“Look at your fiancé,” Tess said as she peeked through the door to the dining room. “He’s flirting with Aunt Feen.”
“How touching,” I said as I washed the salad plates.
“I think Aunt Feen has dementia.”
“Then she’s had it since she was eight years old,” Gram said, dropping an empty manicotti tray on the counter. Tess followed her with the empty salad bowl.
“Is Charlie okay?” Gram asked.
“Luckily, he won’t remember any of this in the morning,” Tess said as she picked up a dish towel.
Gram gave me a hug and looked at my ring while Tess peered over my shoulder.
“What do you think?” Tess asked, squinting at the ring. “Two carats?”
“One and a half,” Jaclyn guessed.
“It doesn’t matter,” Gram said. “It’s beautiful.”
“He could have put a cigar band on my hand, and I would’ve been fine with it.”
“You say that until you realize that you have to wear that ring every day for the rest of your life. Why should you have a puny stone? You’re worth a decent center stone and the extra baguettes,” Tess said.
“Thanks. But you get what you get, and you don’t get upset.”
“You’re a bigger person than me.”
“Three and a half inches in flats,” I reminded her.
“Don’t rub it in.”
Gram picked up a tray of cookies and took them into the dining room. Jaclyn followed her out with the coffeepot.
Tess dried the salad plates. “Thanks for what you said about Charlie and his job.”
“He’s a good guy. It’s not the end of the world.”
“It sure feels like it.”
“Does Charlie know what he wants to do?”
“He said he’ll find something in sales.”
“He’s good at it.”
“We have a little saved. We’ll be all right. ADT already called him when they heard he was let go. I guess when the economy is bad, people buy alarms to protect what they already own.”
Gabriel burst into the kitchen, juggling a stack of dinner dishes that dipped to one side like the Leaning Tower of Pisa. “Hands. I need hands!”
Tess helped Gabriel safely deliver the dishes onto the butcher-block island. “I work less at my job,” he said as he straightened the ruby red velvet vest under his black wool sport coat. He smoothed back his thick black hair. “Shall I slice the timbale?”
“Why not?” I handed him a big knife.
“You’re a guest. You shouldn’t be working the party,” Tess said.
“I’m happy to join you girls in scullery. The chitchat in there is getting on my nerves. Clickety-Click regaled me with a half-hour tutorial on face fillers. I told her the only face fillers Italians believe in are cannolis.”
“You don’t get to pick where you gain weight,” Tess said. “I put on ten pounds, and it all went to my rear end. It’s like somebody dropped a TV set down my pants.”
“It’ll come right off, Tess.” Gabriel forced a smile before turning away from my sister and rolling his eyes. “Diets are a discussion for another night. This is a night for cabernet and calories. Congratulations, Val.” Gabriel gave me a kiss on the cheek. “I’m happy for you.” Gabriel put his hand on his heart. “He’s gorgeous. You had to cross an ocean and a generation to find him, but it was worth it.”
“Thanks, bud. What’s a holiday without a backhanded compliment?”
“Sicilian DNA. Sorry.” Gabriel shrugged.
Jaclyn pushed the kitchen door open with her hip. She carried the empty artichoke fondue bowl. “Well, this was popular. If I didn’t know better, I would think that you’d already washed the bowl. Thank you, Nigella Lawson. Did I interrupt something?”
“We were just being happy for your sister.”
“He’s a good guy, Val,” Jaclyn agreed. “And tall.”
“So tall,” Tess agreed.
“I can’t believe that everyone likes him. I mean, are there no negatives whatsoever?”
“His age,” Tess said bluntly. “He’ll die before you.”
“Nice, Tess.” Gabriel glared at her.
“I’m just being realistic. Besides, she asked.”
“I’m not worried about death, I worry about when he’s eighty and you’re sixty. Dominic looks good in his early eighties, so I guess you’re all right,” Jaclyn said.
“Ladies, Gianluca is a knockout,” Gabriel said. “And let’s face it. Valentine is at that age where all that’s left is the scrap heap. You got the divorced ones with the little kids who need to do homework, or you got the weird singletons who never married, and the three gay guys that are still in the closet but marry a woman to create a bigger closet, but at forty, if they’re still single, they have problems. Gianluca is older, but he’s primo, so let’s take him. Twenty years is not that big an age difference.”
“Eighteen,” I corrected them.
“Over fifty, two years is like a day and a half.”
“Do I look a lot younger than he does?”
“No,” Tess and Gabriel and Jaclyn said in unison.
“Great.”
“You don’t look like you’re in your fifties. You look around forty,” Gabriel said.
“I’m thirty-five!” I reminded him.
“What does it matter? Everybody gets old,” Gabriel said as he checked his reflection in the microwave door. “And if you’re worried about your looks, forget it. Women end up two ways by the age of seventy. If you’re thin, you wind up looking like Granny Clampett from The Beverly Hillbillies, and if you’re heavyset, you end up like Aunt Bee on Mayberry.”
“Those are our choices?” Tess said with wonderment.
“You either get etched with the lines of wisdom, or you balloon as you careen toward death. Flinty or fat. Take your pick.”
“I don’t think age matters,” Jaclyn said. “Gianluca loves you, and that’s what’s important.”
Tess and Gabriel stared at her.
“Are you married?” Tess asked Jaclyn.
“Yes.”
“And you can actually say that and mean it?”
“Love is a . . . lot,” Jaclyn said defensively.
“Come on,” Tess said impatiently. “Love is one ingredient in a good marriage. By that, I mean it’s not the whole cake—it’s the eggs in the batter. It sort of holds everything else together. But you need the other ingredients. Without them, you’re out there without a life plan, goals, dreams, money. Money is as important as love. I love my husband, but right now I’m more worried about the money than I am soothed by the fact that he loves me.”
“But love sustains you through the hard times,” Jaclyn insisted.
“I’m going with Tess on this one. Love doesn’t fix anything. You don’t want to put on a teddy when he’s online filing for unemployment,” Gabriel reasoned. “Nothing takes the starch out of sex like a lack of self-confidence.”
“I’m not talking about sex, I’m talking about love.”
“Love as in forgiveness, mutual support, honoring his dreams. Right?” I asked Tess.
“Yeah. Those things. Once you have children, the marriage comes dead last. The kids and their needs are above Charlie’s and mine. Sure, we have a date night here and there, but it’s really about the family as a whole now.”
“Spoken like a woman who traded her subscription to Fit & Trim for Fat & Sassless,” Gabriel told her. “Your husband is going through a rough time. Now I’m not saying you haven’t been a peach through the whole thing, but he drank a lot of dessert wine tonight on his return trips to the bar at O’Fazzani’s. You should recognize the signs of a man in crisis.”
“I know he’s had a few drinks. But I’m not going to yell at him on Christmas Eve. So what he has a nip or two or a gallon
? He’s entertaining my family, and frankly, had there been a second bottle, I would’ve been swigging it.”
“Are we that bad?” Jaclyn asked meekly.
“Yes!” Tess and I insisted.
“At least there are no police on your doorstep,” Gabriel said. “There was always a Christmas Eve bust at the Biondis. That was the night when the cops thought they’d catch my father and uncles unaware and break up their gambling ring for good. Bookies get sloppy during the holidays. They leave their bet sheets next to their children’s letters to Santa. I remember our Buon Natales like it was yesterday. We’d flip on the tree lights, put out the baccalà, and ding-dong, the doorbell would ring. ‘We’re here to see Gus Biondi,’ the detective would say. We’d invite him in. My mother prepared for the bust in advance and had filled Tupperware with linguini in clam sauce. I rolled the paper Santa napkins with plastic forks and spoons for the to-go meal to be eaten in the police car. She always included a cookie tray for the cops down at the precinct. Sweet memories. My mother. May she rest in peace. What an angel.”
Mom poked her head in the kitchen and said, “Valentine, Daddy wants to make a toast.”
We threw down our moppeens and joined the family in the dining room. My dad stood at the head of the table holding a flute of champagne.
“I’d like to make a toast,” he said.
I tried to maneuver my way around the table to join Gianluca. He met me halfway, squeezing past the chairs filled with relatives.
“Gianluca, we’re happy to have you join our family. We’ve enjoyed getting to know Dom. He’s been nothing but an asset, and as the saying goes, figs from the same tree taste the same, so you’re probably as good a guy as your father.”
“He is,” Gram said.
“I’d like to say a few words about my daughter. When Valentine was born, she looked about forty-two.”
“Thanks, Dad.” I downed a swig of prosecco.
Dad continued, “She got her mother’s eyes and my bugle—that’s a nose by the way—but look how she grew into it. A beautiful smile, thank you Dr. Berger, and height—she’s almost taller than me.”
“I am taller than you, Dad.”
“Anyhow, she was different and she was special. We always told Valentine we named her after the saint, but that’s not true.” Dad reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet. He began to go through its contents, shuffling credit cards and paper business cards scribbled with his notes.
“Dear God, do the Roncallis run numbers on Christmas Eve too?” Gabriel asked. “I’m feeling nostalgic.”
“No, no.” Dad found a small square from a newspaper. “Your ma had a long labor with you. It took so long I read the paper cover to cover—and even the ads. Here’s where I found your name.
Valentine
An angel from heaven
I love you forever
Your husband Kevin
“I don’t know. It made me smile and then I laughed. It was a silly little poem but it meant something to me. And tonight I know why. I’ll be damned if it didn’t come true. You have made me smile and laugh all of your life. And now, another man will know that joy. Take care of my Valentine, Gianluca.” Dad raised his glass.
“Or he’ll make you replace his gutters in Forest Hills,” Tom said.
“Salute!” As my family toasted us, I felt my past meet my future. I was drunk with happiness, but then again, it could have been the Asti Spumante.
You would think after the Feast of Seven Fishes, sweet timbale, cannolis, and cookies that we wouldn’t have any more room to stuff down one more bite. But our family wasn’t done eating until the overflowing nut bowls, nutcrackers, and silver picks had been placed on the dining room table. Somehow, there was always room for nuts.
“I’m going to have to cut off this dress with pinking shears,” my mother said. “I always say I’m not going to overindulge, but then I just can’t resist.” She daintily unwrapped another Baci kiss from the dessert tray before taking a bite.
Aunt Feen pulled a nut bowl toward her. She picked through until she’d found the walnuts, lined them up on the tablecloth in front of her, and commenced cracking them. “So you think this will be your only marriage?”
“My one and only,” I assured her.
“Uh-huh.” Aunt Feen cracked a Brazil nut. “Italian Stallion here is already on wife number two, so don’t count on it.”
“Aunt Feen!”
“Go on. Be indignant. Giancarlo, how many times you been married?”
“Luca,” Mom corrected her. “Gianluca.”
“This will be my second marriage.” Gianluca actually blushed.
“At your age, I guess we should count ourselves lucky that you only have one under your belt. But I never liked sloppy seconds, not for myself or my grandniece. You’re besmirched.”
“He is not!” Tess rushed to defend him and me.
“Tell it to the bishop. How you gonna get married in church with a divorce on your record?”
“I have an annulment. My ex-wife remarried in the church.”
“Oh, so you have connections. Cut a check for your freedom. That’s what it takes. Soldi. Let’s not forget the soldi. You pay mother church, and mother church sets you free. What a racket.”
“Aunt Feen, we’re not that kind of Catholic,” my father said.
“He is.” Feen snapped her nutcracker in Gianluca’s direction. “Wake up, Dutch.”
Before my father could respond, my fiancé spoke up. “I’m not perfect, Aunt Feen.”
“You got that right, mammone. You know what a mammone is? That’s a kid who lives with his parents when he’s old enough to be one himself.”
“It’s true. I was a bamboccione.” Gianluca took one of Feen’s walnuts and cracked it open.
“You understand that over here in America, you’re only forty and living at home if you’re feeble.”
“Aunt Feen!” My mother was horrified.
“In Italy, it’s different,” Gianluca explained. “It helped me to be with my father when I went through a terrible time. I was married for many years and lived with my father after the divorce. The only thing I know for sure about marriage is that what was right when I was twenty-one wasn’t so great at forty. Can you understand that?”
“The man I love was killed in the war, so I wouldn’t know. I never knew happiness after that. I was robbed, and the purse has remained empty ever since. I have a barren heart.”
“You had a second chance at happiness. You loved Tony when you married him,” Gram reminded her.
“I faked it because he had a nice car.”
“Could we change the subject? I actually liked Uncle Tony,” Mom said.
“You would.” Feen cracked a nut. “I liked his Bel Air town car. That wound up being his best feature.”
“At least you came up with one nice thing to say about him,” Mom said drily.
“It was hard. He was a real bargain, that one. The secret to happiness? Never marry an Italian. Never. Ever. If you can find any ambulatory gentleman on two legs who is not Italian and has never visited the Boot, marry him instead. But an Italian? Never.”
“Ridiculous,” Gram said.
“Never marry someone from the other side. That’s what Mama said.”
“Mama was wrong,” Gram said.
“Ignore our mother at your own peril.” Feen shrugged. “She told me to brush my teeth with salt and baking soda, and to this day, I have all my choppers.”
“You make it sound like my grandmother disapproved of all Italians. I think she was referring to opportunists from the other side . . . ,” Mom said carefully.
“Carpetbaggers,” Gabriel said.
Mom continued, “Opportunists who wanted to marry an American to come over for a better life. Sometimes there were men looking for a hardworking woman here, an
d so all Italian men from the other side got a bad reputation.”
“Whatever my mother said, she had her reasons.”
“Well, she wasn’t always right about this one. I married Dominic, and we are very happy.”
“Keep telling yourself that,” Feen said.
“I don’t have to. It’s true.”
Feen turned sideways in her seat and flung her arm over the back of the chair. “Giancarlo, what the hell, I’ll call you Johnny. Johnny, you watch stories?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Soap operas.”
“No, I don’t.”
“I know you got bad scripts, cheap sets, and crap acting on those shows, but I’ve been watching them since 1962, and despite the schmaltz and corn, I’ve learned a lot from tuning in. One of the big lessons is family relations. Do you realize that when you marry Valentine, she will not only be your wife but your niece?”
“I didn’t think about it.” Gianluca blushed again.
“You wouldn’t. You’d have to be a soap fan to sketch a family tree. These are the kinds of things that occupy my mind. My mind is filled with scenarios.”
“Oh, that’s it,” Gabriel said, cracking a nut.
“Scenarios large and small.” Aunt Feen waved her hand over the table as though she was imagining them.
“Whose idea was it to serve the Irish coffee?” Tess asked accusingly.
“Sorry,” Tom McAdoo said. “Wanted to bring a little of my culture to the holiday.”
“Thanks,” Dad said. “Maybe next time you’ll bring a shillelagh and play a tune instead of getting Aunt Feen drunk.”
“A shillelagh is a walking stick,” Tom said softly. “It isn’t a musical instrument.”
“What do you want from me? I’m Italian. Both sides,” said Dad.
“Anyhow, what you learn from soap operas is that you have to be careful when you get married, because you could be marrying a relative.”
“Aunt Feen, please,” my mother implored her.