by Katy Regnery
He goes on to talk about the many bounties of our marriage, which he calls “the most fun he ever had,” and tells me to show Carina the pictures and videos one day: of her fabulously popular mom and dad—at movie premieres and state dinners—who tricked everyone in the world into believing their epic love story.
Maybe it wasn’t so far from the truth, though. Like you, I had many nameless, faceless lovers, Valentina, but you and Carina, in your own ways, were the true loves of my life.
That said, and because I promised never to bullshit you…I need to say something important and I want you to hear me, my stubborn darling.
Though you always said you told me everything, I believe there is one part of your story that you withheld even from me: I believe you loved someone once as passionately and romantically as one human being can love another. He left you or hurt you or betrayed you, or all three, and from that pain, all of your ideas about sex and love evolved. You neither trusted nor sought true love in your life. You only gave your heart to me because you knew I couldn’t break it.
A brief montage of unwanted memories suddenly flicker behind my eyes:
A black curl that won’t be tamed.
A jagged scar on a muscled chest.
I love you, macushla. I love you.
My facial muscles tighten in a wince and my eyes narrow as an expelled breath through my nose—a short, furious puff of air—returns my thoughts to here and now. I blink at the screen, forcing those images away and finishing Steve’s letter to me.
Whoever he was, you must find him and face him and bid him farewell forever. Until you do, I fear he may always haunt you, keeping your heart in a cage of your own making, and standing in the way of the sort of deep and lasting happiness you deserve.
Be well, my darling friend, my beloved wife.
Kiss the bambina.
And know how terribly I loved you both.
Your Steve
As tears flood my eyes, I push the laptop closed and stare at the still water of the aqua blue pool, wondering what new life awaits me in Brooklyn.
***
Ian
Every year on August sixteenth, I take an hour to sit on a very particular bench at the Brooklyn Botanic Gardens.
It’s one of many ordinary-looking benches—with stone legs and wooden slats—but it bears a bronze plaque on the back which reads: Albert Dylan Ladd. Beloved brother. Never forgotten.
It’s Albie’s memorial, and the place I feel closest to him in my adopted country.
The bench cost $25,000 when I purchased it for the gardens—it took all of my savings and a loan from Craig that took three years to work off. These days I could buy a hundred such benches without blinking an eye, but I wouldn’t remember the sweat I’d broken in the making of each and every dollar. It’s the memories of my little brother, combined with that hard work, sweat and tears, and that binds us together here, on these worn and weathered wooden slats.
“Daddy!” cries Dylan, racing over to me with an acorn. “It has a cap!”
I grin at my son: at the ray of sunshine who’s my favorite person on earth. “Yes, it does. Who taught you that?”
“Miss Meyer,” he tells me, referring to his pre-school teacher.
I know Miss Meyer. I know Miss Meyer very, very well, right down to the light brown mole on the inside of her upper left thigh.
“How about you find me five more just like it, huh?”
He scrambles off to do my bidding, my four-year-old horticulturist who loves these gardens just as much as I do.
It was in these gardens, in fact, that I met Brenda Prince for the first time, fifteen years ago. Dr. Trímian had instructed me to take a cab from Kennedy Airport to the Brooklyn Botanic Gardens where his sister Brenda worked as a groundskeeper. She met me at the front gate with a warm, welcoming hug, commenting on the orthopedic boot that kept my injured foot stabilized.
“Good thing I brought a golf cart,” she’d said. “Hop in beside me. I’d like to show you something.”
Throwing my small bag on the back seat, I sat down beside her, and we were off, the warm, summer breeze blowing in my hair as we made our way into the park. She pointed out various plantings and gardens as we rode along, her soft Irish burr watered down with an American accent she’d no doubt adopted during her years in New York.
“Here we are!” she’d finally declared, stopping the cart by a sign that read: Cranford Rose Garden.
And even me, a gang kid from Limerick, couldn’t be stoic at the threshold of such abundant fucking beauty. Roses of every color bloomed like a rainbow, their faces angled to the sun. And the smell? I’ll never forget the smell for as long as I live. It smelled like heaven. It reminded me of Valentina De’Medici, the princess I’d loved so passionately for one unforgettable night.
“Every year,” said Brenda, still seated beside me, “this rose garden has what we call, ‘A Second Flush,’ when it enjoys a replay of its June glory for a few weeks at the end of August. It’s a second chance to see the roses in full bloom.” She turned to me and tilted her head to the side. “A second chance, Ian. That’s what Gene wanted for you. That’s exactly what you’ve got here with us.”
Brenda wasn’t subtle, but she was kind, and I understood her meaning. I could muck up the gift that she, Craig, and Dr. Trímian had offered in setting me up in America, or I could lean into it and make something of myself.
With nothing to lose, I decided on the latter.
I started working with Craig at Prince’s Tavern the week I arrived: washing out glasses, mopping the floor, restocking the salt and pepper shakers, bussing the tables—whatever he asked of me. For the first time in my life, there was a hot meal on the table every night, courtesy of Brenda, and no, she wasn’t the best cook I ever met, but I wolfed down everything she ever made and told her I loved it because I was grateful.
After a few months, Brenda and Craig hired a private tutor to get me up to scratch for the GED, a high school equivalency test given every spring in the states. I aced it, but only because my teacher, Ms. Donegan, was a regular harpy, on my case all the time; and because I wouldn’t let down Brenda and Craig for all the tea in China. They believed in me. I couldn’t—I wouldn’t—reward that trust with failure.
With my high school diploma under my belt, I applied to take classes at CUNY-Brooklyn, grateful when Craig flipped my work schedule so it wouldn’t interfere with my class load. And when I graduated from college four years later with a bachelor’s degree in business, Brenda and Craig sat in the second row, clapping for me like proud parents.
They have been better parents to me than anyone could ask for, and my loyalty to them—and to Dr. Trímian—is absolute. Families are formed when you’re born, sure, but they’re also formed when people take you in and love you for you. Not because you can do something for them, but because they’re so fucking kind and decent that they give you a second chance to prove that you’re not trash to be thrown away; that given that rare and precious second chance, you might even make something great of it.
That’s Brenda and Craig: my family. My fairy godparents on earth, and no mistake.
Fifteen years later, I’m staring at the same rose garden in the same month, and the roses that greeted me in America so long ago are the same that my son plays amongst now. His dark hair, midnight black in the sunshine, is easy to spot as he zigs and zags through the many rows of roses.
I love him more than I’ve a right to love anyone.
He’s only the second person, in the whole of my life, to whom I’ve actually said the words, “I love you,” and meant it.
And the other?
“It was perfect, Caro Mio.”
My white angel.
Princess…
The other is more and more like a dream as the years roll by.
“I found three more!” Dylan calls to me.
I grin at him, holding up my hand, finger splayed. “I said five more, boyo!”
He gets back to work, litt
le flip flops smacking against his feet as he scampers around the garden.
For the record, I didn’t love his mother.
We dated for a handful of months five years ago, on-again, off-again, on-again, and finally off-again when she dropped off Dylan at my apartment and told me he was mine and she was going back to France. Red-faced and furious, strapped into a car carrier, he looked so much like me, I didn’t doubt it, though I still did a DNA test once the shock had worn away. Because Dalia had no interest in being a mother to our child, the courts gave me full custody when he was six months old, and it’s been him and me ever since.
Well, actually—
“Grammy! Grammy! The acorns are falling early!” he exclaims to Brenda, who’s found us in the roses.
—him and me, and Brenda and Craig, who love him like he’s their own.
She bends down to his level, holding out her hand. “Show me, then, lad.”
Is her accent stronger when she’s speaking to Dylan or is it just me? I wonder, grinning at the pair of them.
“Daddy wants six and I only got four,” he complains.
“Well, how about Grammy gives you a hand, then?”
He pulls Brenda to another oak tree as she looks over at Albie’s bench and waves to me. I wave back, gratitude filling my heart. I’d be nothing without them, I think. They softened my edges and opened my heart. Brenda believed in me, Craig trusted me, and Dylan thinks the sun rises and falls in my eyes.
For the record, I made good on my second chance.
I own nine “Prince’s Tavern” pubs in Brooklyn, Staten Island, and Westchester County, New York, now, and I brought Brenda and Craig along for the ride, setting them up for life with the payouts from their initial investment.
I also own the latest model Jaguar, wear a Rolex on my wrist and bought myself a posh duplex in Williamsburg, not far from where Brenda and Craig still live in Bay Ridge. My kid doesn’t want for anything: he has a room of his own with every toy on the market, his favorite foods in our cupboards, top-notch babysitters who come with the highest ratings, classes at the local Botanic Garden, a father who loves him and two doting grandparents.
I’ve done well and it’s a sweet life…but for one thing:
I have no one special to share it with, the lovely Miss Meyer notwithstanding.
And yeah, she’s eager enough to spread her legs at the end of the night, but there’s no…magic. No magnetism. Nothing special. We eat dinner, we chit-chat, we drink wine, we fuck, and I promise to call her again sometime.
And I do…eventually. But we’re friends-with-benefits more than anything else.
The truth is, I’ve had many lovers in my life, both before knowing Valentina and after, but I’ve never known her equal. When I told her I’d never recover from that night, truer words were never spoken. I never did.
I also knew there wasn’t a chance in hell she’d ever forgive me for standing her up that night. I can only imagine what she thought of me as the minutes ticked by and I didn’t show. It’s what kept me from reaching out to her all those many years.
And then, about three years ago, a tabloid picture caught my eye as I was ducking into the Foodtown on my block. Lo and behold, there she was in all of her serene glory; a picture of my Tina with the caption: HSH Princess Valentina Yasmina De’Medici, in Manhattan for her marriage to shipping magnate, Steve Trainor.
I picked up the newspaper and stared at her picture for several minutes, my held breath depleting as I drank in the sight of her again after so long. Her light blonde hair, swan neck and pouty lips were the same. She wore a diamond tiara, poufy white wedding gown and string of pearls around her neck as she stood beside her new husband on the steps of St. Patrick’s Cathedral.
My white angel.
But it was her eyes that captivated me, that haunted me hours later when Dylan was asleep in his crib and I made my way through a bottle of Irish whiskey. They seemed…flat. Empty. Unhappy. It felt like a dagger to the heart, the lack of sparkle and mischief in those once dark and dreamy eyes.
I looked up Steve Trainor on the internet, and from the rumors swirling around him, I gathered that her marriage might not have been a love match. And I wondered, just for a moment, if that was my fault—if Tina had had to marry someone who didn’t care about her virginity because she didn’t have it to give.
It still bothers me, that picture of the sad princess I’d loved for a few short hours on one magical evening so long ago.
But my life is here now, years and distance away from the streets of Limerick where I was a stupid, fucked-up kid, and she was the once-in-a-lifetime girl of my dreams.
“Daddy!” yells Dylan, racing toward me with Brenda at his heels. “We have six! Me ‘n Grammy did it! We found six!”
I grin and lean forward, ready to clasp him in my arms the moment he reaches me.
CHAPTER 6
Valentina
“Mrs. Trainor?”
“Yes. This is she.”
“I’m calling from the Brooklyn Botanic Gardens. This is Carina’s teacher. Miss Meyer.”
“Oh!” I put down the cup of tea I’ve been nursing, my brows furrowing. “Is something wrong?”
“Um…well…no. The short answer is no. Carina is safe and sound.”
With a sigh of relief I ask: “What’s the long answer?”
She pauses for a moment. “Would you be able to stay after for a few minutes at pick-up? I’d like to chat with you.”
“Is there a problem?”
“Not of Carina’s making,” she says. “But we had some tears today. She’s being bothered by another child, and I’d like to speak with you and the other child’s parent after pick-up. If you’re available.”
“Of course,” I tell her. “I’ll…I’ll be there at noon and plan to linger.”
“Wonderful,” says Miss Meyer. “And again, this is really nothing to worry about. We deal with these sorts of situations all the time and believe strongly in bringing in parents to help us resolve these situations with the children.”
“I understand,” I say, nodding as I look through the living room picture window at the knock-out view of Manhattan. “See you soon.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Trainor. Goodbye.”
Hmm. I wonder what’s going on.
Carina hasn’t seemed upset or dragged her feet about going to school.
Could the young, overly perky American teacher with nice skin and no style be overreacting? Children quarrel, don’t they? Nico and I certainly did.
Sighing with annoyance—about the meeting and the bullying—I pick up my teacup, sipping slowly.
I have heard the horror stories about royals and celebrities treating their children like breakable crystal, and requiring that everyone in their children’s orbit do the same, but I refuse to raise Carina like that. As much as possible, I want her to have a normal childhood. I won’t shelter her from the ups and downs of life. There are disappointments. There are sometimes bullies. None of us are exempt from challenges and it’s best we learn that lesson early.
That said, however, Carina is so young, so little. Her English is good from being Steve’s daughter, but she’s new to America, new to Brooklyn. She arrived here a few weeks ago with one parent, her heart still heavy with grief. Why does this other child have to pick on her?
I frown, placing my teacup on the glass coffee table in front of me.
The sofa I’m sitting on was made in Italy—the white leather is supple, but the cushions are still stiff. I suppose it’ll take some time before everything feels…lived in. That said, after a month of unpacking and redecorating, the elegant tenth-floor loft in the building where Steve grew up has become a home for Carina and me. Moreover, Brooklyn itself has become a haven for us. Like many other celebrities who choose to live out of the Manhattan limelight, I love the quick access to Manhattan, but prefer the cool, artsy, down-to-earth vibe of this neighboring borough.
We have met quite a lot of families in our upscale building—lik
ely because there’s a gorgeous rooftop garden and play area on the twelfth floor where we sometimes commune in the evenings, swapping tips about pre-schools and watching our little ones burn off steam.
It was there, in fact, where I learned about the Brooklyn Botanic Pre-School program and hastened to enroll Carina in their September session. Full disclosure? The class was full. But mentioning my status as an Italian royal (and an eager donor) helped the powers-that-be find one extra spot. So my daughter, growing up in such an urban environment, now attends classes every weekday at the local garden. For me, it’s a perfect balance. I thought it was for her, too.
I glance at the time.
It’s eleven o’clock already, and I still need to shower and dress before my meeting with Miss Meyer and this other child’s mother.
May it be mercifully brief, I pray, so that Carina and I can have some lunch al fresco at the Yellow Magnolia Café before naptime.
***
It was my sister-in-law, Bella, who suggested we check out the Brooklyn Botanic Gardens as soon as we were settled into our new home, and I will be forever grateful to her for the suggestion.
It is here that I feel most comfortable, most soothed and from whence I always leave refreshed.
Gaspare and I take a cab, as we do on the days I pick up Carina instead of Iago, to the Eastern Parkway entrance, flashing my membership card as I pass through the gates. It’s a fair walk to the Children’s Botanic Garden, but I ask Gaspare for some privacy on the half-mile summer stroll. I’d like to do some thinking. The sun is high, but there’s a late-summer breeze. I pass by the Cranford Rose Garden, detouring through the Japanese Hill-and-Pond Garden, which is Carina’s favorite spot with its charming bridges and jaunty red torii.
I wonder why another child is bullying her, and though I try to tamp down my protective instincts, they rise up unexpectedly with each step forward. I remind myself that bullying is a part of life and that all challenges must be met head-on, but the conviction I felt in my apartment dilutes. For whatever reason, I imagine this other child with two parents, living happily in Brooklyn, not having to deal with the heartache of a recently deceased father.
