Brava, Valentine

by Adriana Trigiani

  “Of course you did. That’s why you have no ass and I do.”

  “I have an ass. It’s just pert and shapely. Like a new peach, I like to say. Or I’ve been told.” He helps me off with my coat. “I want to know everything.”

  I peel off the rest of my winter layers and pile them next to Gabriel in the booth. “You first. How are you? How’s work?”

  “They cut my hours. Not good. But I have time to think about my life. Excellent. And I have time to focus on my friends. Even better. Where’s the letter?”

  I open my purse. I store Gianluca’s letter carefully in a second envelope, preserving it like a butterfly saved in a ziplock bag for fifth-grade science class. The onionskin stationery is as delicate as wings, and I don’t want anything to smudge the ink or tear the paper. After all, this is a document of intention, and I’d like to honor any coming my way. “Be careful.”

  “Relax. A love letter from Gianluca Vechiarelli is hardly on par with an original Shakespeare manuscript.”

  “Yeah, well, Shakespeare never sent me a sonnet. This is all I got.”

  Gabriel unfolds the letter carefully and reads aloud.

  “‘Cara Valentina.’ That’s a sexy start. ‘Please accept my apologies for tonight at the Inn. I was carried away with emotions that I have been feeling for quite some time.’ Boy, he wants you in a big way. ‘You could not know of these feelings, for I had not admitted them to myself.’ Smart man. Mention feelings upfront. Reel her in. ‘But when I saw you at the church…I was filled with…great longing.’ Longing. Huh. Aka: pent-up sexual attraction that can only be released via you, my youngish American. ‘I have not had the true love I had hoped for…’ Translation: Never had it but now I’ve found it, and guess what? You’re it! You’re his true love. You! Cara Valentina. It’s right here in navy blue. Might as well be a marriage license, sister. ‘Your beautiful face.’ He’s a goner. ‘Reciprocate the feelings…’ Good. ‘Longing to kisses.’ Hot damn. Marry me, Gianluca. ‘Do you feel as I do?’ Wow, that’s direct.” Gabriel gives me the letter. “He’s in love with you.”

  “Do you think?”

  “I know. Look, a man doesn’t show up at a hotel full of family, especially your brood, and find the exact room you’re staying in and almost seduce you unless he’s cuh-ray-zee about you. Tommy Tanner wants you so badly he’d risk running into your father in the bidet just to be with you. Think about that.”

  “I don’t want to fall for him.” The truth is, I don’t have time for any man right now. I’ve got a business to run and a new one to build. The last thing I need is a distraction. “I can’t fall for him.”

  “Too late for that, sister.”

  “I live in New York, he lives in Italy,” I say.

  “There are airplanes.”

  “Come on, Gabriel. It’s an impossible situation.”

  “That’s why you carry the letter around like a Dead Sea scroll. It’s so impossible that you have to reread his letter over and over again to remind yourself why you can’t possibly fall in love with him. Face it, you already like/love him, and you like/love thinking about him.”

  “I don’t want to like/love. I want to be the kind of person who just has fun and doesn’t get all wrapped up in it.”

  “You mean the opposite of what you had with Roman.”

  “Exactly,” I say.

  “Well, that was different. Roman works in a kitchen, and people are always hungry. You really couldn’t compete with that. It’s primal. Gianluca, on the other hand, is a tanner, and once he cuts a few hides, he can take a break. So you’ve got a better scheduling situation with him, although there’s the geographical problem—two countries, two hearts—but really, do you need him underfoot twenty-four/seven?”

  “Not right now.”

  “So enjoy the attentions of an older man. And read the letters. Handwritten letters are a sex life in and of themselves.”

  Gabriel is right. I read the letter right before I go to sleep and imagine what Gianluca is doing. I hear the inflection of his voice when I read, and I feel his intent. Then I think about him, and how we happened to get to this place. I remember every detail of my visit to Arezzo when we first met, how he was gruff and didn’t seem to like me at all. And then, how he made excuses to be with me during my visit, how attentive he was, and how he would make plans, pick me up, drop me off, check to see if I needed anything. And then when he came to Capri, I was swimming, and he suddenly appeared by the pool, a welcome surprise. I was brokenhearted and pining for Roman, but that did not deter him. He’s trying to build something with me. Why can’t I at least let him try?

  Gabriel continues, “Just enjoy the man. Why does everything have to be an emotional circus? Keep it simple. If you can. If you want to.”

  “Okay, Doctor Love. I get it. So, how about you? Are you seeing anyone?” I ask.

  “No. And it’s brutal out there. The competition is beyond fierce. Look at me. No one in his right mind would dare kick sand in my face on Far Rockaway beach, but have you noticed? Every guy that checks the ‘Yes, I’m gay’ box these days is in perfect physical condition. Our BMIs are probably close to our shoe sizes—and that’s a national average. Every single homosexual man in America is buff. When did this happen? And why? Now, all of a sudden, if you’re gay, you have to attract a mate with your personality. You have to be charming to find a boyfriend. Well read. Fascinating. The bod isn’t enough.”

  “You’ve got a problem, then.”

  “I know. It’s back to the New York Public Library for me. I might wind up having to read David Foster Wallace’s oeuvre just to be in the loop. By the way, I’m out of my apartment May first,” he says.

  “What happened?”

  “Well, I was never officially on the lease. It’s a sublet—you know my cousin Joey. It’s his place, and now that the rents have plummeted, everybody wants to move back into the city, including Joey. And since they’ve cut my hours at the Carlyle, I have to make some cuts of my own. I’d like to pay less rent, so this is a good time to move. Chelsea Boy may become Hoboken Hottie.”

  “You can’t leave the city! All the glamour would go—sucked right off of the streets and into the Holland Tunnel, courtesy of your moving van.”

  “Ain’t that the truth? But I have to stay open. Realistic is the new black. From now on, it’s beauty on a budget. And that might even mean the other B word: Brooklyn. I know, I know. Italian Americans spent a generation trying to move out of Brooklyn, and now we’re moving back in. It’s insane.”

  “Are you open to any offer?” I ask. “You could come and live with me.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “I have all that space. Three bedrooms! Two empty. I miss Gram. I wander around the roof like an old pigeon looking for crumbs. I traipse from room to room with nothing but my memories to make me smile. Besides, my love life only exists on paper. The mail comes once a day, and Gianluca only has so much ink in his pen. I need you.”

  “Living together might ruin our friendship.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know.” Gabriel’s eyes widen at the possibilities of moving in to Perry Street. I watch him scheme.

  “We’d see more of each other,” I offer.

  “We did live together in college,” Gabriel reasons. “And I broke you of your worst habits then: wet towels on the floor…”

  “I have a drying rack now.”

  “Good. And how’s the coaster situation?”

  “I never place a cup of coffee on a bare table. I’ve grown up. I respect wood grains. Always a coaster.”

  “Wow. You’re playing hardball here. This is very tempting,” he says.

  The waitress serves us our breakfast. Gabriel sprinkles Tabasco on his eggs. “Tabasco burns calories. I even brush my teeth with it.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind. Another reason for you to move in—with tips like these, I’ll look like Kate Moss in six months.”

  “A year,” he amends.

  “Lo
ok, just think about it. I mean, if Prince Charming comes along and drives you and your personality away in his Bentley, that’s one thing. But if he doesn’t, why not come and live with me?”

  “Soirées on the roof…under the stars…Jersey in the background. I love a roof.”

  “You can grow roses up there.”

  “The thought of a trellis on a rooftop is almost irresistible.” Gabriel butters his toast with the smallest smidge while I pour a quart of maple syrup on my French toast.

  “Think about it?”

  “Can I paint?” he asks. “I’m a man who loves to dimple his own stucco.”

  “Do it. Paint, stencil, decoupage! Anything you want,” I promise him.

  “Your ceilings are high, and I’m into wallpaper.”

  “Wallpaper is great.”

  He leans in. “How do you feel about a classic toile wallpaper with foil accents? You realize I’ve never had an entire house and roof garden to decorate.”

  “Now you do, my friend.”

  My brother Alfred, now a few days in as my partner, still seems surprised at how complex the business of making shoes can be. He responds to the challenges of the Angelini Shoe Company in the same way he rose to valedictorian of his college class. He sits at the desk with his back to June and me as he combs through ledgers in a concentration so deep, it’s as though he’s studying for a make-or-break final exam upon which his future depends. Occasionally he types into his laptop.

  When he was a boy and wanted to learn something, he’d go to the library and immerse himself in research. He’d carry home stacks of books and plow through them. Never one to get by with general knowledge, Alfred’s goal was to burrow into a subject and come out the other side an expert. Our mother marveled at his intelligence, and used to say, “I don’t know where he came from.” Then of course, she’d take full credit and say, “I am his mother.”

  There may be a potential upside to our partnership—he may challenge me to find better ways to do my work. I don’t know if I could work any harder at designing and building shoes, but maybe I could work smarter.

  “We should call Mike to come in and help us with the shipment,” June says as she surveys the shipment for McDonald’s bridal boutique in Boston. “Your mother packs shoes like a pro.”

  “She buys them like a pro, too,” Alfred says from his work, without looking up.

  “Gee, Alfred. A joke.” I nod, impressed.

  He turns and faces me. “I’m not the worst person in the world, you know.”

  “Now, now, let’s not have any personal feelings in the workplace,” I remind him.

  Alfred breaks a slight smile.

  “Oh, you two are downright docile. There used to be real battles in this room. And I was the referee. Believe me. Your grandparents would go at it—and Big Mike would get so angry, he’d throw the iron against that wall. One afternoon, it almost hit the cat.”

  “Buttons,” Alfred remembers.

  “I never worried about that cat. He could take care of himself. They adopted him from the street, and truthfully he needed to be in the zoo. Feral. Used to sleep in the trashcan. But he definitely got his bad attitude from your grandfather.”

  “Gram doesn’t remember the fights.” I hold down the pattern paper while June cuts the leather.

  “Widows never do. Grief wipes out all bad memories. After your grandfather died, she wrote to the Vatican to have him canonized.”

  “No way.” Alfred laughs.

  “Nah, but she would’ve. She blamed herself for everything that went wrong between them after he died. I had to remind her that he was human and made mistakes just like the rest of us.”

  “Like having a girlfriend on the side,” I say. “This is a particular weakness in our family.”

  “Maybe, but that was the least of it to your grandmother. She didn’t care about that. She cared about stability. Home was on the second floor, and she never took her work problems up those stairs at night. And this is a rough business. You have to show up every single day and produce. It’s not easy. I felt for both of them.” June places the pattern paper and the leather in a stack for me to sew.

  I place a finished kid leather dress shoe on the brushes. I pump the pedals with my foot as the brushes whirl rhythmically, evenly buffing the leather. Small striae of the palest pink begin to peek through the vamp of the eggshell pump. I concentrate on making the patina even. I stop the pedal when the pink is the exact shade of a new dogwood blossom. As I lift it up to the light, I realize that Alfred stands beside me.

  “I remember when Grandpop used to buff the shoes on that machine. You’re pretty good at it.”

  “Surprised?” I’m so used to snapping at my brother in self-defense, I do it even when he pays me a compliment. “I didn’t mean that,” I tell him. “I meant to say, Thank you.”

  The phone in the shop rings. June’s and my hands are full, so Alfred picks it up.

  “Angelini Shoes,” he says.

  I look at June. I’ll bet it’s the first time in my brother’s professional life that he has picked up the phone like a receptionist.

  “It’s Mom.” Alfred gives me the phone.

  “Checking in!” Mom says. “What’s going on?”

  “June wants to retire.”

  June chuckles as she sorts straight pins and shakes her head.

  “Don’t let her,” Mom says.

  “Too late.”

  “Valentine, listen to me,” Mom says. “June has threatened to quit for years. We give her a good long three-week vacation and she comes back fresh and says, ‘I don’t know how people lead lives of leisure.’ Okay? She’s not going anywhere.”

  “Tell your mother I mean it this time,” June says.

  “Ma, she means it this time.”

  “Put her on the phone,” Mom says.

  I bring the phone to June’s ear. I can hear my mother through the receiver. June says, “Uh-huh…” And listens. Then June says, “Okay, all right, Mike…Uh-huh…Okay, then. Good-bye.”

  I take the phone back from June.

  “It’s all settled,” Mom says to me. “June wants a nice break this summer. So you need to get ahead of the game in the shop. I’m coming in to help out.”

  “When?”

  “As soon as I take care of some things around the house,” she says.

  Mom is fibbing. She doesn’t have any chores in Queens. Her house is in tip-top shape down to the hand-polished brass doorknobs she made my father install when she saw them in a layout of an English manor house in British House & Garden. Mom is simply buying time to plan her glamorous working-girl wardrobe. Mike Roncalli does not set foot on the island of Manhattan without planning her outfit down to her underwear. Her highest dream is to be snapped unaware by trendspotting Bill Cunningham, the New York Times photographer who takes pictures of chic New Yorkers on the street.

  “Look, I was an Angelini before I was a Roncalli, and this is a family business. With your brother there, it’s all about unity. We all have to roll up our sleeves to help out.”

  I hang up the phone. “She’s coming to work.”

  “Mom?” Alfred says. “Really?”

  “She needs a project. And guess what? We’re it.”

  Now that I’ve shored up the staff with a plan to add Mom into the mix (so June can stockpile patterns in advance in order to take her long summer break), it’s time to focus on the Bella Rosa. A long walk on the river to think things through is just what I needed to face the work ahead. The March sky, the color of driftwood, reminded me that spring is here, and with it, the urgency of meeting deadlines on the annual calendar. The fashion world works a full year in advance, and every moment counts as we plan the new line.

  As I hang up my coat, I hear Bret and Alfred inside the shop having a lively discussion about the New York Yankees. It sounds like an argument, but I can never tell—when men talk sports, they show a range of emotions rarely exhibited in other parts of their lives.

  My brother an
d Bret have always gotten along on the surface. When I broke up with Bret years ago, Alfred made it very clear that he thought I was making a huge mistake. But, as in most things, Alfred will usually take the adversarial position when it comes to me. His disapproval wasn’t as much about Bret as about my inability to embrace the responsible, expected path—marriage to a nice, respectable breadwinner and all the claptrap that comes with it.

  Bret and Alfred share the same working-class background, and both were brilliant in school, top of their classes. They even followed the same personal path: they married, moved to the suburbs, and each had two children. They appear to have a lot in common, but I know them both well, and Bret brings empathy to his aggressive business style, while my brother is ruthless. Our new arrangement, with Bret advising me on raising capital, will require some diplomacy, and the middle child (me) will play the middleman.

  June left work a couple hours ago, and I skipped dinner to mentally prepare for our first meeting with Kathleen Sweeney from the Small Business Administration. I interrupt Bret and Alfred’s sports talk. “Whose idea was it to have a night meeting? I’m beat.”

  “Kathleen is really backed up at work. It would take weeks to get a regular appointment—I finagled this because she owes me a favor,” Bret says.

  “Now, we’re not committing to anything in this meeting, are we?” Alfred asks. There’s a tone of suspicion to his question.

  “Alfred, if we’re going to grow, we have to be aggressive. There’s not a lot of cash out there, and while I’d prefer not to take a loan, we have to.”

  “Have you looked at investor funds? Other sources of revenue?” Alfred turns to Bret.

  “Absolutely. But you know the climate at the banks.”

  “Yeah, I do,” Alfred says impatiently. “That’s what worries me. The banks are gouging people, ramping up interest rates.”