Brava, Valentine: A Novel Read online

  "I don't need a crowd in here." Aunt Feen lets the blood pressure cuff fall to the floor. "I thought I was having a stroke."

  "Then we have to take you to the doctor."

  "In Italy? Are you crazy? They'd kill me over here."

  "It's a modern country with modern medicine," I say.

  "Really? It takes an hour to get hot water in the tub. How modern can it be?"

  "If you're faint, you need to see a doctor," my mother insists.

  "I'm seventy-eight, I'm faint most of the time. I wish God would take me."

  "Did you eat breakfast?"

  "Two rolls with butter, two poached eggs, a little gabagool, and a Snickers bar I had in my purse."

  "Could be sugar and fat shock," I reason.

  "It's not lack of nourishment!" Aunt Feen bellows. "I'm an eater!"

  "Then what is it, Aunt Feen?" I rub her bony shoulder.

  "This wedding. I have a bad feeling."

  "See? I'm not the only one." My mother squeezes onto the bed between Tess and Aunt Feen.

  "I just think it's crazy." Aunt Feen shakes her head. "What for?"

  "What do you mean, what for? They love each other," Tess says defensively, still chapped that Aunt Feen banished her Charlie.

  "Love. Love? What good is love?"

  Mom and I look at one another. We look at Tess, who rolls her eyes.

  "Well...," I begin, "love is...a start."

  "Oh, big deal. There is no happiness in this world, in this life. It's a vale of tears that leaves you lonely and bereft. I know it firsthand--the cheat of this world. The big cheat of this life. I loved Norman Mawby, and he was sent over to France in World War II, none of youse would remember that, but he was a bright, shiny boy from Grand Street, very neat and clean, and I loved him bad. And we wanted to get married, but he died on the fields of France, a country I will always hate. He died, and I was robbed."

  "But you married Uncle Tony--"

  "I never loved that hack."

  "Aunt Feen!" Mom cries.

  "I didn't. He was sloppy seconds. When I cried at his funeral, I was crying for all the years I wasted with the bum."

  We are stunned into silence. I look at the clock. "Well, Aunt Feen, the good news: I don't think you've suffered a stroke. You appear to be completely normal. We need to get to the church."

  "All right, all right," she says. "Let's get this nonsense over with already."

  "Girls, I'll get Aunt Feen down the stairs. You need to get dressed." Dad comes in, filling the room with the layered scents of Aramis cologne, Brylcreem, and Bengay. With his thick hair brushed back without a part, he is a dead ringer for Frankie Valli on the reunion tour, except for two squares of red under his eyes where the Frownies were ripped from his skin. They resemble odd patches of sunburn, but will hopefully fade as the day goes on.

  Tess and I go out into the hallway. Jaclyn, looking like a sprig of mint in a strapless pale green cocktail dress with a hem of tulle, comes out of her room. Her black hair is piled high on her head, as if she's a duchess from the court of Louis XIV. "What is going on?" she asks.

  "Old issues," I tell her.

  Jaclyn pulls us into her room.

  "Where's the baby?"

  "Tom took her for a walk."

  "In the snow?" Tess looks at me. My sister and I are very critical of our brother-in-law, who takes the baby everywhere, including places like Giants Stadium for a football game. We should not be surprised that he's rolling around the streets of Arezzo with her. This is nothing.

  "He put the plastic hood on the stroller," she says defensively before she leans in. "Pamela and Alfred had a helluva fight. I heard it through the wall."

  "What about?" Tess asks.

  "Money."

  Our brother, Alfred, is one of the few bankers in the New York/New Jersey area that haven't lost their jobs in the worst economic collapse of our lifetimes. That's how good Alfred is at whatever it is that he does. I can't imagine that they have money problems. My brother pastes his paycheck stubs in a scrapbook.

  "She's a spender," Tess whispers, as though it's a disease.

  "Yeah, but he's a saver," I remind them.

  I leave my sisters to their gossip and go to my room. Closing the door behind me, I throw off my robe, relieved to be alone. My dress is hanging in its linen bag on the back of the door. I slip it off its hanger and step into it.

  The silver lame sheath glides over me. I slide on a pair of matching metallic pumps. I open my jewelry case and pull ropes of faux pearls out of its pockets, layering the strands until Coco Chanel might stick her head out of her grave in approval and say, "Tres elegante!"

  I grab my purse and meet my sisters in the hallway.

  Tess wears a forest green velvet gown with a matching bolero. Her thick black hair falls in loose curls. She whistles when she sees me.

  "Thanks," I say.

  "You're going to knock Gianluca out with that number."

  I blush.

  "I knew it," Tess says smugly. "A sister always knows."

  The idea of a horse-drawn carriage is a lovely one, unless you're cramming nearly every member of my immediate family and their children into one vehicle. Which is what we did. The wet streets made the wheels slide to and fro like a rusty Tilt-A-Whirl carnival ride, and even Aunt Feen, who hasn't broken a smile since 1989, had to laugh when it skidded around a sharp corner and we all wound up on top of her.

  The Basilica of San Domenico is tucked into the village like an antique book in a cupboard. Built of sandstone with a simple facade, its only hint of color comes from the mosaic of midnight blue and ruby red in the stained-glass rose window over the entrance. A tower with dual church bells on metal beams hovers above the entrance. Those same bells rang on the wedding day of my great-grandfather and his beloved Giuseppina Cavalline, over one hundred years ago.

  There are more of us in the wedding party than in the pews (another sign that the bride and groom aren't twenty). Aunt Feen has taken a seat in the front. Her head is bowed in nap, not in prayer. Dad, Charlie, Tom, and Alfred are outside, getting air, which is what men in my family do whenever they are dressed up.

  Charisma and Chiara play hide-and-seek behind the Gothic pillars with my brother's sons, Rocco and Alfred Jr., who seem to be, for the first time since their births, on a long leash. There is definitely something going on between Alfred and Pamela, and the kids are getting a free pass on discipline in the meantime.

  "Pamela, looking good," I say.

  Pamela wears Indian chic in Italy. Her gown, panels of magenta and silver silk, has an empire bodice with geometric cutouts. The spaghetti straps show off her sculpted shoulders and thin arms. Her blond hair hangs long and straight without a single flyaway. Clearly, she remembered to bring an adapter for her blow dryer.

  "Thanks." She smiles, but it's forced. Pamela, my sisters, and I have made up since our rift last Christmas, but the current aloof demeanor is just as bad as the cold front used to be.

  "How do you like the hotel?"

  "It's rustic," she says.

  "It's good to be together."

  "Oh, yeah." She looks off. Her eyes follow Rocco and Alfred, who dart among the pews. "I'd better wrangle the boys before they tip over a saint or something."

  The entrance doors of the church open behind us, and Gram stands in the light, tall and lean, in a beige silk suit with staggered white sequins along the cuffs of the jacket and the hem on the skirt. I look down at the shoes I built especially for this day, an elegant eggshell pump with a kitten heel and pearl beading around the vamp. She extends her hand to me, and I take it.

  "Thank you, Valentine," she says.

  "For what?"

  "For everything. For helping me plan this day. For your support. You've been there for me every step of the way."

  "You deserve every moment of happiness, Gram. And you should never thank me. I thank you."

  Gram's eyes fill with tears. Mom comes over with a tissue and dabs Gram's eyes.


  Tess pokes me to get in line to process up to the altar. I take my bouquet of violets in one hand and smooth my multi-strands of pearls with the other. I look straight ahead to the altar.

  The priest, a scruffy Capuchin in chocolate brown robes, takes his place in front of the altar.

  Dominic, in a morning coat, and his son Gianluca, emerge from the sacristy and take their places.

  My heart flutters when my eyes meet Gianluca's. It seems like a thousand miles from the back pew to the communion rail. I like the distance right now. Maybe it will take the edge off the sudden and crazy mad desire I have for him, who, when the wedding license is signed, will be family to me. Dear God.

  "Valentine!" Orsola whispers in my ear.

  I turn. Orsola, Gianluca's daughter, gives me a quick hug.

  "We're late. Always late." Orsola's husband walks up the side aisle and slips into the front pew next to Aunt Feen.

  "No worries. You're right on time, cousin. To the second."

  Orsola wears a bronze silk wrap dress with a matching picture hat. Tess hands her a bouquet of violets. She blends into the processional line so seamlessly you'd never know she was Dominic's grandchild instead of one of Gram's.

  Chiara and Charisma sprint up the aisle, scattering rose petals as though they're in a three-legged race.

  Mom fusses with the whimsy attached to Gram's hat. I know it's 2010, but when it comes to weddings and hats in my family, it will always be 1962--we love a pillbox. "It finishes a look," my mother says.

  Dad pulls his cell phone out of his pocket and takes a quick snap of Gram and Mom before they begin their walk down the aisle. I don't know why he bothers, since anyone he'd send the photo to is right here in the church.

  A violinist plays Frank Sinatra's "All the Way." My sisters precede me single-file as we process down the aisle. I feel like a shiny dime following two fifty-dollar bills and a bronze Manzu sculpture, but I insisted on the silver lame, and it's too late now for a costume change.

  My mother sniffles behind me.

  I look straight ahead to the priest, but then, without moving my neck in his direction, I take in Gianluca.

  Why does he have to look so good? I repeat why, why, why, to myself with every step/pause that I take behind my sisters. This would be so easy had there been a decline in his appearance over the Christmas holidays. Why couldn't he be one of those guys who ages overnight? No, he looks better than he did a year ago. Better than he did on our roof in the leather jacket last fall. The gray silk morning coat is the exact shade of his hair. He stands out in the dark church like a light feather against a cloudy morning sky. I almost miss a step, the stone floor gives, as though I'm walking on clouds.

  "Watch it," Mom whispers from behind.

  I regain what's left of my composure.

  Gianluca looks out over the pews, his eyes as blue as the boots of Saint Michael in the statuary behind him. He is truly handsome, in that distinguished Cary Grant-in-the-later-years sort of way. Like Cary, Gianluca's profile is strong, his nose and jaw chiseled by God with a straight edge. Okay, maybe Gianluca resembles Saint Thomas More by way of Bay Ridge slightly more than Cary, but in the morning coat, in this color scheme, in this place, he's pure movie star in the golden age of Hollywood. The right suit makes a man royal.

  I remember when Gianluca kissed me on the balcony in Capri last summer, and how I didn't want him, and after he kissed me, he was all I wanted. Maybe I broke up with Roman after that because I wanted more of Gianluca's kisses. Stolen kisses are one thing, but relationships are legit, at least, that's how my mother raised me. Gianluca was clear with me then; he wanted more than a little romance. But this morning, I wonder if he still wants me. Probably not. He was very friendly at the rehearsal dinner, but not in pursuit. Why would he be? When he came to New York and wanted something more, I told him plainly that I didn't want him or any man, and he believed me. I meant it.

  Then why do I stare intently at him, as one would at a priceless painting under a pinlight on a museum wall? As each step in the wedding caravan brings me closer to him, I'd like to stop and sit down in an empty pew and catch my breath. Gianluca feels my stare. He smiles at me. I'd like to die right about now.

  The priest rattles off the vows in Italian so quickly Gram could be agreeing to anything, including upgrading the plumbing in the church rectory. But she looks up at the priest with reverence and a full understanding of what she is promising to do. (In general, Italians move slowly, unless they're in church, where Mass is on fast-forward.)

  The service becomes a blur to me as I'm overcome with my own emotions. I'm not alone. My sisters are weepy, my mother is blotting tears, while my brother stands off to the side surveying the ceremony in his disaffected, remote way, as if he's watching a report about a mini-merger on Maria Bartiromo's show.

  Gianluca gives his father the ring and kisses him on the cheek. My father looks to the floor as Gianluca expresses his affection for his father. Dad and Alfred have never had that kind of bond.

  As Dominic places the ring on Gram's hand, it's a wake-up call for their children. Mom won't be able to jump on the E train to see Gram whenever she wants. Gianluca will have to move out of the home he shares with his father to make room for his stepmother. I'm not the only person in this room whose life will change, but somehow I can't help feeling that I have it the worst.

  I've been in full-tilt denial about losing my grandmother to her new husband and her new country. I will be all alone at the Angelini Shoe Company, upstairs in the living quarters and downstairs in the shop. As Gram and Dominic's marriage begins, our old life together ends. The years I've spent as Gram's apprentice have been the best years of my life. Now, I'm going to have to take all I've learned from her and build upon it.

  My eyes mist with good memories and deep regrets. I mourn the conversations that we won't have over coffee in the morning, the afternoons when we sat on the roof, roasted chestnuts on the old grill, and laughed. I'm sad that she won't be there when I launch the Bella Rosa, which I pray will build the business to a new level and give us revenue to survive. The problem is all mine. I don't like change, and enough is never enough. A hundred years with my grandmother would not have been enough. But Gram's happiness is more important than all of that.

  The priest holds his hands over Gram and Dominic as he blesses them. The flames in the candles, once clear and bright, become murky white puddles through my tears. I hold my small bouquet of violets tightly. I promised myself I wouldn't cry, but I can't help it.

  I feel a hand on my wrist. Gianluca smiles gently and gives me his handkerchief. Before I can thank him, he is back by his father's side. I wipe away my tears. Tess nudges me. Gianluca's chivalry is not lost on my sister.

  Gram and Dominic kiss. The priest makes the sign of the cross over them.

  Aunt Feen stands, balancing on her pearl-handled cane for support. "Hallelujah," she says. "Let's eat!"

  2

  From the Bottom of My Heart

  GRAM AND DOMINIC CHOSE THEIR favorite restaurant in Arezzo for their wedding reception. Tucked into a narrow side street off the plaza, Antica Osteria l'Agania is a quaint, local spot that has been in operation since Dominic was a boy. We are welcomed through a rustic oak door by the maitre d'. The large wrought iron scrollwork handle is decorated with a small cluster of bridal greenery and white ribbons.

  We enter a large main room with wooden beams on the ceiling, surrounded by stucco walls painted a dull gold. The large picture windows are dressed with gold chiffon Roman shades. One long farm table, situated at the center of the room, is covered in a white lace tablecloth with small silk tassels in the shape of bells draped over the sides. Orsola works her way around the table, placing small net bags of confetti (pink and white candied almonds) at each place setting. Small bouquets of violets are placed down the center of the table, surrounded by clusters of twinkling votive candles.

  Whenever I see a garden of flickering cut-crystal votive candles, I think of my ex-boyfr
iend Roman Falconi and our first date at his restaurant, Ca'Doro. For a moment, I miss that long, tall chef from Chicago.

  "What's the matter?" Tess asks. "Don't tell me--"

  "No, I've moved on. I've definitely moved on."

  "If you want Roman back--"

  "No, I don't want him back."

  "Are you sure?"

  "I'm sure." Here's the thing. I could use an escort today. Whenever there's a family function, I'm reminded I'm single, so I shuffle through the Old Boyfriend File, my version of People magazine's "Where Are They Now?" to see if there's anyone I could have scrounged up to accompany me, instead of suffering through solo. It's not healthy to walk through the boneyard of my romantic past because the results are always the same, but I do it anyway. If self-improvement is a theme in my family, so is self-punishment.

  On ordinary days I love being single, and I consider it a choice, not a curse, but I've learned that a woman needs a date at family funerals and weddings, if only for diversion from the drama. It's comforting to have a date to dump all the extra emotions upon, like gravy on macaroni. That's why in-laws were invented--if only to point out that your family is crazier than mine, as Charlie reminds Tess, and Tom reminds Jaclyn. Even Clickety-Click--Pamela--can be seen supporting my brother in her firm Germanic fashion. The spouses quell the histrionics--or at least, they try to.

  Wedding receptions in Italy are not like our extravaganzas back home, and tonight, I wish they were. I would prefer to hide in a big crowd in a cavernous, noisy hall. It's easy to slip away when the disco ball descends and the guests are covered in white polka-dots in the dark. I like to have the option of slipping out early, before the Beach Boys medley and the chicken dance, without anyone missing me. Loud music that drowns out any unpleasant comments or intrusive conversation is also a plus. This intimate wedding reception (intimate for Italians is a head count under fifty)--twenty of us gathered around one table, most of us blood relatives--will be a lot of work.

  Gram and Dom make the rounds, greeting the guests. The bride is so openly happy and optimistic, I can't help but be. I had no way of knowing how I would feel once Gram was actually married. Her happiness is as important to me as my own, so I never wavered in wanting her to be with the man she loved, even if it meant giving up her life on Perry Street and starting over in Italy. But now that the ceremony is over, and she's officially Mrs. Vechiarelli, it's another feeling entirely to be on the other side of it. Now it's back to reality.