Authors: Rosanna Chiofalo

Bella Fortuna (14 page)

BOOK: Bella Fortuna

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Though it has been fourteen years since Baba died, I still feel devastated whenever I think about that day. It still hurts that he's no longer here with us. It still hurts that Tracy had conspired behind my back to have me beat up, knowing my father had just been given one month to live.

On October 18, 1996, I'd gotten my ass kicked, my father had died, and it had been Tracy's seventeenth birthdayâa birthday I was sure she'd never forget. From that day forward, I became a believer in karma: What goes around comes around.

But there had also been good karma present on that day. Michael and I had formed a deep bond that was the seed of our growing friendship and romance.

Michael had postponed going back to Cornell for another week so that he could attend my father's funeral. When he heard the news, he came to my house. I was lying in bed, still nursing my wounds.

Neither of us said anything as he came over to me. He sat down at my bedside and pulled me into his arms. I broke down crying. He held me and stroked my hair for what felt like the longest time.

“Just let it out. Let it all out,” he whispered.

I'd been strong for my mother and sisters. Again, I felt the weight of my being the oldest and wanting to be their tower of strength. It felt so good to finally have someone console me. When I eventually stopped crying, I looked up into Michael's face. His eyes were red, as if he'd been fighting off tears.

“Shouldn't you be on your way back to school?”

“I couldn't go after I got the news. But I had decided to put off returning to school for a few days even before your father died. I wanted to make sure you were healing okay. I was going to check in on you.”

“Thanks, Michael, but you didn't have to do that. Weren't your parents upset that you didn't go back?”

“No, no. They understood. They were horrified when they heard what happened to you. And now that your father has passed away . . . well, I think in a way they're proud of me that I'm looking out for you and your family. They actually came here with me. They're talking to your mother in the living room.”

“I should get up and say hello to them.”

“Valentina, wait. I want to talk to you.”

His face was gravely serious.

“Is everything okay?”

“Yeah. It's justâ” He looked away.

“You can tell me anything, Michael. I hope you know that. Whatever it is, I'd never betray your trust. You've done so much for me. If there's something you need help with or just someone to listen, I'm here.”

He smiled. Then my heart stopped when he picked up my hand and brought it to his lips and kissed it. “You're always thinking of others. You're so kind. I've never met anyone like you. It seems most girls nowadays just care about themselves and getting what they want or playing some game or other. But not you, Vee. You're not like that.”

I blushed. “Well, it seems that being the way I've been doesn't keep the guys around. The few boyfriends I've had always seem to leave me for the girls who are more like what you're describing.”

“They're idiots. What do they know?”

Suddenly, I thought about when I saw him kissing Tracy on the night of the sophomore dance. Maybe Aldo had been right that Michael was just thinking with his base urges but didn't want a girl like Tracy for a girlfriend.

“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 doâtake 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 âheart.' 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 timesâfirst 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.

BOOK: Bella Fortuna

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