I press the flesh of ruby red tomatoes. Gram would be so pleased. It has been a great summer for tomatoes. I sent her pictures of the harvest over e-mail, and she returned the favor by sending me a picture of Dominic standing at the base of a twelve-foot sunflower that he grew in their backyard in Arezzo. We have a healthy competition between our transcontinental gardens.
I pluck the ripe tomatoes and place them carefully in a basket. I've lined up four bushel baskets: one for Mom, one for Tess, one for Jaclyn, and one for Alfred.
The newly painted screen door snaps open.
"Hi." Mackenzie looks around the roof. "Gabriel said I'd find you here."
"Here I am. This is a nice surprise," I tell her.
"Wow, what a burst of color up here. Lots of purple." She comes out onto the roof, shielding her eyes from the sun that has begun its late afternoon descent over New Jersey. Mackenzie is dressed in black linen pants and a cropped white jacket with bell sleeves. Her tennis bracelet dazzles against her tanned summer skin in the late afternoon sun.
"Isn't it great? Gabriel has redone the building. Except the workshop, of course." I dig my trowel at the base of the tomato plants. The rich, dark earth turns easily. "Bret said you had a dinner date."
"We're going to Valbella on 13th Street."
"It's very romantic. Just the two of you?" I ask.
"Yeah." She looks around the roof as though she's searching for something she has lost.
"A little pre-back-to-school/end of summer celebration?"
She just looks at me without answering. This friendly visit is not so friendly. "Valentine, I know about you and Bret."
"Excuse me?"
"Oh, come on," she says impatiently. "I know he still has feelings for you."
"Feelings?" Is she kidding? I hold up my hands in floral garden gloves with spores of plastic grips on the backside. "You could not be more mistaken. We're old friends. And that's it."
"I've read the e-mails."
"What e-mails?"
"Let me quote. 'You're the best, what would I do without you?' You sign love--and x's and o's. I've seen them. I'm not stupid--those mean hugs and kisses."
"But that's the way I sign off--I do that with everybody. Customers even. I just sent a big round of XO's to Craig Fisse at Donald Pliner. You can't be serious."
"Okay, fine, whatever. But you're doing it with my husband, and I don't like it."
"I won't sign my e-mails to Bret in that fashion anymore."
"Whatever." She looks away.
Her dismissive attitude annoys me. So I say, "Mackenzie, it's impossible for me to be involved with your husband."
"Impossible?"
"I'm in love with someone else," I blurt. I have no idea where that came from. I've come to a place of acceptance about blowing my relationship with Gianluca. It's almost as if the sadness of losing Gianluca for good walks with me through the ordinary business of my life, like an old faithful dog. I won't tell Mackenzie that the love I profess is unrequited, and that I wait by the mailbox hoping Gianluca will write to me, or that I reread his old letters as though they're still true.
"Oh." She looks down at her bracelet, and spins it around her wrist by flicking the diamonds one by one.
Her nonchalance is a strange reaction, given the fact that she hiked all the way up to the roof to confront me about my internet x's and o's. "Mackenzie, you know good and well that I'm not involved with your husband. You know that he loves you and your daughters. What's really going on here?"
"What do you mean?" she says.
"This phony thing you're doing."
The word phony catches her off guard. "Phony?"
"Trumped up. You know Bret is not interested in me. Besides, you don't have the indignation of a woman scorned."
"Look, I read the e-mails, and I've had my suspicions all along," she argues.
"If there is a man to be trusted on the planet, it's your husband. But you know that, because you've actually read the e-mails. Deep down, you know the truth. You know that they are entirely innocent. You want to tell me what you're really doing here?"
"I don't know what you're asking me."
"You're looking for evidence against your husband. Why?"
Mackenzie does not answer me.
"If my e-mails are the most suspicious communication you've found, you got nothing," I tell her.
I'm tempted to tell her how many women throw themselves at Bret, but I'm not going to engage this nonsense.
I continue, "You are very lucky to have married a good man who loves you."
"I'm sick of hearing about how great he is. He's not perfect. Nowhere close."
"I didn't say he was perfect."
"We're having problems, okay? But I'm sure you knew all about that, given how much time he spends here."
"I don't know anything," I lie. "He only tells me how much he loves you and how proud he is of you and the girls."
"Okay. Well, look, I'm sorry. I'm sorry I accused you of something that you aren't guilty of. It's just that you two have a history, and I guess I just assumed that it was more."
I can't believe her tone of voice. She is actually disappointed that I'm not having an affair with her husband. She came up here looking for weapons of mass destruction, and all she found were tomatoes. Mackenzie turns to go. I stop her.
"I don't know what's going on here, and it's really none of my business. But what you have--you know, a good man and two beautiful, healthy girls--it's not just a given in life, it's an actual gift. And sometimes we mistake a malaise for something worse. You shouldn't do that. You earn your future happiness when you fight for it. He's worth it. You're worth it."
"You're not married. I don't think you understand."
I hold up my trowel. "Fair enough. I'm not a marriage expert. But I have been friends with your husband since we were kids. And out of all the women in the world, he chose you."
"I don't know if that's true."
"What do you mean?"
"I chose him. I was twenty-eight. I wanted to be married by thirty. And I wanted a baby right away, so we had the baby. And then Bret really pushed for the second baby, and I went along with it. And now I'm a full-time mom."
"But isn't that what you want?"
"I miss the city." Mackenzie goes to the edge of the roof and looks out over the Hudson River with the same sense of complete awe and peace that I do. If she could drink the river in, she would. She turns to me. "I miss conversations with grown-ups. I have them, but you know, I always feel like I'm cheating on my life. I'm torn every single day."
"You're tired. Chasing kids is the hardest work in the world."
"I mean, I'm grateful for all I have. I am," she says. "But the life I have...is not enough."
"Does Bret expect you to stay home?"
"I don't know. It's how it's worked out. We didn't really talk about it."
"Maybe you should."
"I need a purpose. You know, something that I create. That's all mine. Bret has a life. He goes off every morning to work, full of ideas. I remember having an idea! He's challenged. I love a challenge. My husband goes to work, and he uses his mind. Since I quit working, I don't use my mind. Where is my creativity?"
"You make things by hand, like those beautiful birthday party invitations. You're a wonderful hostess. Your home is a showplace."
"That's the trick of it. I thought it mattered that I made the best cupcakes and knew the difference between Berber and sisal carpet. I thought it mattered that I run every morning and stay in shape--you know, to keep my energy up for this big life I'm leading."
"But you are leading a big life."
"It doesn't feel like it. My life gets smaller every single day. I worked until a month before I had Maeve. I was supposed to go back to work after six months, and I just never did."
"But you were taking care of a baby."
"I'm not saying one is more important than the other. Of course the needs of a child are more important than any career. Bu
t just try and live it day after day. And see how you feel."
"The definition of happiness is very personal. What might make me happy--"
"I'm not happy," she cuts me off. "And maybe there are a million reasons why, but the truth is, I only need one to justify changing my life."
"I'm sorry," I say.
Mackenzie looks at me. "Besides, it's too late. It's just too late."
"Why do you say that?"
She holds the screen door open. She shifts from one foot to the other, looking to escape. This conversation has gone too far, and she knows it. She did not plan to go down this road. "I've already seen a lawyer."
"Does Bret know?"
She shakes her head.
"He'll be devastated," I promise her.
"These things happen."
"They happen because you let them happen," I tell her.
She looks at me. "I need to go." The screen door snaps shut.
I go to the edge of the roof to catch my breath.
"What the hell was that?" Gabriel says. "She clomped down those steps like a show pony."
"She's dissatisfied with her marriage. With Bret."
"Oh, please. We hardly know the woman. You recall we were shunned from the wedding. How dare she come up the stairs and dump all over you?"
"She accused me of having an affair with Bret."
"I've always said you and Bret aren't over."
"Gabriel."
"Sorry. I know nothing is going on between you two...is it?"
"No."
"Just checking. After all, Bret is here, and it's over with Gianluca. I don't know what you do when I go off to work at the Carlyle at night. This place could be a love den, for all I know."
"I get up early, work all day, go to bed early, and start over again."
"No secret life?"
"There is one thing."
"I knew it!"
"I wait for the mailman every day."
"You love Mr. Vinnie?"
"No, I'm just hoping that one of these days, he'll have something in his sack for me marked Italia."
Gabriel thinks about this for a moment. "You know what it's like living with you? It's like watching a Bette Davis weepie."
"Better than being in it, my friend," I tell him.
Gabriel goes back inside. I till the earth around the tomato plants with the trowel. I pour some water from the can into the planter.
Marriages break up, and the excuse, at the heart of it, is "growing apart." I pull back the leaves on the tomato plants, pulling off dead ones and making room for new foliage.
I can't help but notice that the small buds of the new plants, created from the seeds of the older ones, are fresh and green, and grow hardy in the shade of the parent. If Mackenzie were a gardener, she would know that it's the rare shoot that survives outside the nurturing of the parent plant--that it takes the strength of the whole to give way to a full harvest.
I Skype Roberta in Buenos Aires. The first face I see is baby Enzo's, who sits on his mother's lap. Roberta shifts her screen.
"He's getting so big!"
"I can't believe it." Roberta smiles. "I spoke with Alfred. You know I had my doubts about taking on new product. We've been making men's shoes all of these years. Why would we change? But I was walking around the mill yesterday, and I was thinking, the last time we grew the business, and tried something new was when my father started manufacturing. It was that long ago. And then, when you came to visit, and you had so many sketches, so many ideas--I thought, I've lost touch with the art of my work. So I went to my staff. And Sandra in cutting has always wanted to cut women's shoes, and also to work with new fibers. She likes change. And then I went through and looked at each department. We can handle the work--and if we can't, and if you decide that you don't want to use us, we will still consider expanding our physical plant, and pursuing new business."
"Good for you."
"Thank you for giving me a push."
"You're welcome."
"And no matter what happens, if you choose Caminito Shoes or not, we will always be friends."
"And family."
"And family." She smiles.
The early morning sun fills the workroom with light. The work table is covered in small stacks of deep blue suede, a sea of pattern pieces pinned with sheer paper, and measurements marked by June.
I open the ledger on the desk and view Alfred's report chronicling the comparables between Chinese manufacturers and Roberta's factory. He has done his homework.
Our squabbling days are, hopefully, over. Maybe it's distance from the end of the affair with Kathleen, or his efforts to get along, or mine, but whatever the reason, we are on the right track. June has been helpful--she doesn't play referee, but she is the Common Sense Cop when we need her. Bret and Alfred have found a way to communicate. Alfred is no longer threatened by Bret's ideas, and Bret has come to a place where he sees that Alfred, when he puts the company first, makes sound decisions.
This has been difficult for Alfred. I'm sure he wanted to focus on the big picture for the future of the shoe company, but I needed him to run the business on a daily basis. Bret is out in the world, and he knows how to raise money and find it in places Alfred would never have access to. A common goal will do that. It took all of us, becoming better listeners and considering one another's ideas, to bring us to this morning, when we will finally choose the factory that will make the Bella Rosa.
Alfred pushes through the entrance, carrying two coffees from the deli. He's learned the basic laws of life in our shop--whoever ventures inside from the outside is responsible for the coffee run. We've been so busy of late, the old pot on the cart in the back of the shop has been empty, and we rely on the neighborhood Greeks for our caffeine hit.
"Sorry for the early morning," I tell him.
"The train was empty--it's actually an easier commute."
Alfred sorts through the paperwork sent by our cousin Roberta while I pull the box filled with Roberta's samples of the Bella Rosa off the shelf to show Alfred.
Roberta made two dozen pairs of flats from the patterns we sent to her. I also bring down the box filled with the Chinese samples--Roberta's competition. We asked Sung Ma Inc. to run the same pattern and assembly and price it out for us.
"The Chinese samples are solid," I tell my brother.
"Are you leaning toward going with them now?"
"They do good work," I concede. I have learned how to negotiate with my brother. If I came on strong and insisted we go with Roberta, he'd fight me. So I let him think that I have an open mind. I lift Roberta's samples out of the box and hand them to Alfred. "But, I really like Roberta's work," I say.
"There is a delicacy to her stitchwork. The Chinese are bolder," Alfred says.
"I'm sure we could have the Chinese mimic Roberta's stitchwork, if we go that way. I would still like to do the finishing here--because I have more control--but Roberta's finishing is fine."
"Not great?"
"There's a finesse to our finishing here--you know, the buckles are given an extra buff, I repress bows when they don't lie perfectly flat--but the general construction is excellent."
"Maybe you could design embellishments that don't require handwork to set them," Alfred offers.
"Like a fabric buckle?"
"Yeah, something that can be stitched on. Simple."
"That's a good idea," I say.
"Roberta's company assembles some of the big names. She is used to high standards. You can tell her what you want--she's used to the demands." Alfred picks up a sample. "In the end, her overall technique really is the best." He studies the seam along the heel.
"Well, you old pro." I take the shoe from him. "I agree."
"I've gone from a banker to a cobbler's assistant in nine months. I think it's apparent I'm a prodigy," he jokes.
"Just ask our mother."
"So it's your call," Alfred says. And this is the biggest change in him over the past few months. He actually def
ers to me. "Shall we go with Roberta?"
"Let's do it," I say.
"I'll get the paperwork to Ray." Alfred stacks the files for our attorney.
"How long will that take?"
"Quick turnaround. I made copies of these and sent them over three weeks ago when you were leaning towards going with Roberta," Alfred says.
"Efficient. I like it." I smile at my brother.
"I think this line is going to take off, Val." If anyone had told me last February that Alfred and I would reach this point, this moment in our partnership where he could admit that we could make a go of this, I would have never believed it.
"Wouldn't that be great? For us?"
"Absolutely." My brother beams.
I hand the rest of the business files over to my brother.
"How are things at home?" I ask.
"We had a good break on the Jersey shore with Pam's family. I really needed it--and she needed it. Things are much better. I owe a lot of that to you--for screwing my head on straight when I needed it the most."
"Alfred, don't give me any credit. You love your wife, and you got through it."
"I couldn't have done it without you."
"And you won't have to," I tell him. "Nobody is more surprised than me that our situation here is working. And I owe you an apology. I didn't think we'd make good partners, but you've been very generous with me. You let me do what I do best. I don't know if I could have done it all by myself. You deserve whatever success we have as much as I do."
"Fingers crossed," he says. "I'd like nothing more than to fight with you over profit margins."
"You're on," I tell him.
Gabriel enters the shop. "The apprentice has risen and is shining."
"That's what you call yourself now?"
"No, my master and mentor June Lawton calls me her apprentice."
"Oh, please. She doesn't care about your skills as a junior pattern cutter, she just likes to hear about your love life."
Brava, Valentine: A Novel Page 23