Adriana Trigiani (2010) by Brava Valentine

Author:Brava, Valentine [Valentine, Brava,]
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2011-01-14T19:19:45.859000+00:00

"I don't know. I like when you compared me to a peony. That was good. And when you write how you feel. That's always good. Here's the deal, Gianluca. Have I mentioned that I like to say your name? It has the entire history of Italian civilization in its delivery. At least I think so."

"Thank you."

"As a general rule, you should never write love letters filled with imagery and then send a swatch of shoe leather. The sentiments in letters should delight and build until the woman is so enthralled she cannot imagine the world without you."

"Ah."

I let go of him and swim off into the deep end, into the blue water.

The night air on my face is cold compared to the warmth of the water below. But the contrast is lovely; it's waking me up in every way, from the long flight, from my anxieties about meeting Roberta, and from my ambivalence about getting involved with a man who might take me away from my work, when my career needs my undivided attention.

Gianluca meets me at the deep end. "Are you hungry?"

"Not really. Are you?"

"No."

"So, what should we do?"

He smiles, and that's his answer.

Good answer.

Room service has left a good-night tray with a silver service espresso pot, cream and sugar, and a plate of fresh fruit: mango slices, strawberries, and kiwis, artfully arranged like a sunburst. There's a polished sterling silver bowl filled with chunks of fragrant dark chocolate. There is also a fine bone china platter of tiny almond cookies sprinkled with candied orange bits. A small gold card with a handwritten note from the porter is propped on the tray. It says: "Complimentary."

"Why are you laughing?" Gianluca wants to know.

"The way this night is going, I'm getting everything I want."

"That is how it should be."

"And what do you want, Gianluca?"

"Do you have to ask?" he says.

"Yes, I do. I don't like questions answered with questions. Have you ever heard of...show, don't tell?"

He thinks for a moment. "No."

"Well, it means that I prefer to express my feelings with action, not words." I climb onto his lap, and this time, unlike on Gram's wedding night in Arezzo, I don't withhold my feelings.

"I like both. Action and words." He kisses my neck.

"But I'm not a poet, I'm a shoemaker."

"A good shoemaker is a poet," he says.

"Right." I kiss him.

"Do you think you can find the words tonight?" he whispers. "To tell me how do you feel about me?"

I take his face in my hands. "I think I can't describe it."

"Try."

"Okay, I never imagined you before I met you. You're the kind of man who ends up with women who wear high heels and aprons."

He laughs.

"I didn't see myself with a man who had children, or was older, or who had a big life before he met me. And by big life, I mean a long marriage."

"I understand."

"But, and here's what I pray for, I pray to stay open to the possibilities of everything in life. I also hope to never limit my choices by my own prejudice--or the limitations of my upbringing.

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