Very Valentine

by Adriana Trigiani

  “Nothing wrong with a man who can do some heavy lifting for you,” June says and winks.

  “Valentine will have plenty of work to do. There won’t be time for hobnobbing and socializing.”

  “Too bad,” June sighs.

  “That’s really why I’m taking you,” Gram says to me. “You’ll do the work while I hobnob and socialize.”

  I think about those late-night calls from Italy that seem to go on for longer than necessary to order leather. I think about the man in the picture buried at the bottom of Gram’s dresser. I remember our conversations about time being like ice in her hands. Is she really taking me to Italy for an education so that she might eventually hand off the Angelini Shoe Company, or is something else going on here? I expected Gram to go to Eva Scrivo and come home with a version of her old haircut, short, full, and silver, instead she walks in here looking like the senior-citizen version of Posh Beckham at an assisted-living bingo night. What gives?

  There’s a knock at the door.

  “Let the fresh hell begin,” June says gaily.

  “Gram, Bret is here for our meeting.”

  “Already?” Gram says in a tone that tells me she would rather not take this meeting at all.

  “Gram, I want you to have an open mind. Please.”

  “I just changed my hair completely. You can assume I’m open to new things.”

  I push the door open. Roman stands in the doorway with a paper cone of red roses in one hand. The other hand is behind his back. “What a surprise!”

  “Good morning.” He leans over and kisses me as he hands me the flowers. “I was in the neighborhood.”

  “They’re beautiful! Thank you. Come on in!”

  Roman follows me into the shop. He’s wearing jeans, a wool bomber jacket, and on his feet: yellow plastic work clogs over thick white socks.

  “Aren’t your feet cold?”

  “Not in my Wigwam socks,” he says, smiling. “Worried about me?”

  “Just your feet. We gotta work on your shoe selection. You’re with a cobbler now. You made me give up Lean Cuisine lasagna so I can’t let you go around in plastic clogs. I’d love to make you a pair of calfskin boots.”

  “I won’t say no,” he says, grinning. From behind his back, Roman produces two more bouquets of flowers. He gives one to Gram and the other to June. “For the babes of Angelini shoes.” They fall all over him in gratitude. Then Roman notices Gram’s hair. “Teodora, I like your hair.”

  “Thank you.” She waves the bouquet at Roman. “You really shouldn’t have!”

  “Valentine’s Day isn’t for another month.” June inhales her bouquet.

  “Every day is Valentine’s Day for me.” Roman looks at me in the process. “Now, how many of your boyfriends have used that line?”

  “All of them,” I tell him.

  In the powder room, I fill two pressed-glass vases with water and deliver one to Gram and one to June. I find a third vase and fill it with water for my bouquet.

  Gram arranges her roses in the vase. “It’s gratifying to see that there are still men out there who know what pleases a lady.”

  “In all ways.” June winks at me.

  Gram places June’s flowers in the other vase as the shop falls into deadly silence save for the rustle of the pattern paper as June cuts it. Roman, good sport that he is, spins the brushes on the buffing machine, waiting for someone to say something that isn’t related to his/mine/our sex life.

  “And you haven’t even had my cooking yet,” Roman says to June.

  “I can’t wait,” June growls.

  “Now, June,” I warn her. It’s one thing for June to take us on a jazz tour of her love life when it’s just us girls, but it’s another thing entirely for her to paint the frisky picture of The Good Old Lays in front of Roman.

  The front door pushes open.

  “Good morning, ladies,” Bret calls out from the vestibule. Bret enters the shop in a navy Armani suit, with a splashy yellow tie on a crisp, white shirt. He wears polished black Dior Homme loafers with tassels.

  Bret extends his hand to Roman. “Bret Fitzpatrick.”

  “Roman Falconi,” he says, giving Bret a firm handshake.

  “I take it you’re here for wedding shoes?” Bret jokes.

  “What do you got in a thirteen?” Roman looks to Gram, June, and then me.

  And here it is, my past and my future in a head-on collision. As I size them up, it’s obvious to me that I like tall and employed. I am also my mother’s daughter, and therefore, critical. Roman’s clogs look like giant clown shoes next to Bret’s sleek loafers. Given a choice, I would have preferred serious shoes on my boyfriend in this moment.

  “Bret’s an old friend of ours,” Gram says.

  “He’s helping us with some new business opportunities here at the shop,” I explain.

  Roman looks at Bret and nods. “Well, I won’t keep you. I’ve got to shove off. Faicco’s has some amazing veal shanks from an organic farm in Woodstock. Osso bucco is our special tonight.” Roman kisses me good-bye.

  “Thank you for the flowers,” Gram says and smiles.

  “Mine, too,” June says.

  “See you later, girls.” Roman turns to go. “Nice to meet you,” he says to Bret.

  “You, too,” Bret says as Roman goes.

  “That wasn’t awkward at all,” June says as she holds a straight pin between her pursed lips. “Something old meets something new.”

  “That’s your new boyfriend?” Bret looks off at the door.

  “He’s a chef,” Gram brags.

  “Ca’ d’Oro, on Mott Street,” I answer before Bret even asks. When we were a couple, our communication resembled a good game of Jeopardy!, and to be honest, sometimes I miss that connection.

  “I’ve heard of it. It’s supposed to be very good,” Bret says agreeably.

  It’s nice to know my old boyfriend isn’t one bit jealous of my new one. Though maybe I wish he were. Just a little. “I highly recommend the risotto.”

  Bret sits down and opens his briefcase. He pulls out a file marked ANGELINI SHOES. “I wanted to run something by you. Have you ladies had a chance to discuss expanding your brand?”

  “Valentine mentioned a couple of things—” Gram begins.

  “Gram, your hair is different. What did you do?”

  “It’s a new cut.”

  “And a dip in Mother Dye,” June laughs. “And I know, because I dip myself.”

  “Well, you look great, Gram,” Bret says. I’m impressed with Bret’s ability to soften up a resistant client. He must kill at the hedge fund. “June, is it all right with you if we discuss business?”

  “Pretend I’m not even here.”

  “Valentine was telling me about the concept of branding. Now, you know, we’ve been in business for over a hundred years, so our brand is known and tested. It is what it is. Here’s what I don’t understand.” Gram smooths her new bangs off to the side. “We make wedding shoes from our historical designs. Our catalog, if you will. We make them by hand. We can’t make them any faster. How would we serve a larger clientele than we already have?”

  “Valentine?” Bret tosses me the question.

  “We wouldn’t, Gram. Not with our core designs. We couldn’t. No, we’d have to design a new shoe, one that could be mass-produced in a factory. We would introduce a more affordable, secondary line.”

  “Cheaper shoes?”

  “In price, yes, but not in quality.”

  “I’ll be honest. I don’t know how to do that,” Gram says.

  “Investors like to know that the product they finance has the potential for wide distribution, therefore a higher profit margin. The way you do that is to come up with something that’s both fashionable and affordable and doable for the designer and manufacturer,” Bret says and hands Gram a report that says: BRANDING, GROWTH, AND PROFIT FOR THE SMALL BUSINESS. “Now, if you follow my logic, I think we can put a fund together that will buy you the time and material
s to develop the business in new directions.”

  “That makes sense,” I say encouragingly, but when I look at Gram, she seems unconvinced.

  “So, investors are looking for you, a venerable institution, with quality brand identification, to come up with something that can be mass-produced.” Bret continues, “Here’s the beauty. It doesn’t have to be a wedding shoe.”

  “I see.” Gram looks at me.

  “I’m thinking about creating something new that is part of our brand, but doesn’t forsake the custom work in the shop,” I explain. “This would be an outside product, created here, developed here, but manufactured elsewhere.”

  “China?” Gram asks.

  “Probably. Or Spain. Or Brazil. Indonesia. Maybe Italy,” I tell her.

  “Are there any American companies that factory-make shoes?”

  “A few.”

  “Could we use one of those?”

  “Gram, I’m checking into that now.” I don’t want this conversation to get stuck in the Made in America argument Gram has with anyone who will listen. I have to keep her mind on the bigger picture, and our operation.

  “Let’s not worry about that aspect of production right now,” Bret says, backing me up. “Let’s focus on the work ahead.”

  “Gram, I have to create this shoe first. I’m thinking a casual shoe, but hip. And maybe even accessories. Maybe we’ll eventually expand to include those.”

  “Oh, God, no. Not belts!” June interrupts. “I’m sorry. I know I’m supposed to be the hear no evil monkey over here, but sometimes, a girl has to speak up. We tried accessories. What a disaster. Mike made belts and sold them to Saks, and they were returned, remember?”

  Gram nods.

  “He used a soft leather, a gorgeous calfskin that stretched like Bazooka gum after a couple of wearings. The customers were peeved and Saks was outraged. Every belt was returned.” June shakes her head. “Every single one.”

  “And Mike said ‘never again.’ He said we have to stick to what we know.”

  “Well, Gram, we don’t have that luxury. We have to take a chance, because if we don’t, if we don’t come up with something that can revitalize our business and take it to the next level, we won’t be here in a year.”

  “Okay, then,” Bret says, giving me the file. “You two need to talk, and I’m going to tell my guys that you are putting together a portfolio of ideas for them.”

  “You can also tell them we’re going to Italy to bring them the latest innovative materials applied to classic design,” I tell him.

  “Val, I never thought I’d say this, but you sound like a businessman.”

  “I believe in this company.”

  “That comes through.” Bret gives Gram a kiss on the cheek, then June, then me. “Keep it up. You know what you’re doing.” Bret leaves the files with us and goes.

  “He really believes in you,” June says.

  “He knew me when…,” I tell her. “There’s something to be said for that.”

  Ca’ d’Oro is closed on Monday nights, so for Roman and me, it’s date night. Roman usually comes over to Perry Street and I cook, or I go over to his place and he does. Tonight, though, he has invited my family to the restaurant for dinner, in reciprocation for Christmas, and as penance for missing Gram’s eightieth birthday at the Carlyle. This couldn’t be a more perfect setup, because I want my family to get to know him on his own turf. Ca’ d’Oro is Roman’s masterpiece; it says who he is, shows the scope of his culinary talents, and demonstrates that he’s a real player in the restaurant world of Manhattan.

  When I finished work at the shop, I came over, set the long table in the dining room, put out candles and a low vase of greens and violets for a centerpiece. Now, I’m in the kitchen acting as Roman’s sous-chef. Preparing food is a respite from making shoes, mostly because I can sample the recipes as he makes them.

  “So, he’s your type?” Roman places a thin sheet of pasta dough over the ravioli tray.

  I follow him, filling the delicate pockets with a dab of Roman’s signature filling, a creamy whip of sweet potatoes mixed with slivers of truffle, aged parmesan, and herbs. “I wondered how long it would take you to ask me about Bret.”

  “He’s a businessman in a suit and tie. Successful?”

  “Very.”

  “You’re still friends, so it must not have been an ugly breakup.”

  “It was a little ugly, but we were friends before, so why not stay friends after?”

  “What happened?”

  “A career on Wall Street and shoemaking don’t complement each other. I can look back on it and appreciate it for what it was. What worked about us was our backgrounds. One of each.”

  “One of each?” Roman places another sheet of pasta dough over the wells of filling. Then he places the cutting press over the dough, and punches out twelve regulation-size ravioli onto the flour-dusted butcher block. He picks the squares up one at a time and lines them up on a wooden tray, and sprinkles them with yellow cornmeal. “Explain that to me.”

  “You should never have two of the same thing in a relationship. Mix it up. Irish—Fitzpatrick, and Italian—me. Nice. Put a southerner with a northerner. Good. A Jew with a Catholic, evens out the guilt and shame nicely. A Protestant with a Catholic? Slight stretch. My parents encouraged us to marry our own kind, but too much of the same thing breeds drama.”

  “Two Italians?” he asks.

  “Fine if you’re from different parts.”

  “Good. I’m Pugliese and you’re…what are you?”

  “Tuscan and Calabrese.”

  “So we’re okay?”

  “We’re fine,” I assure him.

  “Maybe it’s the careers that are killers. How about a chef and a shoemaker? Does that work?”

  I reach up and kiss him, saying, “That depends.”

  “But what if you’re all about the drama? The drama of creativity and risk? What if that kind of passion is the thing that binds you together?”

  “Well, then obviously, I would have to revisit my rule.”

  “Good.” Roman lays another sheet of dough over the press. I fill the wells carefully. “Why don’t you go out in the restaurant and put your feet up?”

  “No thanks. I like to help. Besides, if I didn’t, I’d never see you.”

  “I’m sorry,” he says tenderly. “Occupational hazard.”

  “You can’t help it, and you shouldn’t. You love your work and I love that you love it.”

  “You’re the first woman I ever dated who understands that.”

  “Besides, I’m more helpful to you here than you would be to me at the shop. I can’t see you sewing pink bows on bridesmaid shoes.”

  “I’m lousy with a needle and thread.”

  Roman lays a final sheet of pasta dough over the wells, snaps the press shut, reopens it, and a dozen ravioli squares pop out of the trap. He places them on the wooden tray with the others. Then he opens the oven and checks the roast pork and root vegetables, simmering in a wine reduction that fills the kitchen with the scent of butter, sage, and warm burgundy wine. I watch as he skillfully juggles the preparation of the meal. He invests himself in his work; it’s clear he is dedicated and puts in the hours. Roman also does the research. He tests new recipes and combinations, trying things out, rejecting ideas, replacing old ones with new.

  Despite the depth of my feelings (and his), I sometimes wonder how we can build a relationship when we hardly see each other. I remember reading an interview with Katharine Hepburn. She said that a woman’s job in a relationship with a man was to be adorable. I attempt to be a no-fuss, stress-free, supportive girlfriend who is more than aware of the pressures he has at work, so I don’t pile on more. To be fair, he does the same for me. I figure as long as we’re both in the same place, I imagine this arrangement will work just fine and get us to the next level (whatever that is).

  “Hi, kids!” Mom enters the kitchen loaded down with shopping bags. “I did a downtown shopping bli
tz. I can’t resist a deal, and nobody tops Chinatown for bargains. Silk slippers for two dollars.” She holds up a bag stuffed with them.

  “I know what I’m getting next Christmas.”

  “In twelve months, you’ll forget I bought these. Your sisters are here. The boys are parking. You’re making ravioli?”

  “Tonight’s special,” says Roman.

  “Yum.”

  “Where’s Dad?” I ask.

  “He’s making a shaker of Manhattans behind the bar. Is that okay, Roman?”

  “Absolutely. Make yourselves at home. This night is all about you,” Roman says and smiles.

  “And it’s just wonderful! We have our own private chef in his own hot restaurant cooking for us. It’s more than we deserve!”

  “I’ll meet you at the bar, Mom.” Mom goes back out to the dining room as I lift the tray of finished ravioli and place them on a portable shelf on wheels. I pull the shelf toward the worktable. “You know my mother is very impressed with you.”

  “I can tell. You win over Mama and you got the daughter.”

  I reach up and kiss Roman. “Mama doesn’t have anything to do with it.”

  Roman hands me a basket of homemade bread sticks to take out to the bar.

  Mom and Dad sit on bar stools with their backs to the restaurant. Dad’s feet, in black suede Merrells rest on the lower bar of the stool, while Mom’s, in dark brown calfskin ankle boots with a high wedge heel, dangle above the foot bar, like a child’s. Tess and Jaclyn stand next to the bar. Tess is wearing a red cocktail dress, while Jaclyn wears black maternity pants and a matching oversize turtleneck. Jaclyn holds up her hand. “I know. I’m the size of a bus.”

  “I didn’t say a word.” I give her a quick hug.

  “I saw it in your eyes.”

  “Actually, I was thinking how beautiful you look.”

  Jaclyn takes the bread basket and pulls a stick from the pile. “Nice try.” She chews. “I just hit double digits in pants.”

  “I should have your pants play the stock market,” Dad jokes.

  “Not funny, Dad,” Jaclyn says as she chews.

  “How’re you feeling?” I put my hands on my father’s shoulders.

  “Your mother ran me all over Chinatown like a runaway rickshaw. I’ll be dead but she’ll have a lifetime supply of slippers.”