As we climb the steps to go into the shop, we hear a heated argument at full tilt, two men shouting at each other at the top of their lungs. The fight is punctuated with the sound of something being slammed on wood. They’re speaking Italian, and way too quickly for my level of fluency.
I turn to look at Gram, who stands behind me. My expression tells her we should run before the nut jobs inside figure out they’ve got company. “Maybe we should have called first.”
“They’re expecting us.”
“This is some welcome wagon.”
Gram pushes me aside, lifts the brass door knocker, and bangs it several times. The fight inside seems to escalate as the voices move toward us. I take a step back. We’ve kicked over a hornet’s nest, and the swarm sounds deadly. Suddenly, the door flies open from the inside. An old man with white hair, navy wool slacks, and a blue-striped button-down shirt has a look of pure aggravation on his face, but the anger falls away when he lays eyes on Gram.
“Teodora!”
“Dominic, come stai?”
Dominic embraces Gram and kisses her on both cheeks. I am standing behind her and I can see that the line of her spine changes as he kisses her. She grows about two inches taller, and her shoulders relax.
“Dominico, ti presento mio nipote, Valentine,” she says.
“Que bella!” Dominic approves of me. Better that than the alternative!
“Signor Vechiarelli, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” He kisses my hand. I get a good look at his face. It’s the same face as the man in the photograph buried in the velvet pouch in the bottom of Gram’s dresser drawer. I try not to show my surprise, but I can’t wait to get back to the hotel and text Tess to tell her.
“Venite, venite,” he says.
We follow Dominic into the shop. There’s a large farm table that takes up the center of the room. A series of deep shelves filled with sheets of leather line an entire wall, from floor to ceiling.
Old-fashioned tin lamps hang low over the table, illuminating the polished wood in spheres of white light. If I close my eyes, the fragrant beeswax, leather, and lemon take me home to Perry Street. A single door leads to a back room. Dominic calls through the open door.
“Gianluca! Vieni a salutare Teodora ed a conoscere sua nipote.” Dominic turns to me and raises his eyebrows. “Gianluca è mio figlio e anche mio socio.”
“Lovely.” I look at Gram, figuring a bull with flaming nostrils will come galloping through that very door, impale us on his horns, toss us into the air, trample and kill us. Gram motions that all is just fine, but I don’t believe her for a second.
“Gianluca!” Dominic bellows again. This time, it’s a command.
Gianluca Vechiarelli, Dominic’s son and partner (his description) stands in the doorway filling it with his height. He wears a brown apron over work pants and a denim shirt that has been washed so many times it’s practically white. It’s hard for me to see his face because the work lights are so bright, and he is taller than the lights.
“Piacere di conoscerla.” Gianluca extends his hand. I take it. My hand gets lost in his.
“Come è andato il viaggio?” Dominic asks Gram about our trip, but clearly he couldn’t care less, he’s more interested in her arrival here than her departure from America. He pulls rolling work stools out from under the table and invites us to sit. I remain standing while he sits down next to Gram, giving her his undivided attention. It seems he cannot get close enough to her. He doesn’t seem even slightly embarrassed that his legs are touching hers, and that his hands have made their way to her knees.
While Gram fills in the details of our trip so far, Gianluca is busy pulling samples of leather off the shelves and arranging them on the table. He breathes deeply as he arranges the squares, squinting at them and then moving them into different positions. I take a peek at his face. He’s good-looking, but there’s more gray in his hair than black, so I figure he’s somewhere in his fifties.
Gianluca has the same nose as his father, straight and fine, with a high bridge. There are deep grooves on the sides of his mouth, which either come from smiling or screaming, and if I were betting, I’d go with the latter. He catches me looking at him. He smiles, so I smile back at him, but it’s slightly uncomfortable, as if I’ve been caught shoplifting.
Gianluca has a slight overbite and deep blue eyes, the exact color of the morning sky over Arezzo. It’s common knowledge that Italian men check out American women, but what you never hear is that we return the favor in kind. I study him with the same eye I use to look at the leather. I’m interested in quality, integrity, and texture; after all, fine Italian craftsmanship and the pursuit of it is the reason we climbed this hill, isn’t it?
Gram and Dominic have not stopped talking. He says something and she laughs her big laugh, which I hear only occasionally when we’re home. The truth is, I’ve never seen her like this. If I weren’t so enthralled by the exquisite leather Gianluca is laying out on the table, I’d be wondering what the hell is going on here.
“So, you make the shoes?” Gianluca says to me.
“Yes. I’m her apprentice.” I point to Gram. “I’ve been training for four years.”
“I’ve been working with Papa for twenty-three years.”
“Wow. So, is it working out?”
Gianluca laughs. “Some days good, some days not so good.”
“This morning?” I cover my ears.
“You heard us?”
“Are you kidding? They heard you in Puglia.”
“Papa? Teodora and Valentine heard us argue.”
Dominic makes a motion, like he’s brushing a fly off a slice of bread. Then he puts his hand on his thighs, scoots the stool even closer to Gram, and resumes his conversation with her. I almost lean across the table to say, “Why not sit in her lap, Dom?”
Soon the front door of the shop pushes open, and a gorgeous young woman enters, tossing her purse onto a table. She has long brown hair, and wears a tight, dark brown suede skirt and a sleek black tank top. She pushes her sunglasses up onto her head, anchoring her hair with them. She wears the most exquisite pair of sandals I have ever seen. They are flat, with thin T-straps covered in tiny chocolate brown jewels that lead to a center medallion shaped in a fleur-de-lis made of baguettes of black onyx. She heads straight for Gianluca and gives him a hug. Evidently, this Tuscan air is good for everybody’s love life but mine.
Gram turns and looks at her. “Orsola!”
“Teodora!” The young woman goes to Gram and gives her a hug.
“This is my granddaughter, Valentine.”
I extend my hand to the Tuscan hottie. “Nice to meet you. You must be Gianluca’s wife?”
Gianluca, Orsola, Dominic, and Gram laugh loud and long.
“Did I say something wrong?”
“Gianluca is my papa.” Orsola grins. “You just made his big ego even bigger.”
“An Italian man with a big ego? That’s impossible,” I tell them.
Gram gives me a look that says, Watch it. Your humor doesn’t play in Arezzo.
She’s right, so I quickly cover my tracks. “Orsola, I’ve got to know. Where did you get those sandals?”
“Our friend Costanzo Ruocco made them for me on Capri. Every summer we visit on holiday.”
“I’m going to Capri in a few weeks.”
“Oh, you must visit him. I will give you his number and address before you go.”
I was hoping to meet other shoemakers on this trip, as there are artistic questions I have that Gram cannot answer, and sometimes, I have ideas that Gram doesn’t like, and it would be nice to run them by a master who has no stake in the argument.
Orsola follows Gram and Dominic to the back of the shop. Gianluca pulls out a few more samples and places them on the worktable. I sit down and begin choosing some for Gram to approve. There’s a supple beige calfskin that would be an excellent choice for our Osmina design. My head swims with the possibilities as I look around the shop. Leathers in shades
of cream and ebony, embossed with small gold Florentine symbols, others in patterned basket weaves, still more in colors I only dream about: ice blue patent leather, deep ruby red suede and faux leopard on shiny black horsehair.
Gianluca pulled a drawer from the supply closet and set it on the table. It is filled with leather laces in pastel shades of mint green, pink, and gold; white leather buckles; black leather trim; and patent leather bows with hand-cut fasteners. I dump the contents of the drawer on the table, as there doesn’t seem to be two of any particular style.
I push the mound around, separating the samples. A metallic glint catches my eye. I pull a braid of gold leather, white satin ribbon, and white calfskin out of the pile. It’s very Chanel, braiding you might see on an expensive purse or even as a trim on a leather jacket, but there’s an original touch to it, a fourth skein of twisted flat hemp that gives a straw-and-hay effect to the gold.
“Orsola braids the leather,” Gianluca says.
“This is magnificent.” I study the braid of gold under the light. “I just designed a shoe this would work on.”
“Orsola can make anything you need.”
“She’s very talented. And beautiful. Your wife must be a knockout because your daughter…” I whistle.
He smiles. “Orsola’s mother is beautiful. But I’m divorced from her.”
“I thought divorce was illegal in Italy.”
“Not anymore.” He turns and opens a cupboard filled with brightly colored suedes. He lifts a few samples out and places them on the table.
Gram appears in the doorway of the back of the shop and leans in. Her knees don’t seem to be bothering her now. “So, do you see anything you like?”
“We’re in trouble.” I hold up a sheet of soft calfskin. “I like everything.”
Dominic stands behind Gram, placing his hand on the small of her back. “I don’t have too much of that,” he says.
“How much do you need?” Gianluca asks.
“We can get about three pairs per sheet, right, Gram?”
Gram nods.
“Do you have four sheets?” I ask Gianluca.
“We do.”
“We’ll take them.” I look at Gram.
She nods her approval. “Val, why don’t you choose the rest?”
“Because I’m not sure what we need?” My voice breaks.
“Yes, you are.”
“Gram, it’s an entire year’s worth of inventory. You trust me with this?”
“Absolutely.”
Gram turns to face Dominic. “See my knees?” She lifts her skirt. “I need new ones.”
“New ones?”
“Titanium. I’m told they’ll give me the legs of a showgirl and then I can climb these hills like a goat. But, for now, I’ll just have to lean on you.”
Dominic extends his arm, Gram takes it, and they turn to go.
“Uh…where are you going?” I call after her pleasantly.
“Dominic’s going to show me a new technique he’s using to emboss leather.”
I’ll bet, I think to myself as they go. Gianluca has moved another large stack of leather from the shelves for me to go through.
I take my sketchbook out of my purse and flip through it to find my list of things we need.
Gianluca stands behind me as my sketchbook falls open to my design of the Bergdorf’s shoe.
“This is yours?” he asks.
I nod that it is.
“Bellissima.” His eyes narrow as he looks at it more closely. “Ambitious, no?”
“Well, it is complicated,” I say, “but—”
“Si, si,” he interrupts with a smile. “It’s for you to figure out. You imagined it and now you will bring it to life.”
I return my attention to one of the sheets of leather on the table in front of us. Gianluca watches me as I examine the leather under the lights, checking for patina, finish, and suppleness. I roll the corner of the sheet, as Gram taught me, checking for splits or creases in the leather, but the material is as smooth and luxurious in my hands as dough.
Sometimes tanners will add elements to the finishing solution to cover flaws in the leather. Since our shoes are handcrafted, you can’t hide inconsistencies in the materials, as you might with machine-made shoes. We often resew seams as we custom-fit the shoes, so it takes strong, uncompromised leather to sew and resew. I run my hands over the expanse of the buttery suede. No wonder my family has used this company for years. These are first-class goods. I look up at Gianluca and smile in approval.
He smiles back at me.
I lift several sheets of leather off the stack and put them to the side. I return the bulk of them to the shelf behind me.
Gianluca stays in the doorway for what seems like a long time. What’s he looking at? I look up at him. He looks amused, which is odd, because I’m not saying anything. Is there something about me that’s funny, even when I’m not trying to be? Funnyone translates, I guess. That’s good to know, but enough already. “That’s okay, I got it.” I wave the braid at him so he is free to go.
“Va bene.” He grins and goes. But I think he’d rather stay.
11
Lago Argento
I WAKE TO THE SOUND of a soft rain tapping against the tile roof. The clock says it’s five o’clock in the morning. I don’t want to move from underneath these warm blankets, but I left all the windows open and I can see where the floor is damp from the rain. I get up and close the windows that look out over the pond, then go to close the ones that look out over the town square.
There’s a low, thick mist hovering over the village, like tufts of pink cotton candy. Through the fog, I see a woman walking toward the inn. I’m curious to see who might be out and about this early in the morning.
The woman moves slowly, but as she comes closer, I see her tie the ends of her scarf underneath her chin. It’s Gram. What is she doing out at this hour? Her trench coat is unbuttoned below the belt, and underneath the coat I can see the moss green skirt she wore yesterday. Dear God. She didn’t sleep in her room last night.
I begged off from a late supper at the Vechiarellis’ last night knowing I needed to take care of a few e-mails and check my list for the fabric shopping today. But I could also tell that I was a third wheel and that Gram wanted to be alone with Dominic.
I hear the door to her room close softly. When I hear her running water in the bathroom, I seize my moment and tiptoe back to my bed. I pull the covers up around me and close my eyes.
I wake up again at seven. I bolt out of bed, take a bath, do my hair, and get dressed. Then I rap on her side of the bathroom door. She doesn’t answer. I pull the door open and peer into her room. Her bed is made. Of course it is! She didn’t sleep in it. I grab my tote bag, notebooks, and phone and go downstairs.
Gram is sitting in the dining room reading the paper. She wears a navy blue skirt and a matching cashmere sweater. Her hair is brushed out softly, and she’s applied her pink lipstick.
“Sorry, I slept late.”
“It’s only seven.” She looks up from her paper.
“But we have so much to do today. That drive to Prato is two hours, right?”
“Yes. I wanted to talk to you about that.” She puts the newspaper down and looks at me. “Could you go without me?”
“Well, sure, Gram, if you’re sure you trust me to pick the fabrics—”
“I do. You did a marvelous job, great, with the leather yesterday. Gianluca will drive you to Prato.”
“What are you doing today?”
“Dominic is taking me on a picnic.”
Signora Guarasci places the hot coffee, steamed milk, and sugar on the table. She brings a basket of rolls, with a tin of sweet butter and blackberry jam. “Did you sleep well?” the signora asks.
“Yes,” Gram and I answer together.
“I don’t know how you can say you had a good night’s sleep, Gram. The thunder was so loud.”
“Oh, it was,” she agrees.
“I am
surprised you could sleep at all.”
“It wasn’t easy,” she says, not taking her eyes off the newspaper.
“All that crashing, and banging and thunder and lightning…”
She continues to read. “It was something.”
“Gram, you’re busted.”
“Valentine. What are you getting at?” Gram puts down the paper and looks around. Lucky for her, we’re still the only patrons at the Spolti Inn.
“When I woke up this morning around five, it was raining and I went to close the windows and I saw you out walking.”
“Oh,” she says. She picks up her paper again and pretends to scan it. “I was jet-lagged and I went out for an early stroll.”
“In yesterday’s skirt?”
She puts down the paper. “Now…” She blushes. “That’s enough.”
“I think it’s wonderful.”
“You do?”
“Absolutely.”
“It’s just a little odd…,” she begins.
“For me to learn about this side of you?”
“Well, yes.” She clears her throat. “And it’s not a side of me, it is me.”
“I approve. In fact, I more than approve. I’m happy for you. I think it’s difficult to find love at all in this world, and for you to have a…” I can’t find the strength to say the word lover, so I say, “…friend is a gift. So why pretend it isn’t happening? There’s no need for you to come traipsing down the mountain in the morning acting like you stayed here. Pack up your stuff and go over there and stay with him. What happens in Arezzo stays in Arezzo.”
Gram laughs. “Thank you.” She sips her coffee. “And that goes for you, too.”
“Hey, I’m taken.” I look out the window and it feels like New York and all our problems are a million miles away. For a moment, I forget the Bergdorf’s contest, our mounting debt, and the agony of dealing with Alfred. I even decide to put Roman on the shelf until we get to Capri, because I’m weary of analyzing us. All I see for now is spring unfolding in Italy, with the tiniest buds of green breaking through the gray branches. “But before you go, I need to know one thing.” I pull out my notebook.
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