Very Valentine

  “For the tourists to return?” I ask him.

  He doesn’t answer. The look on his face tells me not to pry. He puts out his cigarette. “Now, we work.”

  I follow Costanzo back into the shop. He takes his seat behind the workbench as I sit down behind my table. Costanzo lifts a new pattern out of his bin and studies it. I pick up il trincetto and a sole from the stack Antonio has left for me. I follow the pattern and peel the outside edge of the sole like an apple, just as I saw Costanzo do on the first day. He looks over at me approvingly and smiles.

  “Go and get your sketchbook,” Costanzo commands as we finish a cappuccino in the afternoon. “I want to see your work.”

  I get up from the table and go back inside the shop. I pull my sketchbook out of my tote.

  “Everything all right?” Antonio says to me.

  “Your father wants to see my sketches. I’m scared to death. I’m a self-taught artist, and I don’t know if my drawings are as good as they might be.”

  Antonio smiles. “He’ll be honest.”

  Great, I think as I go back through the storage room to the portico. Costanzo peels a fig as I sit down next to him. I tell him about the contest for the Bergdorf windows, then I open the sketchbook and show him the shoe. He looks at it. Then he narrows his eyes and squints at it.

  “High fashion,” he says. “Molto bene.”

  “You like it?”

  “It’s ornate.”

  “Is that a good thing?”

  “This I like.” He points to the vamp of the shoe, where the braiding meets the strap. “Original.”

  “My great-grandfather named his six basic dress shoes for brides after characters in the opera. They’re dramatic. They can also be simple. They’re classics, and we know this for sure because a hundred years later, we’re still making his designs and selling them.”

  “What shoe do you make for the working girls?”

  “We don’t make everyday shoes,” I tell him.

  “You should start,” he says.

  This is not the advice I expected to get from an Italian master craftsman, but I go with it because Costanzo knows so much more than me. “You sound like my friend Bret. He wants me to come up with a shoe to sell to the masses. He said that I could finance my custom shoes with a shoe made to be sold in large quantities.”

  “He’s right. There should be no difference between making shoes for one woman and making shoes for many. All of your customers deserve your best. So, sketch a shoe that can serve them all.”

  “I don’t really know how.”

  “Of course you do. You drew that shoe for the window; you can draw another shoe for every day. I am giving you an assignment. Take your pad and go out on the piazza. Sketch as many shoes as you can.”

  “Just general shoes?”

  “Anything that you see that you like. Watch how the woman moves in her shoes.”

  “The tourists wear tennis shoes.”

  “Forget them. Look at the Capri shopgirls. You’ll see what to draw.” He smiles. “Now go.”

  I take my pad and pencils and go out into the piazza.

  I pick a spot in the shade, on the far stone wall, and sit. I put down my sketchbook and watch, just as Costanzo instructed me.

  My eye sifts through the clumps of tourists wearing Reeboks, Adidas, and Nikes to find the locals, the women who work in the shops, restaurants, and hotels. I look down at their feet as they move through the crowd with purpose. These working women wear flats, practical yet beautiful shoes, smooth leather slip-ons in navy blue or black, beige lace-ups with a slight stacked heel, sandals in plain leather with a functional T-strap, and one daring shopgirl wears sensible mules made of bright pink calfskin. My eye typically goes to the color, but I notice it’s only the occasional woman who wears a vivid shade on her feet. For the most part, the women choose a classic neutral.

  After a while, I pull my legs up and cross them under me. I begin to sketch. I draw a simple leather flat with a low upper that covers the toes but does not come too high on the vamp. I sketch it over and over, until I get a shape that pleases my eye and that would best flatter a woman’s foot regardless of size, length, or width.

  I see a mother and daughter talking outside the jewelry store on the corner of the piazza. The mother, in her forties, wears a slim navy blue skirt with a white blouse. On her arm, thick bangles of shiny silver click together as she talks. She wears navy blue leather flats with a simple bow on the upper. Her daughter wears a black tissue paper T-shirt with a cropped bolero of brown linen. Her slim-legged jeans ride low and tight. She wears brown flats with a matching grosgrain ribbon edge. The flats on the mother are classic, and she stands tall, with an ease that comes from wearing a comfortable shoe. The shoe is soft, but not slouchy. The daughter bounces on the balls of her feet as she talks excitedly with her mother. The brown flat fits her foot without gapping at the heel, and the leather moves with her in a smooth, full bend of the arch when she’s on her toes. The leather does not crease or buckle.

  An older woman, around Gram’s age, moves toward the wall and sits down a few feet from me. She is round and squat, and has thick gray hair pulled back from her face with a red ribbon. She wears a black cotton A-line sundress with cap sleeves. Her shoes are plain, black suede slip-ons. She leans against the wall and opens a brown paper bag. She reaches in, pulls out a ripe cherry, and takes a bite. She throws the pit over the wall and down the cliffs. The sun hits something sparkly by her collar. A brooch. I lean over to get a closer look.

  The brooch is in the shape of a wing. It’s inlaid with small beads of turquoise and coral, hemmed by what have to be genuine diamond chips. I can tell they’re real from the way they throw light. I work with the faux jewels, and they give bright shine, but a real diamond ingests the light and sparkles from the facets within.

  I get gutsy and move close to her. I smile. “Your brooch is beautiful.”

  “Mia Mama’s.” She smiles and points to the jewelry store. “My family shop.”

  “Oh, how nice.”

  “My father made this pin for my mother.”

  “It looks like an angel wing,” I tell her. My mother has a Christmas ornament of a cherub with beaded wings that reminds me of the wing shape on the brooch.

  “Si. Si. My mother’s name was Angela.”

  The woman folds down the edge of her paper bag, closing it. She stands up and waves to me as she goes. I open my sketchbook and draw the pin, an angel wing dense with stones and outlined in diamonds. I take my time drawing the shapes. Slowly, I begin to fall in love with this shape. I draw it over and over until the page is full of wings. The piazza empties as the tourists get on the bus for the last haul down the mountain to the piers.

  I draw one last wing, connecting the curve to the line to the point of the wing. Simple, but I’ve never seen a shape like this before, not on a shoe. I write:

  Angel Shoes

  Then I close the notebook and return to Costanzo to show him my sketch.

  By the time I return, Costanzo is closing up the shop. He checks his watch and makes a tsk-tsk sound, faux guilt from my pretend padrone. He’s joking that I’m late, and he’s getting a kick out of himself. I let him. Then I show him my assignment. I hand him the sketch. He looks at it and points to the embellishment. “Wings?”

  “Angel wings.”

  “I like it,” he says. “Why angels?”

  “Our shop is called the Angelini Shoe Company. But the sign is very old where the rain hits it, so now it says, ‘Angel Shoes.’ So when I saw the old lady’s brooch in the piazza, it got me thinking. The great designers have a simple logo, instantly identifiable. So, I thought, what if my design incorporated an angel wing?”

  “And when you put the shoes together, two wings.”

  “Symmetry! And I can make the wings out of jewels, or leather, or brass. Even embroidery.”

  “Anything,” Antonio says and shrugs.

  “Right. Exactly!” I beam. “Thank you for send
ing me out there. I would never have seen the brooch.”

  “Every idea I ever had for a shoe came from observing women,” Costanzo says. “You see my shop? There are thousands of combinations to be made. Just like women, no two alike. Remember this when you draw.”

  I pack up my tote and go. When I return to the piazza, it is completely empty. I make my way down the hill to the hotel. When I arrive at the entrance, Gianluca is sitting outside reading the newspaper by the fading light.

  “Reading in the dark is bad for your eyes,” I tell him.

  He looks up at me and smiles, takes his reading glasses off, and puts them in his pocket. He pulls out the chair next to him. I sit down. “Are you going to work there every day? You’re going to spoil Costanzo.”

  “I wish I could stay for a year.”

  “You came here to rest.”

  “I don’t want to. I don’t know if I’ll ever have the chance to come back here. Or if Costanzo will be here when I return.”

  “He’ll be here. We will all be here. Except your Roman.”

  “Who told you?” I lean back in my chair. Italy is getting to be an awful lot like America, where my family is hot-wired to move private information at the speed of sound.

  “Your grandmother. Your mother called her.”

  “My relationship is an international scandal.” I look around for the waiter. Now, I need a drink.

  “He’s a fool,” Gianluca says, flagging down the waiter.

  “I’m allowed to be angry at Roman, but you are not allowed to call him names. He’s still my boyfriend.” Sometimes Gianluca sounds more like my father than he knows.

  “Why not?”

  “I’m not breaking up with him. And even if I were, I wouldn’t do it over the phone or on one of those godforsaken text messages.”

  “Good point.” Gianluca places our drink orders with the waiter.

  “And by the way, it just makes it all worse when you point out what an idiot I’ve been. I do have a little pride.”

  “There is nothing wrong with you,” Gianluca assures me.

  “Really? I think there’s something completely wrong with a woman who won’t ask for what she needs, and then when she does, she apologizes.”

  “There is a difference between trying to make a relationship work and forgiving things you should not forgive,” Gianluca says. “Your grandmother wants you to come and stay with us.”

  “Thanks, but I like it here at the hotel.”

  “There are some things I’d like to show you on Capri,” he says.

  “Sure.” I would agree to anything, because the truth is, nothing matters now that the old vacation I dreamed of is not to be. “I’d like to show you something,” I tell him.

  Gianluca raises an eyebrow in a way that borders on sexy. I will not go there.

  “Relax. It’s a sketch.” I pull the pad out of the tote bag, opening it to my new shoe. Gianluca pulls his reading glasses out of his pocket and studies the drawing.

  “Lovely,” he says. “Orsola would wear it.”

  “Good. It’s a shoe that Gram could wear, or my mother would buy, or I would wear. I’m aiming to hit a nerve. I even have a name for them. Angel Shoes. What do you think?”

  “You have so many ideas,” he says.

  “Well, I’m going to need them. When this little dream of Italy is over, I’m going home to a war zone.”

  “It can’t be as bad as that.”

  “You know, Gianluca, this is the difference between you native Italians and those of us called Italian Americans. You live a balanced life. You work, you eat, you rest. We don’t. We can’t. We live as though we have something to prove. There’s never enough time, we eat on the run, and we sleep as little as possible. We believe the one who works the hardest wins.” The drinks arrive. We toast each other and take a sip.

  “What makes you happy?” he asks.

  The question catches me off guard. Roman has never asked me that question. I don’t remember Bret ever asking me either. In fact, I don’t even ask myself that question. After I think for a moment, I answer him, “I don’t know.”

  “You can never be happy if you don’t know what you want.”

  “Oh, okay, oracle of Capri, man-with-the-answers to life’s major questions. What makes you happy?”

  “The love of a good woman.”

  “Good answer. That wouldn’t have been my answer a week ago. I had the love of a good man, and I didn’t put him first.”

  “Why?”

  “If I’d put him first, maybe he’d be here.”

  “If he were smart, he would put you first. Why do you blame yourself for the man’s terrible manners?”

  “I’m pretty sure I had something to do with it.”

  “That’s ridiculous. If you have love, you honor it. You take care of things you love. Yes?” Gianluca has raised his voice a bit. I remember the first day in Arezzo when Gram and I went to the tannery and he and Dominic were having a screaming match.

  “Hold on there, Gianluca, don’t get all geared up like you do back at the tannery. This is a peaceful island. No yelling.”

  Gianluca smiles. “Come and stay with us.”

  After a month in Italy, I’m an expert on the Vechiarellis. Gianluca is all about family. He likes to herd everyone together, whether it’s around a dinner table at home, or in a car, or at a factory, and watch protectively over the lot of us, like a shepherd. He prepares the food, gets the drinks, shows the way; in general, he takes care of everyone around him. My need to be separate must seem weird to him. Why wouldn’t I stay with them in their cousin’s villa? The idea that Teodora’s granddaughter is off in a hotel when she could be in the next room, safe, rested, and well fed is anathema to him. “No thank you. I really love my room here.”

  “But we have a room for you.”

  “It’s not the attico suite.”

  “The room at our cousin’s is very nice.”

  “I’m sure it is. But trust me, it’s not this room. Do you want to see it?”

  “Sure,” he says.

  Gianluca follows me through the lobby of the Quisisana and down the hallway to the elevator. It’s crowded in the elevator, and we laugh at the tight squeeze. Gianluca puts his hand over the open door and guides me out of the elevator as the doors open on my floor. He follows me into my room. The cool breeze of early evening fills the suite, blowing the sheer draperies gently. The maid has placed fresh white orchid blossoms in the vase in the sitting room.

  “You have to see the view,” I tell him. I point to the doors that lead to the bedroom, and open onto the balcony. “I’ll be there in a second.” Gianluca goes out on the balcony as I set my tote down and check my phone messages, one from my mother, one from Tess, and three from Roman. My mother wants me to find her an alligator bag. I don’t think she reads the paper; alligator skins are illegal. Tess leaves a message that Dad is doing great, and could I bring coral bracelets home for the girls?

  I listen to messages from Roman, who tells me he loves me and wishes he were here. Three in a row with the same level of pleading passion. It’s interesting that when I let go of my anger, it brought Roman close. Maybe it’s the cocktail, but I text him:

  Found a job on Capri. Loving it. May never come home. You may have to come here after all. Love, V.

  I join Gianluca on the balcony. “What do you think?” I point to the gardens of Quisisana and the sea beyond.

  “Bella.”

  “Now you see why I want to stay.”

  Nightfall over Capri looks like a blue net veil has settled over the glittering island. I put my hands on the railing and arch my back, looking up, to drink in as much of the endless sky as I can.

  Suddenly, I feel hands around my waist. Gianluca pulls me close and kisses me. As his lips linger on mine, softly and sweetly, a ticker tape of information runs through my head. Of course he’s kissing you, what did you think he was going to do, you invited him up to your room, at night, you showed him the romantic balc
ony, with a jillion stars overhead, you asked him what he thought, and his thoughts went to sex and now you’re in a pickle. Gabriel’s words ring in my ears: no ring, no thing. This kiss was lovely and I want more. I’ve never bounced back from a failing love affair in the arms of someone new, so why start now?

  I put my arms around him, and slide my hands up to his neck. He kisses me again. What am I doing? I’m giving in, that’s what. I’m also initiating, that’s worse. Everything on this island encourages making love, while every scent, texture, and tone creates an irresistible backdrop for one thing, and one thing only. It starts in the cafés at intimate tables and chairs where knees and thighs brush person against person; the sweet sips of coconut ice after a long walk in the hot sun; the decadent scent of soft leather in Costanzo’s shop; the fresh food, ripe figs plucked right off the tree; the delicious salty sea air and the moon like a prim pearl button on a silky sky longing to be unfastened. Even the shoes, especially the sandals, filmy straps of gold on brown skin, ready to be slipped off and undone, say sex.

  The Italians lead sensual lives, everybody knows that, I know that, and that’s why I’m not resisting these kisses.

  Somehow it would feel like an insult to life itself to resist what seems so natural. These kisses are as much a part of an Italian summer day as pulling a fig off a tree and eating it. Whatever romance is left in the world, the best of it can be found in Italy. Gianluca holds me like a prize as the touch of his lips surrounds me like the warm waves in the pool. I find myself going under as Gianluca kisses my neck tenderly. When I open my eyes, all I see are stars, poking through the blue like chips of glass.

  Then I remember Roman, and how it was supposed to be us on this balcony, under these stars, making our way to that bed by the light of this moon, and I begin to pull away. But I’m not sure I have the strength to resist. I’m the girl who always has the second cannoli! Don’t I deserve this? Doesn’t everybody?

  “I’m sorry,” I tell him.

  “Why?” Gianluca says quietly. Then he persists, kissing me again. This is not like me. I never so much as look at another man when I’m involved with someone. I’m very faithful, in fact, I’m often faithful when it hasn’t been agreed upon in advance. I can be true after one date. I’m that faithful. My natural inclination is old-fashioned devotion. Spontaneity and variety are not for me. I think things through, so I’ve never had to tiptoe around my past with regret. I skip through, unencumbered, free! I’m a clean-slate woman. I need to tell Gianluca that I don’t do this sort of thing before we go any further. I take his hands and step back. Even worse. I like his hands around mine. The touch of his fingers, those strong working-man tanner hands, sends small shivers up my arms and down my back, like cold raindrops hitting my skin on a hot day. I’ve got some kind of malaria going on here.