“So, what is it? What were you going to tell me?”
“I-I was wondering if it would be all right if I e-mailed you every once in a while to see how you’re doing.”
“Sure. But I’ll be okay, Michael. I’m not that fragile, you know?” I smiled and patted his hand. He looked down at it. I quickly pulled my hand away.
“No, I know. I guess what I’m trying to say is now that you’re older I’d like us to be better friends. I’d like to get to know you better.”
“Oh.” I swallowed hard. I could see he was waiting for my response. “Yeah, that would be nice.”
Michael smiled, looking relieved and something else, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it.
“I’m going to let you rest. I’ll see you tomorrow night at the funeral home.”
The reminder of my father’s death sent pain through me again. Michael must’ve noticed. I’d almost forgotten in the few minutes I’d spent in Michael’s company what was ahead for my family and me. Sensing the change in my mood, Michael lifted my chin with his fingers. He then brushed the side of my cheek with the back of his hand and pushed a strand of hair that had fallen out of my clip back behind my ear.
“I promise you, things will get better. It’s just going to take some time.”
He stood up and kissed my head before he walked out of my room. Suddenly, I remembered yesterday when I was falling asleep after having taken the painkillers and feeling someone kiss my head. It had been Michael! I was positive of it now. In my groggy state I thought it was Ma, but I remembered how he was still sitting on my bed when I fell asleep.
I don’t know how long I stayed frozen in place, staring up at the ceiling, after he’d left. Had I been dreaming? Did Michael really kiss me? And not once but twice? Okay, it was just an innocent kiss on my head, not my lips. Had I also dreamed that he wanted to e-mail me while he was away at school and get to know me better?
“Stop it, Valentina!” I muttered aloud to myself. He was just feeling sorry for me. Who wouldn’t? First, I get my ass kicked, and then my father dies. Michael was just doing the right thing. But still. It meant the world to me, more than he’d ever know.
True to his word, as soon as Michael returned to Cornell, he e-mailed me a few times a week. Those e-mails were what kept me going while I was grieving for my father. Most of his e-mails were funny. I could see what he was trying to do—take my mind off my father, if only briefly. He answered all of my questions about college life and had a lot of questions for me, too, mostly silly stuff like what was my favorite flavor ice cream (vanilla for soft ice cream, pistachio for hard ice cream), what was my favorite color (violet), who was my favorite band (The Cure, of course), what was my favorite book (Tess of the d’Urbervilles), where did I want to travel to some day (Venice and Bali), what were my favorite flowers (peonies and roses).
But the odd thing was I never saw him when he came home for school breaks. I’d ask him what he was doing, and he was always vague. I couldn’t help wondering if he was dating someone back home. The e-mails continued for the rest of his four years of college and even when he went on to Germany for business school. Once, he sent me a postcard from Munich with just the words, Add this to your list of places to see.
I’d begun feeling like he was playing a game with me. So I set my sights on going out with other guys. But of course, they all fell far short of Michael. There was the wannabe guido James who didn’t have an ounce of Italian in him, but kept insisting on reciting love poems to me in the most butchered Italian.
“Too say oo-nuh foh-ray del me caw-rah-sohn.” (Translation: “You are the flower of my heart.”)
“James, corazon is Spanish for ‘heart.’ It’s cuore in Italian.”
“Really? Are you sure?”
“Yes, very. Remember, I’ve been speaking Italian since I was born. You’ve been speaking it for a matter of what, two weeks?”
James blushed. He’d also tried to win me over by playing Italian opera in the car only to have me tell him that I didn’t like listening to opera blasting from a Corvette.
Then there was Daniel, whose parents were from Russia. He was in law school and had the most impeccable manners. He insisted on asking Ma for permission to date me, which of course had my mother drooling. He took me to the Russian Tea Room and Le Cirque. He’d also insisted I accept a string of freshwater pearls on our second date. Yes, he was wealthy, or rather his parents were. But I had enough of the “caviar treatment,” as he liked to call his pampering of me, on our sixth date, when his true colors surfaced.
We were at the Colonial, a four-star Vietnamese restaurant in midtown Manhattan, which I’d fallen in love with after he’d taken me there on our third date. He’d gone to the restroom, and I had struck up a conversation with our waiter, who was from Sicily. When Daniel returned, he rudely said to the waiter, “We won’t be needing you anymore.” The poor waiter blushed and excused himself.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Daniel grilled me.
“Excuse me?”
“Don’t play dumb. You know what you were doing.”
“I was talking to the waiter. You saw that. Was that a crime?”
“You were flirting with him. And don’t deny it.”
“Okay, I won’t.”
“Ah-ha! I knew it.”
“I was not flirting with him, Daniel. You told me not to deny it. I was having an innocent conversation with him because he’s from Sicily like my parents.”
“Who started the conversation?”
“This is ridiculous. I’m leaving. And don’t bother calling me again.”
I could go on and on with the horrible dates. I finally decided to just focus on my work at the bridal shop, throwing myself into becoming an excellent seamstress and designer. Whenever Ma would ask me why I didn’t have a date on a Saturday night, I’d say, “Because I enjoy my own company more.”
“You can’t be alone forever.” Ma would shake her head.
I was lonely, but I’d also gotten tired of being disappointed so many times—first with Michael, then with the string of other guys who followed. I just didn’t want to put forth any more effort in meeting someone. If it happened, it happened. So as I made other brides’ wedding dreams come true, I buried my own, refusing to think about the day I had fantasized about since childhood.
Then two years ago, I came to work on a Friday morning in early June. There was a package waiting for me at the front desk that was delivered by messenger. No return address was on the package. I opened it up and found a CD of The Cure’s single hit “Friday I’m in Love.”
The only person I could think of who would send me this was Aldo, my buddy in our love of New Wave music.
“Ooh!!! Secret admirer and one with good taste, too! Maybe he has a friend for me,” Aldo cooed when we met for lunch later that day.
“So, it wasn’t you who sent me this?”
“No! Why would I surprise you like that? You know what a sucker I am for any compliment and the lengths I go to make sure I receive the praise coming to me when I give someone a gift.”
That was true. You couldn’t thank Aldo enough when he did something nice for you.
“This is kind of creepy. I don’t like it.”
“Oh, come on, Vee! Where’s your sense of intrigue?”
“It’s nonexistent. I live in New York City in the twenty-first century where there are so many weirdos out there.”
Then the following Monday, another package arrived, again without a return address. A DVD of the movie Tess was in there. I felt a cold chill run down my spine. Not many people knew I loved that movie and book.
I was looking over my shoulder all week when I was walking alone on the street. My mother and sisters weren’t even concerned. Like Aldo, they thought it was cool that I had a secret admirer.
Then, three weeks passed and no packages came. Finally, I could relax. I got home after an especially grueling day at the shop. When I opened the front door, a huge bouquet
of the most gorgeous violet peonies was sitting on the table in the foyer. Even though I was ten feet away from the flowers, I could make out my name written large on the gift card. Not another mysterious gift, I thought to myself.
I pulled the envelope off the transparent wrapping around the peonies and quickly ripped it open.
“The Cure . . . Tess of the d’Urbervilles . . . violet . . . peonies . . . now all that’s left is for you to have two scoops of vanilla and pistachio ice cream with me. . . .”
“Oh my God!” I said out loud, covering my mouth with my hands. The note was unsigned, but I immediately knew whom it was from. The e-mail I had sent to Michael when he was in college, in which I’d told him all of my favorite things, flashed before my eyes. How stupid was I that I hadn’t figured out the gifts were from him. Out of my peripheral vision, I saw a movement at the top of the stairs. I looked up. Ma, Rita, and Connie were peeking over the banister. But as soon as our eyes met, they pulled back. I heard Connie’s giggling.
They knew! No wonder they weren’t worried about the gifts being from some deranged stalker.
“Why didn’t you tell me those gifts were from Michael? Do you know how afraid I’ve been these past few weeks?”
I ran up the stairs. They were sitting on Ma’s queen-size bed, the same one she’d shared with Baba all the years of their marriage.
Ma spoke up. “He begged us not to tell you. He wanted to surprise you. Isn’t it wonderful, Valentina? I know you’ve waited for this a very long time!”
She knew? I was a bigger fool than I thought. Of course she knew that I’d been harboring a secret crush on Michael all these years. How could she not? I was her daughter, after all, and like I’ve said before, nothing got past those eagle eyes.
“You’re my family! You’re supposed to be loyal to me, not to some guy you haven’t seen in years!”
I was mad, probably madder than I should’ve been. But I couldn’t help it. My emotions were jumbled. Michael! I still couldn’t believe he was the one sending me those gifts. What kind of game was he playing with me now? Was he back? Ohhhh! The anger boiled in me. I didn’t care. That guy had me running around in circles since he’d come to my rescue at Li’s Grocery Store. And I was tired of it.
“Signora DeLuca, since your loyalty is to Mr. Carello, would you please do me the honor of telling him that I don’t appreciate having the crap scared out of me?”
“Oh come on, Vee! You’re actually mad at him? This is so romantic what he’s done! The closest I’ve come to romance was receiving a bottle of nasty acai juice from that creep Victor.” Rita grimaced.
“Yeah, Vee! I know you can be uptight, but come on! Michael’s finally into you!”
“Uptight? So that’s what you think of me, Connie? Thank you! That’s what you all think of me. To hell with all of you!”
I ran down the stairs.
“Valentina! Valentina!” Ma’s screams went unheeded.
And just in case I hadn’t made my point clear, I slammed the door behind me. I was about to dash across the street but stopped dead in my tracks when I looked up. Beady Eyes were at their usual post behind their tall black gate, holding on to the spires and just staring at me with their huge German shepherd, Gus. Even Gus was looking at me with the same penetrating stare his owners always seemed to possess, hence my family’s nickname for them.
Beady Eyes were the sixty-ish couple who lived across the street from us, and whose house I dreamed of living in even though I’d never seen its interior. Something about it had that happy Brady Bunch quality to it. And what kid didn’t want to live in the Brady Bunch house? Judging from the exterior with its pale lemon-colored door, shiny black gate, and large driveway that led to a spacious yard, which I was sure had to be bigger than ours, I was convinced their house was nice on the inside, too. Not that our house wasn’t nice, but I just had a feeling theirs was nicer. Plus, they had a huge oak tree in front of their house. For this alone, I wished I lived at their house. I’d always wanted a tree to call my own.
It wasn’t until I was nine that I learned what their real name was—Tom and Gladys Hoffman. Ma laughed at me when she heard that I’d thought “Beady Eyes” was their name. I did feel stupid. “Beady Eyes” was Ma’s nickname for them because of their staring problem.
Whenever one of us came out of our house, there was Mr. Beady Eyes’s entire 5'6" frame, standing behind his gate with his dark, sallow eyes. He looked like a prisoner on death row, waiting each excruciating hour until his execution.
Mrs. Beady Eyes was almost always in her housecoat, and her honey-blond hair was often set in rollers. When she smiled it was hard to tell since she pursed her lips so tightly together—even tighter than Hunchback Antoniella’s lips. Whenever she “smiled,” you’d swear those were stitches and not age lines above her mouth, giving her more the appearance of The Bride of Frankenstein.
It took many years to say hi to them. They scared me when I was a kid. One day, Ma scolded me for not saying hello.
“Are they nice people?”
“Yes, Valentina. They are nice people. They just don’t know that it makes others uncomfortable to keep looking at them the way they do. But you should always be respectful and say hello.”
The first time I said hi to them, I could tell it shocked them. Mr. Beady Eyes, who never even seemed to attempt a smile like his wife, actually smiled at me and said in a very proper manner, “Hello.”
But the staring never stopped.
“Hi, Mr. and Mrs. Hoffman. How are you?”
“We’re fine. Thank you. How are you?”
“Good, good. Thanks for asking.”
I nodded my head toward them and kept walking. Gus had even turned his head so he could keep staring at me as I walked by.
“Weird,” I whispered to myself. I still couldn’t get used to them.
Seeing Beady Eyes did manage to slow my racing pulse and make me forget for a couple of minutes the drama that had played out at my house.
I had overreacted. Yes, it was romantic and thoughtful what Michael had done. Then why had it bothered me so much? I guess I was still hurt that I hadn’t heard from him except for that postcard since he went to business school in Munich. I couldn’t just let him think he could go back to our friendship being exactly the way it was, and I’d be all sweet about that. I wasn’t that same kid anymore.
I walked by the bridal shop. This month the featured gown was a Justin Alexander knockoff. It sported a huge tulle ball gown skirt with a basque waist. The bodice was covered in lace embroidery that resembled vines. The vines stretched down to the left side of the mannequin’s hip. It was stunning, and an excellent example of keeping a design modest without sacrificing elegance and beauty.
I looked over my shoulder to make sure my family hadn’t come running after me. Quickly unlocking the shop, I entered. Keeping the lights off, I made my way to the back, using the light that was streaming in from the street lamps. This was a guilty pleasure of mine no one knew about. Whenever I was feeling down, I snuck in here at night and tried on a few dresses. Of course, Rita, Connie, and I had tried on dresses in the past in each other’s presence. What girl working in a bridal dress boutique wouldn’t? But this was different. Trying the dresses on alone made me feel even giddier than when my sisters and I donned them together. I would even practice how I’d walk down the aisle when it was my turn—if ever—to get married. The walk was very important.
Sometimes, if I were especially mad, like tonight, I’d go through as many as a dozen dresses. I usually tried the gowns I hadn’t worn yet.
I first put on the Justin Alexander dress that was in our display window. The dress swallowed my petite frame even with the four-inch stilettos I slipped on. Next, I threw on a super-tight Monique L’huillier mermaid charmeuse gown in champagne. The dress was gathered to the side of the waist, creating dramatic shirring and emphasizing the curves of my hips and derriere. A large sparkly brooch adorned the fabric where it was gathered to the side. A
nother brooch was clipped to the bodice, throwing attention to the plunging neckline. I swept my hair to the side and fastened it with one of the jeweled hair combs we kept in our accessories case. I strutted around the boutique with my hands on my hips and swaying them in the most exaggerated manner from side to side, emulating models I’d seen on catwalks.
Going from princess to siren bride, it was now my turn for something different. I opted to be a super-modern bride, wearing a short, punky-looking taffeta dress that Connie had created. It was one of her designs and not a designer knockoff. Asymmetrical tulle peeked out from the hem, and a corseted lace bodice topped off the flirty dress. I wore a bird’s nest on my head, and pulled the netting of the fifties retro hairpiece over my face.
I looked at the clock hanging on the wall. It was well past ten. Ma would be worried. I changed into my street clothes and put everything carefully back as I’d found it. For the moment, I paused the video that was still playing in my mind of my one-woman fashion show.
As I locked the door of the shop, a shadow neared me. Before I had time to look up, I heard, “Isn’t it past your bedtime?”
I jumped. My nerves were still jittery from thinking I’d had a stalker the past few weeks.
“Michael! Geez! You scared me!”
“Sorry! Didn’t mean to do that. I know it’s been a while. Do I look that bad?”
He gave me his trademark wink, but instead of its usual bone-melting effect on me, it angered me even more.
“When did you get back?”
“This morning. Other than the scare I gave you, you don’t look that surprised to see me, Valentina.”
“My mind has been preoccupied. And it’s late.”
“Are you okay? What’s on your mind?”
“I’ve been receiving anonymous packages from someone the past few weeks, and it’s been freaking me out a bit.”
“Really?” Michael was grinning. I wanted to smack that smug smile off his face. Instead, I decided to continue with my game.
“So, how have you been? How’s Munich?”
Bella Fortuna Page 12
