sign will appear to guide me forward, something, anything, to help me understand what I’m supposed to do, what I’m supposed to say.

I look for the moon. But it is nowhere to be seen. I look for light, from anywhere, from the stars, but there are none. Not even a cloud passes over to remind me that the sky is always in motion-changing. Instead, it is bleak and completely still. Not a clue as far as my eye can see. Where are the puzzle pieces that June made for me in the night sky? They too are gone.

I race down the stairs. Gianluca is in the kitchen with Gabriel, packing up the desserts.

“Bret said to tell you he was going home,” Gabriel says.

“Thanks.” I take off Gianluca’s coat and place it on the back of one of the dining room chairs.

“Okay, we’re all set,” Gabriel says. “Let’s go, kids.”

I go to the closet for my coat. I pull it on. “What do you want me to carry?”

“The Tupperware,” Gabriel says. “In the shopping bag.”

I’m afraid to, but I look over at Gianluca, who takes a seat on one of the stools at the counter. He snaps the lid shut on the cooler that rests on the counter and locks it.

“Gianluca, if you don’t mind, take the carryall, please?” Gabriel says.

“I’m sorry, Gabriel. I’m not going,” Gianluca says quietly.

“Why not? You don’t feel well?”

“No,” he says.

“Well, then, the last place you need to be is a fish fry. Is it your stomach? There’s Brioschi in the cabinet. Throw a capful in a glass of water and chug. You’ll feel better in no time.”

I can’t look at Gianluca, but I feel his gaze on me.

“Gabe, I can’t go either,” I say.

“What’s your problem?” Gabriel looks at Gianluca and then at me. “Okay, okay, I get it. Little Christmas Eve private time going on here. A little whoo-hoo-hoo by Ye Olde Tannenbaum.”

“Yes, that’s it,” I say.

“So, what do I tell the family? That you’ve been hit by a bus?”

Gianluca doesn’t answer. So I say, “Yeah, that’s fine.”

“They’re gonna be pissed. Especially Tess. She ordered steamers. You know that requires a head count.”

“She’ll be all right,” I tell him. “Will you be okay getting to the train?”

“Screw the train. I’m taking a cab.”

“To Tess’s?”

“That’s right, sister. A yellow cab all the way to Jersey. Merry Christmas to me,” he says, gathering up the bags and carryall. “Have fun you two,” he says. “Don’t wait up for me,” he calls as he goes down the stairs. The entrance door in the foyer snaps shut behind him.

Gianluca stands and turns to face me. He folds his arms and leans against the marble counter. I stand behind the chair and run my hand over his cashmere coat.

I remember this same standoff from the Spolti Inn, when I didn’t have any idea what Gianluca wanted from me. Now I know, and I’m still standing behind a chair for protection.

“Let’s go up to your roof,” he says. “I need air.”

I follow him up the stairs with dread. He called it my roof. That’s a bad sign. The last time he was in New York, when Gram fell, he came up to this same roof and asked me to choose him, and I couldn’t. He didn’t like my river then, and now he probably detests it. I’ve ruined everything all over again.

Gianluca pushes through the screen door and walks out onto the roof. He goes to the wall that overlooks the Hudson and leans against it. I stand next to him. It’s a clear Christmas Eve. The city is quiet, just a car or two on the West Side Highway. Gianluca looks out over our corner of the Village. Finally, he asks, “Did you kiss him or did he kiss you?”

“I don’t know.”

“It’s important.”

“His wife left him. She has fallen in love with someone else. She told him tonight.”

“And you comforted him?”

“No. He couldn’t be comforted.”

“Then why did you kiss him?”

“I went with Bret for almost ten years. From the time I was a teenager to my late twenties. He was my first love,” I explain.

I’m thirty-five years old and I’ve read all the books that advise women to stay mum about their romantic past with their current lover. But my romantic history is a simple one, and he’s met both Bret and Roman Falconi already. Besides, the eighteen-year age difference means that Gianluca has a certain wisdom about love and life. And after the past couple of nights we’ve shared at the Soho Hotel, honesty is the only choice on the room service menu.

“Do you want to go back to him?” Gianluca looks at me.

Tears well in my eyes. “No.”

“Then why did you kiss him?”

“I don’t know, Gianluca. But as soon as it happened, I knew it was wrong. I don’t love him in that way. I feel sorry for him-he’s losing everything.”

“Pity is always a woman’s downfall when it comes to men,” he says. Then he walks away from me.

“Please try and understand.” I follow him.

“Va bene,” he says with resignation. He goes to the far side of the roof and looks out over the West Side Highway. We stand in silence for a very long time.

“I wish you’d yell at me,” I say.

“You were being kind. That’s something to admire.”

“I don’t feel very admirable right now.” The kiss was bad enough, but I feel worse about the ring in his coat pocket. The Christmas I dreamed of is slipping away.

“It was a mistake,” he says.

“A big one. I don’t love Bret. I don’t love any man as much as I love you. I want to spend my life with you. Every day of it.”

Gianluca takes my hand. “You’re cold,” he says.

“Please. Just yell at me. Let it out. Get it over with. I did something wrong. I hurt you.”

He kisses my hand. “I forgive you,” he says simply.

“Why?” I can’t believe he’s calm. If the situation were reversed, I would be throwing ceramic pots off the roof in a blind and jealous rage. “How can you forgive me?”

He takes my face in his hands. “Because I love you.”

And then he kisses me. He pulls me close, and whispers in my ear, “And I trust you.”

And there it is. Trust-the elusive goal, the foundation of true love and Gianluca’s gift to me on this Christmas Eve, given freely and without reservation. He believes me. He knows what I say is true. Trust was the secret of my parents’ reconciliation, the balm that will heal Alfred and Pam going forward, and for me? Trust means I can be secure in the knowledge that no harm will come to my heart. Trust means we will figure out a life plan that includes his dreams and mine. Trust means I have someone who loves me and is on my side even when I fail, come up short, or do something rash. Gianluca proved that tonight. I can trust him because he knows to trust me.

“Oh, Gianluca, let’s go.” I hold him close. “They’re waiting for us in Jersey.”

“I don’t like the Feast of the Seven Fishes.”

“You don’t?”

“I want my Christmas Eve with you. And only you.”

“I don’t deserve you,” I tell him.

He holds me. “There is only one way to fix this.”

“How? I’ll do anything. I’ll even paint your house.”

“That’s not necessary.” He laughs.

“What can I do?” I ask him.

“Marry me,” he says.

I take a deep breath. “You know, I read an article once…”

Gianluca rolls his eyes.

I continue, “A man never asks a woman to marry him unless he’s certain she is going to say yes.”

“I like that article.” He smiles and takes my face in his hands. “But I would rather have the answer from you.” Gianluca pulls me close. He already knows the answer, but the gentleman that he is, the man that I love and know him to be waits patiently and trusts that my answer will be the right one.

“Yes,” I tell him. “I will marry you.”

He kisses me, as Greenwich Village spins indigo and green and Christmas red around us.

At last the midnight blue sky opens up, and the moon, a milky pearl, pushes through. Silver light dances on the water of the Hudson River in a shower of sapphires.

“What do you think of my river now?” I ask him.

He looks over the wall, past the highway, and down the Hudson. “I like your river,” he says. “I like it very much.”