Brava, Valentine: A Novel

by Adriana Trigiani

  "Good. I'm glad you checked with him."

  "Now, now. He e-mailed me about some tax files."

  "Uh-huh." I know good and well that Gram and Alfred e-mail every day. And I know he reports everything I do back to her. But what he doesn't get is that Gram only wants good news to go with her positive new life. He should skip the budget and tax talk with her. "How's Dominic?"

  "I'm having the best time here. And our honeymoon. The Black Sea was a stunner."

  "Ma, you won't believe it." Mom leans into the screen. "Every time I pick up a travel magazine, there's something about the Black Sea. I never heard of it before you honeymooned there. You're cutting-edge."

  "Magnificent. Russian palaces on the coastline--the best caviar I've ever tasted. It was cold, but the water was calm, like a smooth pane of mercury glass. Almost silver."

  "I'm so happy for you," Mom says.

  As happy as we all are for Gram's new life, and all the things that go with it that she deserves, like amazing trips and an attentive husband, I can't help but wonder if she ever misses making shoes.

  "Gram, you know the sketch I found? The one I scanned and sent to you?" I hold up the shoe design by Rafael Angelini. "Do you have any idea who Rafael is? I Googled the name but I couldn't find him anywhere...But I did find a Roberta Angelini in Buenos Aires. Do you think she's any relation?"

  "She could be."

  "Do you know of other Angelinis?"

  "Well, there's an old story--but I have no idea how true it is. But your great-grandfather had a brother. There was some estrangement, long, long ago--I think it may have happened here in Arezzo. But I really don't know any details."

  "My great-grandfather had a brother?" I look at my mother.

  "Don't look at me. I'm only an expert on my family after they arrived in America. Hoboken and forward...that's my area of expertise."

  I can't believe this. My mother knows the exact count of the family silver, and how we're missing a ladle that she believes was lifted when she invited the Martinelli cousins over for brunch after the May Day crowning at Queen of the Angels in 1979. My grandmother stored and marked heirloom rosaries for each of her great-grandchildren on the day they were born to be given on their First Communions in the event of her demise. This is a family that knows the contents of every drawer, closet shelf, and jewelry box. Our wills are updated like our dental records (and we are fanatical about teeth!). Can it be possible that we have an entire branch of the family, sawed off the old tree for kindling, and nobody bothered to tell us?

  "I didn't know much about the brother," Gram says. "They didn't discuss it. And this is the first thing I'm hearing about Argentina."

  I just stare at the screen. I want to shout: Yeah, you don't know much--or you just don't remember to share it with me: just like you never told me this building was in hock or that Grandpop had a mistress until you were already in love with Dominic, who you told me about ten years after the fact!

  I have a notion that if I opened the wrong box in storage, I'd uncover enough family secrets and vendettas to blow the roof off 166 Perry Street. "Well, I think it's important. It would appear that there was another shoemaker in the family."

  "Why should that matter now?" my mother pipes up.

  I look at Gram and then my mother. "Are you serious?" Don't they get it? I'm attempting to grow the brand. I need to know everything about this company and our history. There may be something of value to use going forward--I shouldn't be in the dark. What I don't say is that between Alfred and Gram, I get the funny feeling that's exactly where they'd like to keep me.

  "Your mother is right," Gram says. "Let's look to the future. Besides, that sketch wasn't as good as your grandfather's--or your great-grandfather's." She smiles. "Or yours."

  "Could you do me a favor anyway?" I ask. "Go to the church there in Arezzo and see if you can find the baptismal records. If Rafael Angelini really was Grandpop's uncle, he'll be there."

  "I'm getting chills," Mom says. "Maybe we should consult a psychic."

  "Ma, the last time we did, it was a disaster. We gave Aunt Feen a free session, and the lady promised her that she would win Powerball."

  "Right, right. And when Aunt Feen didn't win the lottery she wanted to sue the psychic and the gaming commission."

  Gram interrupts us. "How is Feen?"

  "I went to see her on Sunday." Mom says. "She's as crabby as ever. She signed up for water aerobics at the Y in Mineola. Better she drink pool water than Johnny Walker Red."

  My cell phone rings on the counter. I pick it up while Mom and Gram go down the long, lonesome road of life with Feen.

  "Valentine, it's Pamela. When did Alfred leave?"

  I check the clock. "Around five. He had a bunch of meetings with the Small Business rep downtown."

  "He's supposed to be here for Rocco's parent-teacher conference. I have a sitter and everything."

  "He's not answering his cell?" I ask.

  "It goes straight to voice mail." She sounds completely frustrated.

  "I'll track him down. You go ahead to school, and I'll tell him you'll meet him there."

  I hang up with Pamela and call my brother. He picks up the phone after a couple of rings. "Hey, Alfred. Call Pamela. She couldn't reach you and said there's some parent-teacher thing at school."

  "Oh, no."

  "You forgot?" This is not like Alfred at all. He remembers everything--including the grade he got on his calculus final in eleventh grade. "Well, get on the bus, brother. She's waiting for you."

  I snap the phone shut, completely annoyed. Along with a partnership I never wanted, I am officially my brother's keeper. What's next? I spend my Saturday afternoons ironing Alfred's shirts?

  My mother scans the keyboard on the computer. "How do you shut this off?"

  "Are you done?"

  "Yes."

  I hit the buttons out of Skype. The screen goes black. My mother claps her hands together. "What a trailblazing invention. I just love the 21st century! It's so William Shatner. So Star Trek."

  "Do you ever miss old-fashioned ways?"

  "Which ones?"

  "Love letters written with a fountain pen?"

  "Oh, God no. Your father can't spell. He cannot express himself via words at all. He tried to write to me when we were young, but I needed a dramaturg to deconstruct his sentiments. No, no, I like how we communicate now. Dutch tells me how he feels to my face. Press a button and my mother's face pops up from Italy. There's nothing like right now, in the moment."

  The Small Business Adminstration office is two doors down from the room we are sent to when serving on jury duty. The waiting area is filled with people, laptops out, cell phones on, doing business. I sign in. Whenever you deal with doctors or government agencies, there's invariably a clipboard and a number 2 pencil dangling from a string.

  Kathleen pokes her head out the office door and motions to me. I point to the list--there's at least nine names in front of mine. She waves me in.

  "I have your paperwork all set to go," she says as she closes the door behind me.

  "Already?" I'm amazed and also slightly guilty about the line I just jumped in the waiting room. Kathleen has really been charmed by the Angelini Shoe Company.

  "It was a snap. Alfred looked over it and signed it."

  "Great."

  "Ray Rinaldi approved them and sent three sets back to me for your signature." Kathleen places the documents in front of me and gives me a pen. I sign the paperwork. She stamps them.

  "You should have your loan within six weeks. This gives you time to make a deal with a manufacturer."

  "I'm on it."

  Kathleen stands. "You've been great to work with."

  I open my tote bag and lift out our signature red and white striped shoebox. "These are for you."

  Kathleen opens the box. "They're gorgeous!" She lifts out a pair of Flora calfskin slippers. "I can't possibly keep them."

  "Why not? It's not a bribe. The loan has already been approv
ed." I point to a bouquet of flowers with a thank-you card that sits on Kathleen's desk. "We express our gratitude with shoes instead of flowers. Friend to friend."

  "I've had a great time working with you and your family." Kathleen smiles.

  I never noticed how pretty she was, or maybe now I see her as a beauty because she just promised me enough money to make the Bella Rosa.

  I place my copy of the contract in my tote bag. I feel very guilty when I pass through the waiting room loaded with people who, just like me, need a loan to survive, and hopefully grow.

  I text Bret:

  Me: LOAN APPROVED!

  Bret: Congrats!

  Me: Thanks to you.

  Bret: Now we find a factory.

  Me: In the U.S.?

  Bret: Arguing with your brother about China.

  Me: I knew he'd be a problem.

  Bret: That's why I'm here. I fight. You make your beautiful shoes.

  Me: What would I do without you? I know: I'd be in proper therapy!

  Bret: You're my therapy. Nobody makes me laugh like you.

  Me: Or you!

  Bret: xo

  Me: xo

  Tess, Jaclyn, and I sit in the rotunda waiting area of Sloan Kettering Hospital. Dad is here for his checkup, and Mom seemed nervous about coming alone, so we all came to give them our support. You would think, after the diagnosis and months of treatment, that we would be used to the grind that comes with a diagnosis of stage-two prostate cancer, but we're not. We live in fear, but we don't talk about it. We put on big smiles, joke and laugh to keep our parents' spirits up. But all the while we grip the rosaries in our pockets, holding on to the beads, praying for good news every time Dad has to walk through those doors.

  We love the word remission, and we throw the word cure around as our deepest wish (because it is). But cancer is now an official member of the Roncalli family. We don't like it, we didn't ask for it to be born, but it's here, and we have to accept all of it: its cranky moods and unpredictable behavior, its sudden retreat when the doctors try a new drug and tell us to go home and wait for the results. In the meantime, we cope with the toll it takes on our father, who goes from normal to exhausted to sick as the doctors try to make him better.

  But today, I'm feeling unusually lucky. With the loan approval, maybe we're on a roll, and things in general will begin to go well for my family. I'm superstitious, though, because I've seen momentum go in the other direction, so I keep my optimism to myself.

  "Do you think Dad will get a good report?" Jaclyn asks.

  "He looks good. You know, physically."

  "Val, he always looks good. The people in our family can be at death's door and they never look sick. They die in the picture of health. You can't count on visuals," Tess says.

  "I hope I age like Dad. He's looked the same since he was forty."

  "It's the nose," Jaclyn says. "A nose is important as you get older. It holds everything up. Like a tent pole." Jaclyn scrolls through her BlackBerry. "Look. Gram sent a picture of Dominic and her. Check it out."

  Gram and Dominic embrace on the deck of a cruise ship. There are foamy white caps on the Black Sea. They are bundled up like sherpas, in down coats, knit caps, dark sunglasses, and thick gloves.

  "Are they on their honeymoon, or did they join the Russian mob?"

  "It must have been cold over there," Tess says. "Freezing. Hey, here's one with Gianluca." Jaclyn hands it to me.

  I look down at the picture. He's standing by the hood of his car with a peevish expression on his face. Gram and Dominic must have been late to go somewhere. Annoyed or not, he looks gorgeous in the picture.

  "Have you heard from him? I mean, any word since I caught him in the bathroom?"

  "Yes, I've heard from him."

  My sisters lean in.

  "Are you Skyping?" Tess asks, trying not to pry, but desperate to know every detail.

  "No. We write letters."

  "With stamps?"

  "Yes, Tess. With ink, stamps, envelopes. The old post office routine."

  "Wow. How romantic." Tess says the word without meaning it. Her idea of romance is cards that play songs when you open them, huge floral arrangements, and a diamond heart suspended on a thick gold chain. A handwritten letter is the poor man's way to a woman's heart, and Tess, like my mother, prefers the glitz. "An old-fashioned letter."

  "But why?" Jaclyn, not yet thirty, does not remember life before cell phones and e-mail. "How long does the mail take from Italy? Isn't it years? Mom sent us a postcard from Italy, and she'd been home three weeks when the card arrived. Why would you bother with all that when you can text him?"

  "He's not a technical guy," I tell them.

  "He's old." Jaclyn shrugs, satisfied that she's cracked the Vechiarelli code.

  "Yeah, he's older...ish, but it's not that. He really pays attention to the people around him. It matters to him how he spends his time. I don't know him that well yet, but everything he does, everything he says, has meaning. He thinks things through. I've never met anyone like him."

  "Do you think it's serious?"

  "Don't buy your bridesmaid dresses."

  "But Bendel's is having a sale," Jaclyn whines. "I got my eye on a Rodarte sample."

  Tess turns to me. "Don't let her push you. There will always be perfect dresses and weddings to wear them to. You make sure he's right for you. Take your time. Eventually, you'll know for sure if Gianluca is The One."

  "I hate to disappoint you, but I don't know if I believe in that anymore."

  "Of course you do! Look at us!" Jaclyn says. "One Charlie! One Tom!"

  "Well, it's worked out well for you guys. I'm different."

  "You always say that, but you're really not that different from us," Tess says.

  "Believe me, I wish I was exactly like you. You get an idea in your heads, and you see it through. Some people go for the brass ring, and you went for the diamond version. It worked out for you. But I never fall in love with men who do what I want to do. There's always a conflict."

  "Maybe this is it. Maybe Gianluca will compromise," Tess reasons.

  "When is he coming over to visit?" Jaclyn asks, hoping that gown she likes will still be on sale when Gianluca convinces me to take the next step.

  "He's running the tannery alone now. I don't think he can take time off."

  "So you have one of these Jane Austen romances where there are letters but no actual sex." Tess sounds disappointed. "No action. Just words."

  "Poetry," I correct her.

  "What does he say in the letters?" Tess asks.

  "None of your business."

  I will not make the mistake of showing my sisters the letters from Gianluca. Gabriel's dissection of Gianluca's letter left me stone cold. June's assessment helped because she put her opinion in the context of her extensive life (and love) experience. The last place I'm going to look for validation is my immediate family. I'm long past the days when I have to run everything I'm feeling by my family.

  As the last single person in a family of married people, I have become their final frontier, their project. They will not rest until I'm taken. I would prefer they use their energy to help Mom install her dream lily pond on Austin Street instead of meddling in my love life.

  Mom pushes through the swinging doors that lead to the interior of the hospital. She is dressed head to toe in yellow. Sunshine gold. Mike Roncalli has brought a splash of color therapy into Manhattan's palace of healing.

  "Oh, girls! All clear!" Mom embraces the three of us and begins to cry. "Every time I set foot in here and we get a decent report, I realize how completely out of my mind with worry I am every single day. Ordinary life can drain you."

  "Yes, it can," I agree.

  "It's not the big things, you know--it's the maintenance. But thank God and Saint Teresa, who never fails me, Dutch is all clear for now."

  "I'll text Alfred," Jaclyn says.

  "Thanks," Mom says, tightening the belt on her yellow princess coat. Someth
ing bothers her still. "You know," she says, "your dad notices that Alfred never comes on these appointments."

  "He's back at the shop, Mom," I tell her. "He's researching--"

  "Don't make excuses for him. You make the damn shoes, Val, and you find the time to come here and be with your father and me. No, your brother doesn't get it. And you know what? He never will! He will hold a grudge against your father until the day he dies."

  "Let's hope not," Tess says diplomatically.

  "What is it?" Mom throws her hands up. "Why can't children forgive their parents? We don't set out to disappoint you. We really don't. And when we do, we are the first to know it--and as far as I can tell, your father has made reparations. Not that he would use that word--"

  "Or pronounce it." I nod.

  "But honestly," Mom continues, "the man has made all matters of restitution to me, to his family, to his God. Furthermore, he has tried time and time again to open up the channels of communication with your brother, on Alfred's terms, and he's been rebuffed. Every single time! Daddy isn't selling himself as some perfect parent. He's well aware of his failings, as I am of mine. But for God help me, it's been twenty years. It's almost a non-memory for me at this point. But, for your brother? It's a fresh gash."

  "That's just Alfred," Tess says. "You're not going to change him, Ma, don't let it bug you."

  Mom considers this. The sadness and anger leave her face as quickly as if she were wiping them off with one of her premoistened makeup sponges. "You're absolutely right. Alfred will get it when he gets it. But, please, my trio of angels, don't let my peevishness ruin your day. You are the best! Each of you have so much on your plates, with children and work and husbands and..." Mom looks at me. "Overseas enchantments. Yet with all you have to do, your father and I must have done something right, because you always show up for us."

  "Where are we gonna go, Ma? We're family," Jaclyn says.

  We sit and wait for Dad to dress and join us, and I think about my brother, and how somebody is always angry with him. That can't be good for Alfred. It's sad that he's missing out on this great moment with us. Relief is an instant balm, but it has to be earned. Alfred ignores the agony, and then he misses the joy. He doesn't make any emotional investment in us. Maybe he saves it all for Pamela and his sons.