Brava, Valentine

by Adriana Trigiani

  Gram’s absence, her move and new life, have never had such impact as they do right now. She was the calm center of our family, the glue. She would know what to say, and what to do—she’d knock some sense into Alfred, as she did my own father so many years ago. But family problems in a long lens aren’t nearly as potent as they are when they’re percolating in the next room. The distance between our shop on Perry Street and Dominic’s kitchen in Arezzo is so far, it might as well be a galaxy away.

  No, we will have to sort this one out on our own. And whether I confront my brother or stay silent and stew, as he has done all these years in the shadow of my father’s mistake, will be my choice. I just wish my brother had made a better one.

  I’ve dragged the last of the garden supplies onto the roof to plant the tomatoes. The potting soil, sticks, and planters are good to go. All I need are the plants, which my dad has promised to pick up in Queens, where they are sturdier and cheaper than the ones I would buy here in town.

  I considered not planting them at all this year, but figured it had to be bad luck not to. I don’t want to be the first person in my family to cancel the family garden after decades of relying upon it for the August harvest. Even though Gram is gone, the tomatoes must go on.

  I pull out my cell phone and sit down on the chaise. I dial Gram.

  “Have any luck finding out about Rafael?” I ask.

  “You were right. Michel and Rafael were brothers. I scanned the baptismal certificate and sent it to you. And they were about a year apart in age. Michel was the older of the two.”

  “Unbelievable.” I can’t imagine what horrible transgression could possibly sever the relationship of two brothers forever. I know there is nothing that could come between my sisters and me. Alfred is different. And maybe part of the reason I want to understand the past in our family is to help me cope with my brother in the present. “What do you think happened between them?”

  “I don’t know.” Gram is puzzled. “I was very close to my father-in-law—I can’t imagine why he wouldn’t have told me about this.”

  “It must be something pretty awful.”

  “Or maybe it’s just money,” Gram says. “My father-in-law watched every penny. And if anyone ever tried to take advantage of him, he cut them out.”

  “Well, I’m about to find out what happened. I’m going down there.”

  “You are?”

  “I can’t tell enough about Roberta from e-mails. And I want to see her factory. Wouldn’t it be something if we could work together?”

  “You’re doing so much more with the business than I ever could,” Gram says wistfully. This is the first time since her wedding that she sounds like she misses the Angelini Shoe Company.

  “In the end, Gram, we’re still making shoes. It’s all about the shoes.”

  She laughs. “I guess you’re right about that.”

  “Gabriel moved in. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “I think it’s great.”

  “I do too. Now, here’s the big question. He wants to redecorate. Now, if you don’t want him to, I won’t let him.”

  “How do you feel about it?” Gram asks.

  My eyes sting with tears. “I guess I’m okay.” But I’m not. I’d do anything if Gram would say, “Don’t change a teacup. I’m on my way home.” But that’s never going to happen. Sometimes I think her move to Italy is God’s way of preparing me for our final parting, which I do not like to think about—ever.

  “Valentine, I was apprehensive about moving over here. I was afraid to start all over again at my age. Yes, I had Dominic here to help me, but it’s still an enormous change. But I swear, once I got past the fear and threw myself into life in Arezzo, I feel twenty years younger. Just waking up to different walls—never mind a new husband, a new village—has given me a whole new perspective. I’ve got a new pep about me. Don’t be afraid of change.”

  “Okay, okay,” I say.

  “And don’t be afraid of color. I always meant to put more color into the rooms.”

  “Gram, Gabriel is choosing the paint chips—I don’t think that’s going to be a problem.”

  The Bus Stop Cafe is empty. The groggy waitress pours us the first cups of coffee from the pot; we’re her first patrons at the start of another long day. Greenwich Village is waking slowly, an occasional cab passes by on 8th Avenue, but the streets are empty, and the new morning sun throws very little light on my neighborhood.

  Bret pours the cream into my coffee, extra light, no sugar, just like I like it. We used to hang out at the Bus Stop Cafe when we were teenagers, and felt so grown up. Everything has changed in the world, except this diner. The fry cook, the owner, and the waitress are still here twenty years on.

  “We’re old,” he says.

  “What makes you say that?”

  “The staff.”

  “Maybe they’re old, and we’re still young.”

  “Keep dreaming. You don’t have children yet. Now, that reminds you the clock is ticking.”

  “What’s it like?”

  “Kids? They’re the best. They’re always happy to see me. They’re uncomplicated except when they want something, and then it’s hard ball. Mostly, though, they just want to play. What could be better than that?”

  Bret hands me a file across the table. “Chan Inc. is the best manufacturer of shoes in Beijing. They build Kate Spade, Macy’s private line, and get this: Nike’s. They do all styles and materials, and the minimum order is only five thousand pairs.”

  “Sounds promising.”

  “Alfred contacted the reps. They need patterns when you can send them.”

  “I’ll scan them and send them right away. I’m surprised he’s doing his job at all. His mind is elsewhere.”

  “Well, you just stay focused. This is all going to work for you.”

  “You know, good deal or not, I almost don’t want to give Alfred the satisfaction of going to China. You know he’s been pushing for it. But now I feel sorry for him, so I’m ready to sign on for whatever he wants to do.”

  “Don’t worry about Alfred. If it’s a good business deal for you, it’s a good deal period. No matter where you do production.”

  “What do you think of Buenos Aires?”

  “I’ve heard it’s gorgeous.”

  “Well, I have another option to present to you. It turns out that I have a cousin down there. Roberta Angelini. And she runs a factory that makes men’s shoes. I’m thinking about asking her to expand into women’s wear.”

  “Argentina is known for its superior leather goods.”

  “That’s what I was thinking. And you know I love the family business model. So then I was thinking, we could brand the Bella Rosa—you know, made by the Angelini family. We could do the cutting and assembly down there and the finishing here.”

  “Now you’re thinking like a marketing person.”

  “There’s something compelling about a family brand in tough times. It says something. You know, quality, attention to detail, tradition, that sort of thing.”

  “So, how do we proceed? Do you want me to talk to Roberta?”

  “Her e-mail is in the folder. She just had a baby, so she’s overwhelmed, but I told her about you—that you were putting together the financing package for us, and that you helped us secure the loan with the SBA, so that she understands that the money will be available once we’ve found the right factory. When I found out my great-grandfather had a brother, I Googled around and found Roberta. She told me she’d give me the whole story—Rafael’s side—when I get there.”

  “Lot of intrigue in the Angelini family.”

  “And even more now that my brother is running around,” I add.

  “It’s hard to believe. Alfred is so pious.” Bret shakes his head.

  “Those are the ones to watch,” I say.

  “No, you have to keep an eye out on all men. We’re all vulnerable. You saved me from a big mistake last year.

  “You knocked some sense into m
e. You reminded me of everything I’d lose if I had an affair with Chase. I was really tempted. She was cute and young, and a lot of fun. Available. And I was close to messing up my whole life for nothing. I see the guys at work who fool around—and eventually, it catches up with them. The wife doesn’t necessarily find out, but you see that they can’t handle the guilt. And then all sorts of bad stuff starts happening: drinking too much for one. No, you showed up at the right moment. As you always do.”

  “I will always tell you the truth—just as you are always honest with me.”

  “You know, at the time, I actually believed that Chase was attracted to me. I really did—and what I realized, thanks to the expression on your face when you saw us together…”

  “What’d I do?”

  “You gave me the old Sister Bernadette scowl from Holy Agony on the roof of the Gramercy that night. The old ‘I know what you’re thinking, buddy.’ Well, it made me think beyond what I wanted in that moment. We have a long history, Val, and you know me. I might see myself as a twenty-five-year-old—but I’m not—I’m careening towards forty, and I’m not complaining about it. Chase treated me like a peer, though, like I still had it.

  “But she wasn’t interested in me, she was enamored of my power at the office and my position.”

  “What happened?”

  “When the fund downsized, her opinion of me downsized almost instantly. You could say the biggest recession since the 1980s helped me stay faithful in my marriage.”

  “Funny how that works.”

  “Anyhow, I’ve never thanked you. You saved my marriage.”

  “Why were you tempted? Mackenzie is a beauty—and she’s so pulled together. Why would you even look at another woman?”

  Bret looks away and out the window. When we used to go together, I remember that look. He really thinks about things, in a way that I can appreciate and understand. We were like-minded then, and we still are. “Things change when the babies come. And Mac and I didn’t have a lot of time together before we had the girls. It all happened very fast.”

  “What changes when you have children?”

  “Well, a woman’s attention goes elsewhere. As it should—she’s taking care of a whole family. But things become routine. You long for things to be easy again. Uncomplicated. But they’re not. It all seems so life-and-death with babies—you run to the doctor, you check for fevers, you’re up all night. Mac got impatient with me, and I felt helpless. Pretty soon, you start arguing about little things, and on top of the big things, you realize you’re fighting all the time.”

  “How are things now?”

  “With Mac? Better. But they’re not kidding when they say marriage is a lot of work.”

  “Why is it work?” The unmarried one wants to know. I don’t understand the concept of that; why should love be hard when life is already impossible? Shouldn’t marriage be the easy part—after a long day, you look across the kitchen table and feel understood and safe and welcome? “Marriage sounds awful.”

  Bret laughs, even though I’m not trying to be funny. “Let me explain it like this: Mac has an idea of what life should be, and I have an idea, and sometimes we’re in sync, and other times we’re not. This is the work part. I married a girl who always had everything she wanted, and she expects the same from me. The way you and I grew up in Queens was different. We appreciate the house and the car and the nice restaurant meals. Mackenzie expects them. It doesn’t make her a bad person—it is what it is. She doesn’t know any differently.”

  “How is she dealing with the changes in your work?”

  “She’s scared. You know, I’m lucky, because I’ve always worked to establish new companies and businesses. But when Mac goes to the park, or to the girls’ play dates, and she talks to the wives whose husbands went from getting million-dollar bonuses to being unemployed overnight, she hears how tough things are out there. And I think that helps her appreciate what she has. It was a long road to gratitude, I guess.”

  I take a sip of the coffee and look out the window; the corner of Hudson Street that curls into Bleecker is now bathed in full morning sunlight. The pedestrians move quickly on their way to their jobs, the bus stop is already crowded with folks waiting for the M10. A woman checks her watch, steps out onto Hudson Street, and squints to see the bus approach in the distance.

  I come from a family of women who work. My stay-at-home mother occasionally threatened to get a job, but only out of her desire to be relevant in the outside world, not because of financial necessity. My parents lived within their means, in a house they could afford, in a neighborhood of like-minded working-class people, like the Fitzpatricks, who lived just down the block.

  My parents took care of everything they had. A car was never purchased new, but used and in good condition. I don’t remember a painter or a plumber visiting our home; my father repaired everything himself. My mother even helped my father pour a concrete walkway in the backyard when it was her dream to have one.

  My mother aspired, and still does, to possess the finer things of life, but even those markers—a marble foyer, a Jacuzzi in the bathroom, a state-of-the-art kitchen, all the features of fine living and upward mobility—were provided by my father through the labor of his own hands. He did the work wealthy people hire other people to do. My mother didn’t sit around while he made things, she became his eager assistant. It may seem that Mom has airs, but she never lived in a rarefied atmosphere.

  I remember my parents working together on projects around our house. They made my mother’s obsession for a beautiful home a family project. I remember paint chips, and swatches, and Saturday afternoons at the lumberyard, where they’d scheme a new room, or improve an old one. Their marriage is one of true minds—they’re a team, and they like figuring things out together. My mother never had a career, but she always had an agenda. And my father dutifully went along with it. So my mother got her dream life, and my father, a purpose.

  “There’s a real art to a good marriage, isn’t there?”

  “I think so,” Bret says. “Making someone happy is a full-time job.”

  “Mackenzie’s lucky,” I say. “But she’s also smart. She picked a good guy who gave her everything she ever wanted.”

  “I hope so.” Bret smiles. “Thanks for noticing.”

  But it’s me who is grateful to him—no matter what, Bret Fitzpatrick believes in me—and maybe it’s old loyalty carried into adulthood, but whatever it is, I can always count on him. We come from the same place.

  The Fitzpatricks and the Roncallis are people who gather in kitchens around a tray of homemade manicotti, not in fancy living rooms where silver trays of canapés are passed. Where we come from, champagne is for toasting, good china is for holidays, and silver place settings are heirlooms while love is given freely, not something exchanged in hopes of material gain or social status. There is something to be treasured about people who know instinctively when enough is enough.

  Across the way, the Bleecker Park playground, nestled under old elm trees, comes to life with toddlers on their early-morning play dates. A mother guides a stroller with one hand while pushing the wrought iron gate open with the other. A father, his hair wet from the shower, wears a business suit and holds his son’s hand as they walk quickly toward P.S. 41 in time for the bell.

  The swings in the park, filled with children, begin to sway, and I watch a little girl, her legs pushing higher and higher as she leans back into the swing. Soon, it seems she might take flight.

  18 aprile 2010

  Cara Valentina,

  I made a delivery of kidskin to the Prato mill and thought of you. I thought about your pink dress and how you looked very much like a peony the day I brought you here a year and a half ago. Signora inquired about you at the mill. I sent your regards. Prada is doing a boot made of velvet and leather for Spring 2011, and Signora cannot get enough Vechiarelli leather.

  I have reread your last letter over and over again, knowing that you are very busy and c
annot write as often as I do. Your words stay with me, as does the sound of your laughter. How I long to hear it again. I will call you. The sound of your voice must do, but please say you will come to Arezzo in the summer. The lavender will bloom in your honor—I promise.

  Love,

  Gianluca

  The workshop is in pre-shipping mode, which means that every surface is covered with open red and white striped shoe boxes. It’s like falling into Aunt Feen’s pressed glass candy dish, which was filled year-round with peppermint wheels except at Christmastime, when she replaced the old Brach standbys and sprang for the chocolate and hazelnut Baci in the blue-and-silver foil wrappers.

  I survey the box count against the shipping lists, propped on the table with instructions. I put down my coffee and flip on the work lights. The gates on the windows have been rolled back. Alfred is already at his desk. It’s six o’clock in the morning, and he usually arrives at nine.

  “Hey,” I say softly so as not to startle him. “There’s coffee up in the kitchen.”

  “I stopped at the deli.”

  I make space for my coffee on the table. I open the finishing closet, filled with layers of pumps, by size, separated by thin sheets of muslin. The pale pumps, soft calfskin dyed in shell pink, mint green, buttercup yellow, and beige, are stacked by size. The scent of sweet wax and leather fills the air.

  “I think we should talk,” Alfred says.

  “Sure.” I sit down on the work stool. I have been dreading this moment, when Alfred actually admits he’s having an affair with Kathleen Sweeney and swears me to confidentiality. I’d really like to pretend that I didn’t see Alfred and Kathleen together, and life could go on as it has before. It was so much easier when I disliked my brother for the way he treated me. Now I have to dislike him for the way he treats his wife.

  Alfred takes a deep breath and says, “I think I should go to Buenos Aires with you.”

  The look on my face must be one of total surprise. Alfred agreed that I should go when we discussed this weeks ago.

  He quickly adds, “I’d like to see the operation there.”