“Anyhow, my point is that even when you don’t make a plan of it, you will change. You will want different things at different points in your life, just as he will. Circumstances will hit you with some whammies, and you’ll fight back, and sometimes you’ll just give in to it and choose to lie down in the river and glide. Whatever you do, know that there’s a long line of us that came before you who walked in your shoes.” Mom looked around the shop. “It always comes back to shoes with us, doesn’t it?”
The Chelsea Market, a couple of blocks from our shop, had grown from a local food mall with bakeries, wine vaults, fresh seafood, and a soup stand to a tourist attraction with all the old guard shops dwarfed by a television studio, fancy restaurants, clothes shop, and a bookstore.
Buon Italia remained my favorite destination, with food imported from Italy and a fresh pasta department that tricked Gianluca into thinking he’d never left Tuscany.
I had planned a romantic dinner of tortellini in puttanesca sauce, fresh bread, and an arugula salad. I was studying the olive oil selections when I felt what I can only describe as a familiar presence next to me.
“I like Lucini. Tuscan. It’s buttery.”
I looked up at Roman Falconi and as if by habit, I blushed. “Roman.”
He wasted no time and put his arms around me and kissed both my cheeks. The only thing between us was a small block of parmesan cheese. It wasn’t a good buffer. Roman took the cheese and placed it in the cart, then stood back and looked at me.
“You look good,” he decided.
“So do you.” And it was true. He did. Obviously, he was working out because he was in better physical shape than I remembered. He was as handsome as ever, and he had cropped his hair short. He smiled at me, moving his head from side to side, squinting a bit as if he was studying a painting.
“What are you making?” He began to go through my cart.
“Something simple. Tortellini.”
“Do you ever make the pork shoulder?”
“No, but I ordered it at Babbo. Does that count?”
He put his hand on his heart. “You go to Batali? You’re killing me.” He smiled. When he smiled, I remembered why I fell in love with him. “Why don’t you come over later? I’ll make you dinner.”
“I can’t.”
“Right. You’re cooking.”
“And I’m getting married.”
Roman’s face fell. He looked slightly seasick, but quickly recovered as only a man who is used to juggling complex recipes, hungry customers, and beautiful women can do. It’s the face of a man who always thinks he is missing something even when he isn’t sure he wants it.
“I miss you,” he said.
“Thank you.” I didn’t know what else to say.
“Do you miss me?” he asked.
“I miss that pork shoulder.”
He laughed. “Who you gonna marry?”
“A tanner.”
“You hate the beach.”
“No. I hate bathing suits. I love the beach. Besides, he’s not that kind of tanner. He works in leather.”
“How old is he?”
This was exactly the kind of question that unnerved me when I dated Roman. He’s a mind reader.
“Around your age,” I lied. As soon as I did, I was ashamed. I didn’t have a problem with the age difference, did I? “Why do you ask?”
“I like to have as many facts as I can about the competition.”
“How about you? You serious with anyone?”
“Not really. And I’m not looking.”
“That’s a first.”
“Why don’t you just put a nutcracker in your cart?”
This time, I laughed. “I’m sorry. You know, Roman, you’re like an institution—a big building with a fountain out front. Important. Impressive. I like knowing you’re there because everything on earth changes except for you.”
“Is that a compliment?” he wondered.
“Absolutely,” I assured him. Roman followed me around as I finished my shopping. He helped me choose the best crushed and peeled tomatoes in the store. He stayed with me as I chose a bottle of wine. We laughed as we had in the beginning, but this time there was no anxiety. We knew exactly who we were and how the story ended. It meant we could be honest.
“Are you happy with the chump?”
I looked at him.
“Chump is a term of endearment.” He smiled.
“Maybe it is in Chicago but it’s not in Queens.”
“So let me put it this way—are you happy?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Then I’m happy for you,” he said, not meaning it. “But if anything changes, you know the way to Mott Street.”
“You’re serious.”
“Very.”
Roman was, first and foremost, a cook. He thought that if he added new and interesting ingredients to an old recipe that it would somehow turn out differently.
“Don’t you believe in fate, Valentine?” he asked.
“You think because I needed fresh tortellini that’s a sign we should get back together?”
“Why not?” He beamed that glorious smile and I swear it lit up the room, causing every woman in Buon Italia to look into the light.
I shook my head and laughed.
“You think I’m joking,” he said. “But I’m not. You still on Perry Street?”
“For a hundred years.”
“Maybe I’ll stop by sometime.” Roman kissed me on the cheek and left. I stood there for a moment as though I’d been hit by a hammer.
“Baby, that man likes you,” a lovely African American woman said to me as she picked up a can of olives near my cart.
“It’s too late for him.”
“People change,” she said, pushing her cart past me. “I like a tall man.”
“Me too.” I smiled.
Alfred, Charlie, and I met for lunch at Valbella’s, our favorite Italian restaurant in the meatpacking district. David, the owner, always rolls out the red carpet and the best sopressata this side of Naples. He sees me coming and starts cracking crab legs for my appetizer. I need to eat a lot of fish for the next month so I’m at fighting weight for the wedding pictures.
Charlie (I’m sure Tess is behind this) is wearing a three-piece suit. Never mind that I haven’t seen a three-piece suit on anyone since I watched Scarface with Gianluca, but it looks nice on my brother-in-law. Alfred wears a tie with a white shirt and his jeans and cardigan. I feel like I’m out with a couple of rejects from Boys Nation.
“Charlie, do you have any idea why we’ve called you here today?” Alfred began.
“I’m guessing you want to save my family from financial and emotional ruin,” he joked.
“Stop that. You’re a winner. Would you like a glass of wine?” I asked him.
“My liver is still processing Christmas Eve,” Charlie said. “I’ll have a glass of seltzer.”
“You know, Charlie, Alfred and I have been thinking about you. We’d like to have you come and work with us.”
“We want to give you a job that uses your skills,” Alfred added, looking at me. “We have some ideas, but we’d like to hear yours.”
“I’m not wild about shipping,” Charlie said.
I look at Alfred. I could kill Tess for tipping Charlie off about the position before our lunch. “Okay, what do you think you’d like to do?”
“I don’t know. But I’m open.”
“To anything but shipping,” I thought aloud.
“I know this sounds a little nuts, but I’m not sure what you’re good at,” Alfred said. “I’m sure you’re brilliant at what you do, but what is it exactly?”
“I managed a team of salesmen at the alarm company. I had to teach them how to sell, and I also oversaw operations. I was in charge of the team
that checked the alarms before they were installed.”
“Quality control?” I asked.
“Bigger than that. I had to make sure that the alarms worked mechanically.”
Alfred looked at me. “Mechanics?”
“Yeah, I mean, I pretty much can take apart any machine and put it back together.”
“Tess always said that you knew how to handle a remote, but I had no idea you had skills beyond that.”
“I do.” Charlie smiled confidently. “And I speak Spanish.”
I grabbed Alfred’s arm. “You do?”
“Fluent.”
“Why didn’t I know this?” I threw my hands in the air.
“When was the last time Spanish was spoken in the Roncalli household?”
“Never,” I admitted.
“I minored in Spanish at Villanova.”
“I had no idea,” Alfred said.
“I almost got on Who Wants to Be a Millionaire in 2007. I think that’s it for my secrets,” Charlie said.
“Well, our shoes are made in Argentina.”
“I’m aware of that,” Charlie said.
“And now that I’m getting married, I’m not going to be able to run down to Buenos Aires—you could be our guy. Our operations guy.”
“Make me an offer,” Charlie said.
The waiter arrived with a silver tray filled with surf and turf for southern Italians. There were hunks of Parmesan cheese, delicate rolls of salami, and glistening yellow peppers stuffed with anchovies.
“First we eat,” I said to Charlie and Alfred. “Then we make a deal.”
The night before my wedding, I finished my new shoes.
I carefully snipped the threads around the shank of the heel. I had made a pair of formal pumps in off-white raw silk with a cutwork around the vamp that matched the lace on my mother’s wedding gown. I cut three-inch Cinderella heels out of Lucite, stacked for comfort and all-night dancing. When I lifted the hem of my gown, the shoes looked like wings and my feet looked like they were floating a few inches off the ground.
Gabriel came in with a gift wrapped in white. He placed it on the cutting table.
“I told you I could finish up. I sent the patterns to Charlie via e-mail. He’s going to forward them to Roberta.”
“Great. I’m going to get married without a single worry about the shop.”
“Val, are you sure I can’t help?”
“I like the finishing. I zen right out,” I told him as I clipped one last thread.
“Are you nervous?”
“Yeah.”
“Everything will come off without a hitch.”
“My mother is the hitch queen. She’ll handle any problems.”
“She lives for it.”
I looked at Gabriel, who had hoisted himself up on the worktable. He dangled his feet nervously. “Are you okay?”
“I hate change,” he said.
“Not as much as me.”
“But you’re the one getting married. The very definition of that is change.”
“It is, and it isn’t. I can’t tell you what I’m going to feel on the other side of commitment, but so far, I haven’t had to change anything about myself for Gianluca. I’m assertive, and I do what I think is best. I mean, he comes first, of course, but I’m my own person.”
Gabriel looked at me quizzically. “You seem to have it all figured out.”
“I don’t know about that. I just want to be married on my own terms.”
“Is there such a thing?”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re joining your lives together. Two makes one. It’s the only time math is fuzzy—when there’s a marriage.”
“I prefer two separate but equal people in love unite in marriage.”
“Val, seriously?”
“What?”
“How does feminism play with a traditional Italian man?”
“He’s the father of a very independent daughter. He gets it.”
“Whatever you say.” Gabriel got up and handed me the gift. “Want to open your present?”
“Shouldn’t I wait for Gianluca?”
“It doesn’t involve him.”
“Nice. And you’re coming down on me about joining lives together?”
“What do you want from me? I’m very torn.”
I ripped into the package. I pulled off the bubble wrap. In an elaborate gold-leafed frame, Gabriel had mounted my final sketch of my wedding shoes. “Do you like it?” he asked.
“I love it. And I love you.” I gave Gabriel a kiss.
“I was going to get you a salad spinner, and went with the art instead.”
“It’s a good rule to always go with the art.”
“It’s your work,” Gabriel said. My wedding shoe, drawn with a light pencil, then painted with watercolor, highlighted in shimmering gold and pools of powder blue, in fact looked like that slipper Cinderella lost, if in fact Cinderella had been Italian.
“You’re really good, Val.”
“I have help.”
“No, I mean it. You’re a really good designer, and I think Gianluca gets it. He gets you. And believe me, as I wander the world like it’s a giant desert and I’m looking for an oasis, I want you to understand how rare that is.”
“Don’t you think I know? I learn everything the hard way. When I dated the chef, I learned how to chop onions so I could help him prep in the kitchen. Then I got smart. Marry the man who helps you in your shop. I’m marrying my tanner.”
“Now that I’m a pattern cutter, I’m going to be on the lookout for a scissor manufacturer. ”
“Now you’re talking.” I lifted the shoe off the table and checked the heel. “I saw Roman.”
“When?”
“A few weeks ago.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because when I mention the man’s name, he appears.”
“How’d he look?”
“Good.”
“Did you get a tingle?”
“I’d be dead if I didn’t.”
“That’s good. Wow.”
“I lied to him.”
“You didn’t tell him you were engaged.”
“No, I said Gianluca was young. Like Roman.”
“Why did you do that?”
“You’re my best friend. You tell me.”
“It’s ridiculous.”
“I know!”
“Gianluca looks amazing.”
“I know! What’s my problem?”
“Did you volunteer the lie?”
“No, he asked me how old he was.”
“That Roman is like one of those metal detectors at the beach. He always finds the needle and then he sticks you with it.”
“I didn’t tell Gianluca I saw him.”
“I wish you would’ve. There would have been a duel on the grass at Pier 44.”
“No. Roman wouldn’t have shown up.”
“And that’s why you’re marrying Gianluca. He will always show up. You can count on him.”
On the morning of my wedding, I stood on the roof in my parka, long johns, and boots and watched the sun rise. I should have been wrapped in a tinfoil cape, like a marathon runner after the race. In six weeks, we had achieved the impossible. We had planned an Italian American wedding. Every person that was still alive in my family was coming, from as close as Queens Boulevard and as far away as Argentina. They received engraved invitations. And yes, there was an angel embossed on the linen paper.
It wasn’t just my wedding, it was a family reunion.
One of the best parts of getting married at my age was that anticipation of the actual event was insignificant. My sisters had long engagements in their twenties, and they needed them. They had to save up for
all the things I already have, a place to live and the stuff that fills that place.
I had other issues on my mind. I wasn’t worried about getting an Electrolux vacuum cleaner or a fondue pot for my new apartment. It was the marriage afterward that I was looking forward to. I would finally be alone with my husband, away from the lists, Post-its, tiffs, arguments, brawls about flowers, passed hors d’oeuvres, and veils. “Eye on the prize,” I chanted to myself like it was May Day and I was going for the world record for reciting Hail Marys.
“Come inside, Valentina,” Gianluca said from the roof door.
“Honey, what are you doing here?” I didn’t “have my face on” (my mother’s term), but I didn’t care. Gianluca pushed the door open. I ran to him and put my arms around his neck.
“Your mother has been up for an hour already with the makeup artist.”
“It takes a good forty minutes to draw on her eyebrows. She overplucked the left one in the sixties and has to fake symmetry.”
“Women and their eyebrows. I don’t know a man in the world that notices them.”
“So you fled Forest Hills?”
“There was no room for me at your mother’s house. There were so many hot rollers plugged in, I was afraid to recharge my electric razor for fear the Long Island transformer would blow.”
“You stayed in my old room, didn’t you?”
“I gave it to Orsola and Matteo. Your mother put me in the spare room.”
“No! You were in the twin bed? How could she? Nobody sleeps in that bed. It’s for show. When we were little, Cousin Gootch slept there. He was a bed wetter. Table fifteen. We sat him with Dad’s surgical team from LIJ. No worries. Gootch got over it, and Mom put a Mylar sheet on the old mattress.”
“It doesn’t matter. I couldn’t fit on the mattress, so I stretched out on the floor.”
“I’m so sorry. Where did she put Roberta?”
“Roberta got the den.”
“With the bathroom.”
“Your mother thought that was important.”
“Look.” I pointed to the winter sky in the east. Gray clouds floated overhead like chiffon.
“The sunrise.” He smiled. “The light can barely make it over the buildings.”
“My grandfather told me that if you make it a point to get up and see the sun rise every day, you will eventually know the secret of life.”