Brava, Valentine

3. Ain’tcha Ever Coming Back

I TURN THE KEY IN the door of my room at the Spolti Inn, careful not to make a sound. I don’t want to trigger any late-night powwows with my sisters. I’ve seen enough of the Angelinis, Roncallis, Fazzanis, McAdoos, and Vechiarellis for a lifetime, not to mention Gepetto, the wedding guest who, in our darkest hour, became one of us as he witnessed Aunt Feen’s swan dive into public drunkenness. The way this evening has gone, I should have joined her. Better to be drunk to take the blow of Gram’s decision than stone-cold sober.

I don’t know what Gram was thinking, sticking me with Alfred as my partner, but she hasn’t done me any favors since she fell in love with Dominic. It’s almost as if True Love has rotted her brain. And here I am-her defender and champion-left with partial when I deserved the whole. She split the Angelini Shoe Company in two, like a pair of shoes, handing one to my brother and the other to me, rendering one completely useless without the other.

I drop my shawl and my purse on the bed. Then I kick off my shoes.

I look around the room for something, anything, to eat. I’m starving. Well, there’s always the welcome platter that Signora Guarasci left in each of our rooms. A bottle of pink liquor, some breadsticks, and a bowl of fresh figs call my name.

I grab the bottle and the corkscrew off the platter and, placing it on the nightstand, stab the point into the cork. I’m so over this day, I could bite off the neck of the bottle with my teeth. I need a drink, and I need it now. How ironic. I spent most of the day at the hospital waiting for my drunken great-aunt to sober up-and the first thing I do in the hotel room is grab the booze. At least this particular weakness is in the DNA, it’s not my fault.

I fill the crystal tumbler from the dressing table with pink whatever-it-is to the brim. I rip open the breadsticks, anchor one in my mouth like a cigar, and chew. Then I sit down in the rocker, pull the footstool over, and put my feet up. I hold up the glass and toast myself. Congratulations! You didn’t get kissed! You didn’t eat cake! You were upstaged by Bella Boobs, and you’re in business with your brother, who has never liked you! We’ve got a winner! I swig.

Then, I look down at the scads of faux pearls that lie on my chest in a tangled clump. What was I thinking? They are ticky-tacky. On top of all the indignities of the day, I didn’t even look good.

After twelve hours, the pearls feel like pennyweights around my neck. I lift the mass of them over my head and drop them on the floor. That’s the beauty of plastic; it travels well and takes abuse. I could drop them out the window and they wouldn’t shatter on the streets below-no, they’d just tuck and roll, like my ego has done all day long. I won’t wear multiple strands of Coco Chanel-inspired pearls ever again-unless I’m in France. This look did not work in Italy. Or maybe it just didn’t work on Gianluca Vechiarelli, and that’s what’s troubling me. I take another swig.

I text Gabriel Biondi, who would be the love of my life if he weren’t gay. We’ve been best friends since college, and he’s the desperate call I can make at 3:00 A.M.-or the transatlantic text I can make at any other hour of the day. Right now, he’s devising the seating chart for the sold-out Saturday night show at the Carlyle. He’ll be happy to hear from me, if only to procrastinate at work.

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 gonna be a Hard Candy Christmas around here.

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 cannot be rejected by someone that you do not actually have a date with.) Gianluca and I were hardly a sure thing, but if our past encounters were any indication, there was heat, a mutual attraction, and a certain sympathy that I imagined might lead to something more. It’s been a few months since I saw him in New York, and while I’ve been busy, my thoughts have gone to him from time to time. Okay. More than a few times. What woman doesn’t like a man that makes his desires known? He told me he had feelings for me. And I already know that I like kissing him.

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 tanner. He kissed me on the balcony of the Quisisana last year when Roman Falconi stood me up on our Capri vacation. He asked me to consider his affections on my roof overlooking the Hudson River. But that was then. Today, all of Gianluca’s previous declarations seemed to dry up and blow away like Italian snow when he brought Carlotta to the wedding.

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 dinner. She didn’t say a word, that prying postulant; she just slammed the door shut and left us in the dark with our shame. There is such a thing as the ruined moment, the missed opportunity, love derailed. I should know. I’ve lived it more than once.

“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.”

“And what did you think of Carlotta?”

“That was some mink.”

Gianluca laughs. “She’s very elegant.”

“That would be one word for it.”

Gianluca looks confused.

“If the men in my family took a vote, I think they’d come up with a word to describe her, and it wouldn’t be elegant. How long have you been seeing her?”

“Seeing her?”

“Yeah.”

“Since I was nine years old.”

“Nine?” Boy. No wonder they are considered the world’s best lovers. They practice. These Italians start early.

“Her father makes the equipment we use in the shop.”

“Oh, that’s interesting.” I don’t find it one bit interesting. I could not care less. I lean forward and take the glass from Gianluca and sip the wine. I hand the glass back to him. “Childhood romances are wonderful.”

“She told you?”

“No, I just assumed.”

“Why?”

“The way you were together, I guess. I’m like that with Bret.”

“Bret?” he asks quietly.

“Yeah, Bret Fitzpatrick and I finish each other’s sentences-still. We broke up years ago, but we’re still close. There’s a history. It’s comfortable.” I hope he’s jealous of Bret; it would serve him right for sandbagging me by bringing Carlotta to the wedding. So I pile on. “There’s a shorthand with an ex who knows you well. You know, like you have with Carlotta. I’m sure you know everything about one another.”

He nods.

I continue, “So, how did you like the wedding?”

“I’m happy for my father. And for Teodora.”

“Orsola tells me that you’re going to take over the shop and let Dominic retire.”

Gianluca’s expression changes at the mention of his daughter’s name. He smiles. “Papa would like that. He wants to spend all of his time with your grandmother. I would like that, too.”

“They want to enjoy every moment,” I agree. But I was surprised how quickly Gram was able to let go of making shoes. It’s almost as if a key turned, leading her into Dominic’s house and out of our workroom.

Gianluca rocks in the chair. “It’s a good lesson for everyone.”

“Absolutely. Seize the moment.” I gulp the wine while sharing the wisdom stitched on my mother’s pot holders.

“Maybe you will come to Arezzo more often?”

“I don’t need an excuse. I love it here.”

“Va bene.”

Once the va benes start rolling, we’re on common ground. At least, that was true in Capri-in the past. I get up and refill the glass with the pink potion.

“And you?” Gianluca asks. “How do you feel about today?”

My eyes fill with tears. I hate this wine! It’s filling me with false emotions. No one should drink when they’re sad. “I’m going to miss Gram.”

Gianluca gets up and goes to the nightstand. He picks up his handkerchief, then he sits down on the bed beside me. He dries my tears.

“I’m sorry. I don’t want to cry. But I think I’ve almost drunk that entire bottle of…what is this, anyway?”

“Vin Santo. Dessert wine. Isole e Olena.”

“I should at least know the name of what I’m killing the pain with.”

“What pain?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Let me pick from the bouquet of despair. Let’s start with the A’s: abandonment.” The tears flow freely again. I grab the handkerchief out of his hand and dab them.

“Your grandmother has a life to lead-on her own, without you.”

“I know!”

“So what is the problem?” he says softly.

“I’m going to end up old and alone and stabbing wedding cakes like Aunt Feen.” I sob. The thought of this terrible fate makes me feel worse. I can’t stop crying.

“I don’t believe it,” he says.

“Why would you? You won’t end up alone. You’ve got Madame Mink.” I might as well take a political stand for PETA if I’m never going to kiss Gianluca. “You know, I don’t even believe in wearing fur.”

“You don’t?” He smiles.

“I don’t know. It’s not the mink. It’s her. She’s…spectacular.”

“She is very beautiful.”

I cry into the handkerchief. “Yes, she is.”

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Yes, I did. I’ve made you sad.”

His admission shuts down my waterworks like a lever. At times, Gianluca speaks English better than me, and other times, he has a difficult time expressing himself in anything but Italian, but occasionally he’s as sharp as a needle no matter the language, so pointed he goes right to the center of things. “You want the truth? Yes, you did make me sad.”

He smiles.

“You think that’s funny?”

“No, it’s not funny.”

“Then why are you smiling?”

“Because I knew.” He smiles again. “You care about me.”

I get up and move to the window. I throw it open for air.

“Come here,” he says softly.

“No, thanks.” I turn away from the night air and stand behind the rocker and hold the back of it with two hands like a medieval shield separating me, the lowly single handmaiden, from the Duke of Delish.

“Why not?” He seems surprised.

“I feel played. You know, misled. You had a shot with me last night. I thought you were sending me signals at the rehearsal dinner, which now, in retrospect, were real. But then you blew it today. You brought Carlotta to the reception. I had a whole thing in my head, a perfect little fantasy percolating, about how things were going to go between us at the reception. I thought we’d talk, have a cocktail or two, maybe a little pasta followed by a slice of cake after the knife throwing, we’d share a cup of espresso, a little dancing-you know, typical wedding rituals that lead the single people to partake of wedding-night rituals without any of the paperwork.”

Gianluca is stumped.

I continue, “Why do I drink? I talk too fast.”

“You don’t talk enough.” He gets up and hands me the glass.

I feel slightly cornered. The fresh air that pours through the window emboldens me like the oxygen they pump into the casinos in late night Las Vegas to keep the grannies at the slot machines until dawn. I can breathe, I can think, and therefore, I am going to be direct with him. “I’m free, you’re free…get it? I wasn’t free in Capri-and now I am, but you’re not. You have Minky.”

“Carlotta.”

“Yeah. Carlotta.”

“But I don’t have Carlotta.”

“What do you mean?”

“She’s my friend. That’s all. Her family and mine have been close all these years-in business together. She came to the reception out of respect for my father.”

“Oh.”

“How do you say…” He looks off and out the window, past the shield, beyond me. “…that you have it all wrong?”

“You say, I have it all wrong.”

Gianluca moves the rocker, the barrier between us. He takes me in his arms. The night air whistles through the window like a breath, sending a chill through me. I place my hands on his face, and through his hair. Then I rest my head on his shoulder. The scent of the citrus and leather on his skin reminds me of the tins of beeswax I keep in the shop. It’s the scent of everything I treasure, my childhood in the workroom on Perry Street, the cloth when I buff a pair of shoes I’ve made, and now, him.

I remember what his arms felt like last year, but he was forbidden then, so I dared not take in the details. I had a boyfriend, and I didn’t want to take advantage of this Tuscan tanner who I thought might be trying to take advantage of me. Or was he? It doesn’t matter. This is so much better than going back in my mind’s eye to the balcony at the Quisisana-because tonight, it’s my idea. “Kiss me,” I whisper.

His lips graze my cheek until he finds my mouth. He kisses me. I am on my tiptoes for a very long time as we connect, our lips moving in full expression, without words. Who needs them now? I am done explaining my feelings. I want to have my feelings instead. Better yet, I’m going to have him. Gianluca kisses my eyes, my nose, my cheeks-I don’t know how many kisses he gives me-ten, a thousand, a million?

“I’m sorry I made you sad,” he whispers in my ear. “I’m sorry we wasted so much time.”

“I don’t care,” I tell him. “I got buckets of time. Boatloads…all I have is time.” He interrupts me with kisses down my neck. He finds the half-undone back of my dress and I hear the soft whir of the zipper as he undoes it. His hands on the small of my waist feel warm as he eases them up to my shoulders. If I wasn’t tipsy, I’d stop him, as my parents are down the hall, and Aunt Feen is sleeping off her reception bender with a snore they can hear in Florence. But I don’t care about any of that now. I just want him.

He spins me gently through the room, like the flutter of snowflakes that made dizzy patterns outside my window this morning. It’s as if I’m moving through the air without a destination in sight, not quite flying, but definitely off the ground. This must be how ballerinas feel when they sail through the air during a jump. I am weightless as he carries me to the bed.

This is not a good idea, I’m thinking, as he lays me on the bed, and yet it also feels like the best idea ever. I don’t hear church bells, or brass blaring, or see satin ribbons unfurling; this isn’t going to be triumphant sex, there isn’t going to be a parade, but I don’t need one. I need him. Gianluca wants me-and he’s wanted me a very long time. Is there any harm in pursuing something that cannot last? Isn’t it time I made up my own rules?

We both know that I’m leaving in the morning. Figuring out the continental divide, doing the math: I’m there, he’s here-so what? It’s a challenge-what element in my life isn’t a challenge? What else might stop me? He’s my grandmother’s stepson? What difference does that make? When the international divorce rate hits 50 percent, the truth is, everybody’s related anyhow.

What’s the worst that could happen here? So, we make love, it’s divine-and then, we never do again? I promise I will be very happy with the four hours I will have with him before the sun comes up. I’ll treasure the memory like a rope of dazzling diamonds and not be upset at all if I find out the stones aren’t real. I swear: whatever I get, whatever we have tonight, will be exactly enough. Here’s a bold concept for a Catholic girl from Queens: stay in the moment.

“I’m so happy you came back to me.” I cover him with kisses.

He smiles as his hands travel from my hips to my waist. My dress falls away as he pulls me closer still. “I wanted you from the first moment I saw you.”

“And I thought you didn’t like me at all.”

“Now do you understand that I do?”

“I understand.”

“There was a problem,” he whispers.

My heart races. Here it comes. I always expect to get bad news, but usually not this soon, and never after I’ve already stepped out of my dress. I ask, “What problem?”

“You’re so young.”

I don’t know if it’s the crappy sherry, or that I can’t get the sound of Aunt Feen hitting the floor out of my head, but when a thirty-four-year-old woman hears she’s too young, all inhibitions and obstacles disappear. Young. The word itself is an aphrodisiac-not that I need one. A great lover knows exactly what to say, which is even more important than a great lover knowing what to do. I needed to hear that I’m still young after a day of feeling like that warped wheel on the old horse carriage. “I’m not too young,” I assure him. “I remember eight-track tapes.”

“It doesn’t matter, because I can’t help the way I feel about you.”

Even with my smeared black kohl eyeliner giving me the look of silent movie star Theda Bara, and my disheveled silver lamé dress thrown across the bed like a mermaid’s fin, I get it. He wants me, and I want him. Beginning of story? End of story? Who needs words? Who’s even talking?

Gianluca glides on top of me gently, pulling me close. He reaches around me and lifts me so I’m on the pillows. He shifts, pulling my BlackBerry out from under me. “Lose the phone.” I kiss him. He drops the BlackBerry to the floor as the cool night air blows through the curtains and washes over us.

There’s a banging at the door.

“Oh, God,” I whisper.

“Don’t answer it,” he whispers back.

Neither of us moves.

We hold our breath.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

“Auntie Val?” my niece Chiara calls out to me.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

Gianluca rolls off me. I point to the bathroom. He goes into the bathroom and closes the door behind him. I grab my robe from the hook on the back of the door and pull it on. I yank the belt of the robe in a knot like I’m rigging a boat to the dock.

I open the door. “What’s the matter?”

My niece stands before me in her Hannah Montana pajamas, her black eyes wide open. “Can I sleep with you?”

“Um, I think it would be better if you slept in your own bed.”

“Charisma is crowding me.”

“Give her a little shove.”

My tone causes Chiara to raise her eyebrows. She counters, “She’ll wake up. It’s too hot in our room.”

“I’ll open the window.”

“Nah.” She folds her arms across her chest.

“I think you should go to your room,” I say with an urgency she hasn’t heard since I yanked her away from the closing doors on the E train exiting the Queens Boulevard stop when she was five. Chiara looks at me suspiciously. I turn perfectly nice, hoping to ditch this kid back into her room, so I can return to Gianluca’s arms. “Really, honey. Auntie is exhausted.”

“Do you have any candy?” She tries to peer through the partially opened door and into my room.

“No, honey, I don’t.” I look down the hallway. Where in the hell is this kid’s mother? Why doesn’t Tess wake up and deal with her? I smile at Chiara. “It will soon be breakfast-and I’ll buy you a big jar of Nutella for the plane ride.”

“You will?”

“Yep, and a spoon. And you can eat for seven hours on the plane on the way home.”

“Do I have to share?”

“No, no sharing.” I give Chiara a hug, and then, closing my door behind me, walk her down the hallway and back to her room.

“Mom won’t let me eat it out of the jar.”

“Yes, she will. I will buy her a jumbo bottle of Coco cologne off of the duty-free cart.”

“Good.” Chiara pushes the door of her room open.

A woman’s loud scream, coming from my bathroom, peals through the quiet.

“What was that?” Chiara grabs me, afraid.

“Go in your room.”

I turn and run down the hallway and into my room. Gianluca is standing in front of the bathroom door.

“I frightened your sister,” he says as he points to the bathroom. “It connects.”

“I forgot to tell you.”

The hallway light flickers on. “Is everything all right?” my mother calls out from her room at the end of the long hall.

“I saw a mouse,” Jaclyn calls from her door, next to mine, covering for the shock of finding Gianluca in her/our bathroom.

“I’ll send Daddy,” Mom calls out reassuringly.

“What the hell can I do? Club it with a shoe?” Dad bellows.

“I don’t know, Dutch. Think of something,” my mother says.

“I’m not chasing mice,” he barks. “Hasn’t this day been bad enough?”

“I’m afraid!” Chiara comes out of her room and into the hallway and begins to cry. “Maaa-maaa!” Her voice echoes through the hotel like an Alpine yodel.

Tess opens her door, comes out of her room, and joins her daughter in the hall, groggy from sleep. “What’s the matter?” I hear her say.

“Aunt Jaclyn was screaming,” Chiara explains.

“You shouldn’t listen at people’s doors,” I hear Tess tell Chiara; clearly she thinks it was a pleasant scream that her daughter misunderstood. Tess then closes Chiara’s door softly behind her.

“I’ll go.” Gianluca kisses my hand.

“No, you’re staying.”

“I can’t, now. The children. Your family…”

“Right, right. A bloodcurdling scream knocks the starch right out of romance. How about…” I’m thinking we could go to his house-and so is he.

He shakes his head no. “Papa and Teodora.”

“Right, right.” I think again. “Is there a hotel?”

“This one.”

We look at one another.

“We’re doomed,” I whisper.

“No.”

“How do you figure? I’m leaving in the morning.” I throw myself against his chest.

“You might be going home,” he says softly, “…but you will never leave me.”

Gianluca’s lips find my own with such tenderness, then he kisses my cheek, and into my ear he whispers, “Never.”