Very Valentine

by Adriana Trigiani

  “Where are your husbands?” I ask Tess.

  “Parking.”

  “Thank God the boys like each other.” Mom swirls her burgundy-colored Manhattan around in the tumbler and sips. “You know that doesn’t usually happen with in-laws.”

  Tess looks at me.

  “Ma, we know,” I remind her. Sometimes Mom can be clueless; after all, we’ve had nothing but frost with Pamela for years. “Are Pamela and Alfred coming? They didn’t RSVP.”

  “We’re still on the Island,” Tess says and shrugs. “Pam hasn’t spoken to any of us since the blowup at Christmas.”

  “Did you call and apologize?” Mom asks her.

  “I don’t know what to say. Besides, Valentine should call. She’s the one who blurted it out.”

  “We all call her Clickety Click. Besides, she calls us the Meatball Sisters behind our backs and I never got an apology for that.” I sound five years old.

  “Mom, you make comments about her size, too,” Jaclyn says as she fishes a cherry out of her ginger ale, pops it into her mouth, and chews.

  “About her general size, her smallness, yes, but never specifically her feet.”

  “Feet, ass, hands, it doesn’t matter,” Dad declares. “You girls are icky picky and Pamela got her feelings hurt. Now it’s up to you to heal the rainbow. Our rainbow has a gaping hole in it right now because you can’t keep your opinions to yourselves. Somebody needs to call her and straighten out the situation.”

  “Your father is right. We should call her,” Mom says.

  “I don’t want to call her!” Jaclyn grabs another breadstick. “I can’t! I’m seasick until noon every day, and the truth is, I can’t take any more stress. I’m tired of it. She’s been in this family for years. Grow a hide already! Yeah, we’re a tough crowd, but so what? And while you’re at it, eat a sandwich. Clickety Click? It’s more like Thin-ety-thin.”

  “The pregnancy hormones have arrived,” Mom whispers. “Must be a boy.”

  Charlie and Tom enter the restaurant and greet Mom and Dad. Roman comes out of the kitchen with a plate of fried pumpkin blossoms. He places them on the bar, then shakes their hands.

  “I’m giving you four stars already for the parking. It was a slam dunk.” Charlie takes off his coat.

  “Parking is a snap in Little Italy,” Dad says. “Italians know how to attract business, right, Roman? And when we taste your food, we’ll tell you if you can keep it.” Dad throws Roman a wink.

  Roman forces a smile. My father doesn’t notice. Gram pushes the door open and enters. She takes off her hat, shakes out her new hair, and then turns full circle, like a model. Charlie and Tom whistle, while my sisters marvel at her brown hair.

  “Ma! You’re a brunette again!” Mom claps her hands together joyfully. “Finally you took my advice!”

  Dad spins around on his bar stool. “Somebody’s been throwin’ back her Geritol,” he says approvingly.

  “Mom, now you can trim another five years off your age,” Tess offers.

  “At least! If eighty is the new sixty, that makes me forty!”

  “And that makes me a perv.” Dad sips his drink. “With your fuzzy math, I’m old enough to be your father.”

  “Nothing wrong with an older man,” Mom says and shrugs.

  “Alfred is on his way,” Gram announces.

  “He told me he wasn’t coming.” Mom goes behind the bar to pour Gram a Manhattan.

  “I told him he had to come.” Gram puts her tote bag on a stool by the bar. “I’m tired of this silly feud. I’ve seen enough of them in my lifetime. A family fight stagnates, then over time turns into a hundred-year war, and nobody remembers what the argument was about in the first place.”

  “My sediments exactly, Ma.”

  “Sentiments,” Mom corrects Dad.

  “Should we wait for Alfred to begin?” Roman asks Gram. “I’ll go ahead and bring the food out,” he says on the way to the kitchen.

  “Need me?” I ask him.

  “I got it,” he calls over his shoulder.

  I catch Roman’s exasperated tone. My family has done nothing but complain since they arrived. My boyfriend got a very tired look on his face when my family rehashed the Pamela Christmas tiff. No one should have to live through that twice.

  “The sketch of the wedding gown arrived.” Gram hands me a large gray envelope marked BG from her tote. “Hand-delivered by Bergdorf Goodman.”

  The sketch of the wedding gown we are to design a shoe for is rendered in ink and watercolor on a heavy sheet of drawing paper. The silhouette shows shards of chiffon, which look like they’ve been cut with a steak knife and sewn haphazardly onto a fitted sheath. It looks like a dress made of fine silk that accidentally ended up in the washing machine. It’s dreadful.

  “Who needs shoes with this gown? You need a coat.” I give the design to Tess.

  “One that buttons from neck to ankle.” Gram shakes her head. “Who is Rag and Bone?”

  “Two hot designers,” I tell her.

  Mom puts on her reading glasses and peers through them at the design. “Oh dear, is there some sort of new austerity program in place?” She hands it off to Jaclyn. “I don’t understand why they wouldn’t use someone like Stella McCartney. She’s classic and romantic and whimsical.”

  “And your mother was in love with her father. Paul was her favorite Beatle,” Dad chimes in.

  “I’m not going to apologize for my good taste,” Mom says and swigs her drink. Roman brings a tureen of ravioli to the table.

  Jaclyn gives me the design. “Why can’t things be pretty? Why does everything have to be so ugly?” Jaclyn weeps, then bangs her hands on the table. “What is wrong with me? Why am I crying?” she sobs. “I’m not crying inside my mind—inside my mind, I’m sane! It’s just a dress. I don’t care about that dress,” she blubbers. “But I can’t stop…” Roman goes behind the bar and pulls out a box of tissues. He places them on the table, next to Jaclyn.

  “Now, now.” Mom puts her arm around Jaclyn to soothe her.

  “God, I wish I could drink! Four more months with nothing to take the edge off!” Jaclyn puts her head in her hands and cries, “I need booze!”

  Roman exhales slowly as he surveys the table. He has the same look on his face that he did during the fight on Christmas Eve. He’s trying not to judge, but he’s definitely annoyed. Good food doesn’t matter when you’re serving it to angry people.

  Alfred pushes open the entrance door, bringing a brisk shot of cold air in with him. Alfred extends his hand to Roman. “Nice to see you again,” he says with a tone as chilly as the winter wind he dragged in.

  “I’m glad you could make it,” Roman says pleasantly, but he looks as though he’s got six Roncallis too many in the restaurant already.

  Alfred doesn’t move to take off his coat. Instead, he surveys the tops of our heads, refusing to make eye contact. He finally walks over to Mom and kisses her on the cheek. He shakes Dad’s hand. “I can’t stay. Gram asked me to show up and say hello, but I have to get going soon.”

  Tess looks down at her empty appetizer plate, while big wet tears drop onto Jaclyn’s sweater like dew. “What’s the matter, Jaclyn?” Alfred asks her.

  She sobs, “I don’t know!”

  “Please, Alfred. Stay at least for the antipasto,” Dad implores him. What can Alfred do? Say no to his sick father?

  Alfred pulls out a chair. “Just for a minute.”

  “Great.” Roman forces a smile. “I’ve got a fresh antipasto, followed by a specialty of the house, a truffle ravioli, and then we’re having pork roast with roasted root vegetables.”

  “I’d like to see the menu,” Dad jokes. Everyone laughs except Roman.

  We take our seats. Alfred sits on the far end, next to Gram. Dad sits at the head of the table on one end, while Roman takes the seat at the head of the table closest to the kitchen. We dig into a platter of rolled salami, sweet sheets of pink prosciutto, glossy olives, sun-dried tomatoes, hunks of fre
sh parmesan, and flaky tuna drizzled in olive oil. Roman puts a basket of homemade bread, fresh from the oven, in rotation around the table.

  Jaclyn passes the sketch of the dress to Alfred.

  “What’s this?”

  “The Bergdorf dress.”

  He looks at it. “You got to be kidding.”

  “It’s definitely a design challenge,” I say, forcing a smile.

  “You really think that this is going to change the course of the shoe company?” He shakes his head.

  “We can only try,” I say evenly, resisting the temptation to snap back at him. I take the sketch from him and slip it back into the envelope, placing it on the table behind me. A dull quiet settles over the table. Roman surveys our plates, making certain his guests have what they need. He stands quickly and replenishes our wineglasses.

  “Dad, how are you feeling?” Charlie asks.

  “Pretty good, Chuck. You know, I get a burning sometimes, in my nether parts—”

  “Not while we’re eating, honey,” Mom says.

  “Hey, he asked. And I do get a burning sensation.”

  “When are you going to Italy, Gram?” Alfred changes the subject.

  “April. Valentine is going with me.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m going to meet the suppliers,” I explain.

  “April. I love Italy in April,” Roman says as he sits back down.

  “You should join us.” I squeeze Roman’s hand.

  “I just might.”

  “I’d invite myself along, but it’s planting season in Forest Hills,” Mom says gaily.

  “For the record, we can’t fit any further flora and fauna on Austin Street.” Dad waves his fork at Mom.

  “Honey, you say that, and then, voilà, there’s another gorgeous rhododendron or strip of yellow phlox thriving somewhere in the garden.”

  “There’s always room for phlox,” I say and pass the bread to Jaclyn, who finds the word phlox so funny, she can’t stop laughing. “Now what?” I ask her.

  “I don’t know,” she giggles. “It’s like I had too much sugar and I’m on the scrambler at Six Flags. On the inside, I’m not laughing. I swear,” she laughs. “Bah-ha-ha.”

  “I never had those mood swings when I was pregnant,” Tess says.

  “Who are you kidding? It was like Glenn Close with the curly perm moved in. You hid in closets. You read my e-mails. You swore I was having an affair,” Charlie says.

  “I don’t remember that at all,” Tess insists. “But childbirth? That’s another story.”

  Tess rips a piece of bread in two and butters it. “They say you forget, but you don’t.”

  “Tess, you’re scaring me,” Jaclyn says. Tom pats her hand.

  Roman looks at me and raises both eyebrows. He stands, picks up the tureen, and goes around the table serving the ravioli. I can see he’s about to snap, between Dad’s burning groin, Tess and Charlie’s fussing, and Jaclyn’s weeping, this isn’t exactly the kind of light dinner conversation that goes well with handmade ravioli. What’s the matter with my family anyhow? They almost seem annoyed to be here, as if coming to dinner at a hot Manhattan restaurant was a supreme sacrifice. On top of their surly moods, they seem oblivious to the amount of work Roman has put into this meal for them.

  I try and make up for my family. “Roman, the ravioli is scrumptious.”

  “Thank you.” Roman sits down.

  Why aren’t they complimenting his cooking? I kick Tess under the table.

  “Ow,” she says.

  “Sorry.” I look at her but she doesn’t catch my cue.

  When Tess was dating Charlie, I knocked myself out to make him feel welcome. I listened to Charlie drone on about installing home-security systems until my eyes rolled back in my head like martini olives. When Jaclyn got serious with Tom, she warned us that he was “shy,” so we made sure to bring him in on every conversation, to try and include him. He finally told Tess and me to back off, that it wasn’t necessary to include him in our dull conversations, he gets enough of that at work. We’ve failed with Pamela, but it wasn’t from lack of trying; she’s just not into the stuff we enjoy, like eating, so it’s always been a struggle to find common ground. When Alfred was dating her, we were on our best behavior, but once they married, it was too much work.

  Now, as I look around the table, reciprocation of my kind gestures toward my sisters and brother when they were bringing someone new into the family has gone out the window. It seems they are just too jaded, disinterested, and old to put on a good face for Roman. He’s getting the rent-a-wreck version of my family when the rest of the in-laws got the Cadillac treatment. It’s almost assumed that Funnyone isn’t a serious player in romance, so why bother? Why use the good china on Roman, he won’t be around anyway. But they’re wrong. They are my family, and they should be on my side and, God forbid, root for my happiness. Tonight, it’s clear they couldn’t care less. Here they are at a restaurant short-listed in New York magazine for Best Italian Eatery and they act like they’re grabbing a sweaty hot dog in wax paper out of a bin at Yankee Stadium. Don’t they see that this is special? That he is special?

  “Are you going to tell the chef what you think?” I say so loudly that even Roman is startled. The family does an en masse hmm, good, great garble that seems insincere.

  And then Alfred says, “Who’s paying for the trip to Italy?”

  “We are,” I tell him.

  “More debt.” He shrugs.

  “We need leather to make shoes,” I snap at him.

  “You need to modify your operation and sell the building,” he says. “Gram, I agreed to come tonight hoping that I might be able to tell Scott what your plans are.”

  Now I’m really angry. This dinner was supposed to be a lovely evening about getting to know my new boyfriend, and now it’s turned into agenda night for the Angelini Shoe Company. “Could we talk about this another time?”

  “I have an answer for Alfred,” Gram says quietly.

  Alfred smiles for the first time this evening.

  “I’ve been doing a little research on my own,” Gram begins. “I had a long talk with Richard Kirshenbaum. Remember him?” She turns to Mom. “He used to run the printing factory on the West Side Highway? He and his wife owned it.”

  “I remember her well. Dana. Stunning brunette. Amazing fashion sense. How is she?” Mom asks.

  “Retired,” Gram deadpans. “Anyhow, I told him about the offer and he advised me to wait. He said that Scott Hatcher’s offer wasn’t nearly enough.”

  “Not enough?” Alfred puts his hands on the table.

  “That’s what he said.” Gram picks up her fork. “But we can talk about the details another time.”

  “You know what, Gram? We don’t have to. I can see Valentine and her crazy ideas have gotten to you and you’re not thinking clearly.”

  “I’m clear,” Gram assures him.

  “No, you’re just buying time.”

  “First of all, Alfred, if I could buy time, I would have done it already. It’s the only thing I don’t have enough of. Though none of you would understand that, not having reached your eightieth birthdays.”

  “Except for me.” Dad waves his white napkin in surrender and continues. “Time? It’s like a freakin’ gong in my head in the middle of the night. And then I get the cold sweats of death. I’m hearing the call to arms, believe me.”

  “Okay, Dutch, you’re right. You’re exempt. You would understand this because you have a health situation—”

  “Damn right.”

  “—that would make you empathetic to old age. But the rest of you are too young to understand.”

  “What does this have to do with your building?” my brother asks impatiently.

  “I am not going to be pushed into anything. And I feel you’re pushing me, Alfred.”

  “I want what’s best for you.”

  “You’re rushing me. And as far as Mr. Hatcher is concerned, he is looking out for his best
interests, not mine.”

  “It’s a cash offer, Gram. As is. He’d buy the building as is.”

  “And as it is, today, I’m not selling.”

  “Okay. Fine.” Alfred places his napkin next to his plate. He stands and moves to the door. Roman shakes his head in disbelief at my brother’s lack of manners.

  “Honey!” Mom calls after him. He goes through the door. Mom goes after him.

  Dad looks at me. “See what you started?”

  “Me?”

  I look to Roman, but he is gone. “Great. Now dinner is ruined. I hope you’re all happy.” I throw down my napkin. “Now that’s something to cry about.” I look to Jaclyn, who suddenly can’t muster a tear.

  I go into the kitchen. Roman is carefully slicing the pork loin and placing it on a platter. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay. It’s actually worse in my family. When they’re not complaining, they’re plotting.” Roman puts down his carving knife, wipes his hands on a moppeen, and comes around the butcher-block table and puts his arms around me. “Let it go,” he says.

  I pretend, for his sake, that I can. But I know, having seen the expression on his face and his abrupt exit to the kitchen, that my family just became a potential deal breaker in our relationship. Roman left Chicago because of this kind of infighting and competition in his own family, why should he put up with it from mine? Why would any man sign on for this kind of nonsense, even when it’s achingly familiar?

  As complex as Roman is in the kitchen, when it comes to his private life, he is a minimalist. He doesn’t clutter his loft with unnecessary furniture, his kitchen with dust-collecting gadgets, or his heart with emotional fracases. He makes quick decisions and clean breaks. I’ve seen him do it. He is not a fan of drama for the sake of it, and the last thing he wants to do is argue. He wants his life outside work, which is competitive and volatile, to be the opposite: calm and peaceful. My family, even when I beg them, cannot deliver that. Sensing my feelings, he says, “Don’t worry.”

  “Too late,” I tell him.

  9

  The Hudson River