“Oh, I wish you had something for Tom,” Jaclyn said. “My husband is too humble to ask.”
“Does he speak Chinese?” Gabriel asked.
“Not that I know of,” Jaclyn said.
“If we expand to China for production, we’ll need somebody who can speak the language.” Gabriel looked at me.
“We’re fine with Argentina,” I assured them. “And Charlie’s Spanish.”
There was a tapping at the door. Gianluca pushed the door open.
“They’re looking for us,” he said.
“Get in here. I’m hiding.”
The room filled with the scent of cigar smoke. I waved my hand in front of my face. “I guess Mom didn’t go for the fine Cuban cigars. What are you smoking out there? Cornsilk?”
“What a lovely combo,” Gabriel said. “Fried chickpeas and cigar smoke. What happens next? I get sold into white slavery?”
Jaclyn and Tess stood up. “We gotta go. Come on, guys. It’s ‘Oh Marie.’ ”
The guests had drifted into the dining room, and sure enough, Mario Geritano was cranking out “Oh Marie,” a family favorite. Lisa Puglise, in a gold lamé jumpsuit, was doing her best Keely Smith impression while Mario did the full-tilt Louis Prima. The band’s main attribute was volume.
“Valentine!” Don Pipino threw his arms around me. Don is my father’s favorite cousin. They grew up like brothers with the same sense of humor and the same head of thick hair. “You are the most beautiful bride ever. But don’t tell Chrissy and Mary.”
“They were both gorgeous on their wedding days.”
“You can’t go wrong. Italian girls look good in white. You know, there’s only two ways to go for women. You’re either a Cinderella or a Snow White. The blond-haired, blue-eyed thing not so much with the Italians. But the black hair and pale skin? We’re Snow Whites. That’s our bailiwick.”
I introduced Don to my husband. They fell into a conversation like a couple of old friends. Cousin Don is one of those people who never makes someone feel like a stranger. If I didn’t know better, I would have said that Gianluca was having the time of his life.
My brother Alfred pulled me onto the dance floor. “Are you having fun?”
“Absolutely. How about you?”
“Pamela is having a ball with the cousins.”
“Sorry to leave you with all the work at the shop.”
“Don’t even think about it. Enjoy your honeymoon.”
“I’ll get winter sketches to you when I get home.”
“We’ve got time. Don’t worry.”
“I worry about everything.”
“Why? You’re marrying a tanner. At the very least, he knows where we can get the best leather at the best price.”
“I know. I just don’t want anything to change.”
“Val, get real. Everything changes when you get married.”
“It does?”
“Usually the change is good. But you can’t live like you did before you were married.”
“Why not?”
“Because you have a husband now. He’ll need you to be a wife.”
“I can’t get up and wander around in the middle of the night and draw and paint?”
“You’ll work that stuff out. But that changes too. I’m just starting to win Pam’s trust back, but I’ve learned that I messed up because I wasn’t in my marriage. You gotta stay in your marriage.”
The band played “Something Stupid.” Mario and Lisa sang a duet just like Frank and Nancy. I had no idea what my brother was talking about. I couldn’t grasp the notion of staying in a marriage. Is that akin to staying in your lane on the freeway, or inside the lines when you color? I decided to think about it as Gianluca cut in and we waltzed to the faux Sinatras.
The reception exploded into high Vegas gear when Gabriel took the floor, loosened his tie, grabbed the microphone, and called the wedding party to the dance floor. You know a Roncalli party is in full tilt when the floor show commences.
On cue, to up the drama, a flank of waiters entered from the kitchen, carrying the cookie trays high in the air. Soon the ballroom filled with the scent of vanilla, anisette, and sweet butter. The rustle of the cellophane sounded like applause as the guests dove into the thirty-one varieties.
Two waiters placed seats behind Gianluca and me. We sat and watched Gabriel, Tess, Jaclyn, and Pamela perform “Route 66.” It wasn’t one lyric into the second stanza when my dad and Cousin Don formed a line to bunny-hop/choo-choo through the reception hall. Even Aunt Feen got up and joined the line, grinding her arm like she was hand-cranking the starter on a Duesenberg.
Pamela slipped into the seat next to me. “What a wedding.”
“Is it too much?”
“Way,” Pamela said, making us both laugh.
I placed my hand on hers. I’d had just enough champagne so I said, “I’m so happy you stayed with Alfred.”
“Well, we’ll see how it goes. I can’t predict the future, but so far, it’s going okay. He agreed to some changes.”
“My brother?”
“Your brother. He wasn’t happy, but neither was I. I’m going back to school to study marketing. I’m a writer, and I want to write. You know. Business writing.”
“That’s fantastic.”
“I got lost, Valentine. Really lost,” Pam said as she watched the conga line in the distance. “Hold on to your own life. I got married, and it was all about Alfred and then the boys. I lost me. And I blame myself for what happened.”
“It wasn’t your fault.”
“In a way it was. I never let Alfred know what I would and wouldn’t tolerate. I just tried to please him and make him happy. It was all about keeping him from going into a rage. I’m raging myself in a whole different way. I have work to do. Now it’s my turn.”
“You deserve it.”
“We all do.”
Rocco grabbed his mother and dragged her toward the Venetian table. I watched Pamela as she clicked across the dance floor to the festival of desserts, my nephew leading her like he was a dog on a leash. I was getting a lot of advice on my wedding day, and all of it seemed to be about holding on. That day, I thought I had a pretty good grip, but of course, only time would tell if I did.
As the band played “Violets for Your Fur,” my father-in-
law/grandfather-in-law Dominic invited me to dance. The photographer snapped us from every angle.
“I’m so happy for you, Valentina. And happy for my son. I want you to come and live in Italy.”
“Dom, I have the shop.”
“I know, but don’t you want to live in Tuscany?”
“You can come and live in Greenwich Village.”
“No, no, I’m not a city person.”
“We’ll come and visit,” I promised.
“It’s not the same.”
“We’ll figure something out.”
“My son is everything to me. When his wife left him, he was hurt, but I hurt more. I can’t help it.”
“I understand, Dominic.” It occurred to me that I had spent a good part of my wedding day reassuring other people about how life would be the same going forward, and that I wouldn’t get in the way of their long-standing relationships with Gianluca. I wonder if my family was telling Gianluca the same thing.
Gianluca and Orsola danced over to us. I put my arms around my stepdaughter and my father-in-law.
“Shall we tell them?” Orsola looked at me.
“Don’t wait another second.”
“Matteo and I are having a baby,” Orsola announced.
Gianluca’s face broke into a grin I’d never seen before. He took his daughter in his arms and held her. Dominic fumbled for his handkerchief. It would be his first great-grandchild. He was beside himself with joy.
Gram joined us and put her
arms around Dominic. She was elated for her husband. There is no better news in our family than the announcement that one of us is having a baby. It trumps all the other great moments in life, because suddenly everything is new again. We start over.
The news of Orsola’s baby spread quickly. As Gianluca and I made the rounds at the tables, and my satin purse filled with envelopes for La Boost (the wedding gifts of cash), we told everyone about the new baby.
Mom had really planned the tables beautifully. My sisters were seated with cousins they adore, the kids had their own table, and as I looked out over the crowd, everyone seemed to be having a great time.
“Your stepdaughter is having a baby,” Aunt Feen said. “Takes the pressure off of you, doesn’t it?” She tapped her fork on the table. “Tickety-tick tick-tock.”
“I’m happy for her.” And I was. Leave it to Aunt Feen to wind the gears on my biological clock until they broke off. “Very happy.”
“Sure you are. As someone who has had her own thunder stolen all of her life, I understand. Here you are, a bride, and you’re upstaged by your stepdaughter’s news. Some of us are destined to be bit players, never the star. Welcome to the background, Valentine. There’s room for you in the kickline, on the end out of the spotlight.”
“Aunt Feen, I said I’m happy for her.”
“All right, all right. I’m just glad you got married before you had a baby. I am sick and tired of people having babies out of wedlock and then throwing their kids into the wedding party like a pack of afterthoughts. I’m embarrassed for them. You do things out of order in your life, and you pay the price. Don’t forget it.”
I looked closely at Aunt Feen’s face and realized that I wasn’t having a conversation with a sober person. She was having another Bailey’s on the rocks, and she was about to hit them hard like an old dinghy.
Mom passed Aunt Feen the bread and shot me a look. I’ve seen that look. My mother’s face had that same expression when Aunt Feen ruined Gram’s wedding in Tuscany.
Across the dance floor, Gianluca was in a huddle with Alfred and Roberta. Whatever they were discussing seemed important. I excused myself from the table and joined them.
“Is everything okay?” I asked them.
“Fine, fine,” Albert said. “We were talking shop. Roberta was bringing us up to speed on production.”
“Oh, okay.” I acted as if it didn’t matter that I had been excluded, but it did. We should be able to enjoy my wedding without discussing our work, but we can’t. This is the very definition of a family-owned business. There is no sign on the door, no key in the lock, weekend off, or holiday free of trouble-shooting.
Gianluca sensed my feelings and put his arm around me. “There’s nothing to worry about.”
“It’s a beautiful wedding, Valentine,” Roberta assured me.
Mom flagged us down. They were serving another course, and Mom knew that the diehards wouldn’t eat until Gianluca and I were seated. We made our way back to our tables.
Aunt Feen filled her wineglass. She was tipsy during the cocktail hour, and now, it appeared she had tipped. “The reception is better than the ceremony,” she said loudly. “At least I can understand what people are saying here. Even the Russian servers. Of course, they’re near our people. Near Europe. You know Shush-uh and Italy.”
Cousin Don looked at my mother, who looked at my father.
“Aunt Feen,” my mom said firmly. “Have some bread. I insist.”
“Father got the job done. That’s all that matters,” Gabriel said.
“He had a very thick accent,” Roberta agreed.
“I thought you of all people would understand him,” Feen said, buttering the bread with her soupspoon.
“Because I’m black?” Roberta smiled.
“Hey, he is way blacker than you. You’re mocha-chino. Caramel. The color. Not the car service.”
“That’s Carmel,” my mother said slowly.
“Whatever. Now, Father Nigeria—”
“Father Nikako,” my mother and I said in unison.
“Nikako. Now that man is as black as his cassock.”
Gabriel leaned over me and took a sip from my wineglass.
“Aunt Feen, Abraham Lincoln just called. He wants his Civil War back,” Gabriel toasted her.
A honeymoon in New Orleans the week after Fat Tuesday is a bit like walking Fifth Avenue at 3:00 a.m. the morning after a ticker-tape parade. The streets are quiet, except for a lone saxophone heard through the open door of a band bar. Some laughter floats through the air and fades away like the smoke from a cigarette.
The sidewalks are carpeted with a shimmering patina of confetti and shards of ribbon that stick to the cement. The street gutters have an occasional glint of gold or purple or green from a lost bead that makes your heart race momentarily when you imagine you’ve found a lost treasure. What is real and what is faux is intertwined in New Orleans. You cannot tell the huckster from a duke.
By day, chicory and cinnamon and the pungent scent of something slow-roasting meets you at every corner. At night, it’s as if the city slips on her evening gloves. Fragrant freesia hangs in the air, and except for the booze, New Orleans has the scent of an elegant lady.
When I remember my honeymoon, I think of Gianluca and me walking in a city that doesn’t seem to have a country. You can’t say it’s American (even though it is), but it isn’t European either. It is its own universe with its own sense of time. New Orleans should be surrounded by a scrim of velvet curtains, because what happens within these city limits is pure theater.
The architecture is ornate, and in keeping with a city surrounded by water, aspects of old ships are used in the design. A face from the prow of an old ship is used as a finial on a porch lamp. Doors bound with hemp trim seem transported from another place, some banana republic to the south. Old steamer trunks are used as coffee tables on porches. This isn’t a destination, but a glorious stop on some grand adventure. Like everyone else, we are passing through.
There is languid beauty in the design and movement of the city—brick facades dripping with old branches loaded with purple morning glories, banisters intricately carved to look like lace, latticework screens separating porches from the street, and windows heavily lidded from within by grand layered draperies, to keep whatever happens inside private.
If New York is about walking and moving and doing, New Orleans is about stopping, resting, and reclining. Gianluca couldn’t have picked a better place to start our marriage. The city might be new to us, but we felt welcome. Here, Gianluca’s accent and our age difference was of no consequence. In New Orleans, what is on the surface doesn’t matter much. It’s the depths beneath that are celebrated here. Adventure, storytelling, cons, and danger make the atmosphere sweet and thick.
On the last night of our honeymoon, after a week of eating beignets for breakfast and jambalaya and beer, cornbread and crab cakes, Gianluca was enjoying a cigar on the terrace.
I was packing and thinking about the trip home, which made me think about work.
For the first time in years (and a honeymoon is a good work detox, by the way) I hadn’t checked e-mail or called anyone about the shop. Gabriel said he’d keep everything running smoothly, so I didn’t need to worry. So when I typed in the password to check the work e-mail, my heart sank when I saw 131 unanswered messages.
I scrolled through and saw a few from my vendors, with message lines that read “Italian suede,” “Spanish patent,” and “Kidskin from Brazil.” Those would wait. It was the slew of e-mails from Roberta that concerned me. I opened the oldest one, in which Gianluca was cc’d, dated the morning after our wedding day.
Dear Valentine and Gianluca,
The wedding was beautiful. I now can say with assurance that Italian American weddings are the best anywhere in the world!
It was a special treat to get to spend
so much time with you, Gianluca. The Hotel Roncalli in Queens was full-service, but the best part was being able to talk through business matters. Your assurance that you would find a smooth transition between the closing of my factory and the end of my contract with Angelini Shoes makes everything on my end less painful.
It was a difficult decision to sell the factory, but I think it will be best for me and my family. The auction on the equipment will take place later this summer, and I will forward the information to you, should you know anyone who wants to get into the shoe business.
My father gave his life to the factory, and it occurred to me that maybe this isn’t all life has to offer. I look forward to further discussion and correspondence.
Love,
Cousin Roberta
I became so angry I threw the phone down on the bed. I went to the terrace and confronted Gianluca with such fury it caught him by surprise.
“Roberta is selling the factory?”
“Yes.”
“When were you going to tell me?”
“Tomorrow, when we arrived in New York.”
“How could you keep this from me?”
“She told me after the rehearsal dinner. Was I going to call you up on the night before our wedding and ruin it with the news?”
My mind raced as I remembered Gianluca, Alfred, and Roberta at the reception in a huddle and at the rehearsal dinner, heads together, evidently figuring out a way to drop me as a client. I felt betrayed. I could deal with Alfred later, but right now I wanted to address my husband, who I felt had been disloyal, and—worse—protective of me as a businesswoman. “I built this business. It was my idea to design shoes for mass production. I found Roberta. She can’t just close down the factory on whim! We have accounts! Obligations! Loans! What the hell were you thinking?”
“I was thinking that your life is more important than your work.”
“My work is my life.”
“Oh, so you married a pair of shoes at Queen of Martyrs?”
“I married a tanner.”
“Ah, I’m a tanner now.”
“Well, aren’t you?”
“I’m your husband. And, I believed, your partner.”