I go to the worktable to organize my day. I savor rainy days, and I especially love to work when there’s a storm. The rhythm of the drone of the rain as it hits the shop windows is a natural accompaniment to delicate handwork.
“Jesus, it’s a monsoon-a-roonie out there,” June Lawton bellows from the entry. She shakes out her black umbrella and props it open by the door. Then she unbuttons her khaki trench coat and hangs it on a hook over the radiator in the hall. “Too bad it’s not raining men, or we’d be in the chips, sister.”
June, Gram’s oldest and dearest friend, is now in her early seventies. She’s an Irish beauty, with sky blue eyes and a swan neck, which she accentuates with plunging V-shaped necklines, elaborate ropes of beads, and long, loopy chains. June is the original West Village bohemian, and proud of it. Sometimes on a summer afternoon she joins me on the roof when I water the tomatoes. She doesn’t come up just for the sun; from time to time she likes to smoke pot on her coffee breaks. June would hold up the hand-rolled cigarette and say, “Occupational hazard,” referring to her days when she sang with a small jazz combo called Whiskey Jam. Gram used to go and catch her shows at Village clubs in the ’50s and ’60s.
June has the fiery ginger hair of her youth and the smooth skin of someone half her age. I once asked June her beauty secret (it’s not the pot) and she told me that, since she was eighteen years old, she would lather her face and neck with soap and water and then gently buff her skin with a wet pumice stone. Then she’d rinse and apply a thin layer of Crisco vegetable shortening. So much for expensive face creams!
Greenwich Village is filled with women like June who moved to the city when they were young to work in the arts, had some success, and squeezed out a living. Now retired, living in rent stabilized apartments that provide a low overhead, they’re looking for something interesting to fill their time. June loves to work with her hands and she has great taste, so Gram convinced her to come and work in the shoe shop. My grandfather trained June fifteen years ago, and in that time, she’s become an excellent pattern cutter.
“Where’s Teodora?” June asks.
“She’s not up yet,” I tell her.
“Hmm.” June opens a cabinet, pulls out a red corduroy work smock and puts it on. “You think she’s okay?”
“Yeah, sure.” I look at June. “Why do you ask?”
“I don’t know. She seems tired lately.”
“We’ve been staying up late watching the Clark Gable DVD boxed set.”
“That’d do it.”
“Last night it was The Call of the Wild.”
June whistles low. “Gable was sex on a stick in that one.”
“Loretta Young was pretty great, too.”
“Oh, she was a true beauty. And it was all real. Those were her lips and her bones. She fell in love with Gable when they were making that picture, you know. She got pregnant, kept it a secret, had the baby, and gave her up for adoption. Then guess what she did? She adopted her own baby back, named her Judy, and pretended for years that the girl wasn’t biologically hers.”
“Seriously?”
“Back then you couldn’t have a child out of wedlock. It would have ruined her. These stars today? Even bad acting can’t ruin them.” June pours herself a cup of coffee. “This is when I miss smoking. When I get myself worked up.” June drops a teaspoon of sugar into her cup. “How are you?”
“I need six million dollars.”
“I think I can float you.”
We laugh, then June’s expression turns serious. “What do you want with that kind of money?”
I haven’t told a soul that I’ve been going online to research real estate comparables in the neighborhood. Since Gram gave permission to Alfred to call brokers, I decided I needed my own set of numbers so I could figure out some strategy outside my brother’s. The results of my search are staggering. I can trust June, so I confide, “I’d like to buy the shop. The building with the business.”
June sits down on one of the stools with roller feet. “How are you going to do that?”
“I have no idea.”
June smiles. “Oh, what fun.”
“Are you kidding?”
“Valentine, that’s what’s delicious about being young. Try everything. Reach. Really reach. Six mil, or six bucks, what’s the difference when you’re young and you just might get it? I love the salad days, hell, the salad years! You can’t know this now, but the struggle is thrilling.”
“I can’t sleep at night.”
“Good. That’s the best time to figure out a strategy.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not finding any answers.”
“You will.” June puts down her coffee and stands. She pulls pattern paper off the reel and places it over the duchess satin on her table. She pins the paper to the fabric. “What does your grandmother think?”
“She doesn’t say.”
“Why don’t you ask her?”
“June, this is all so touchy. You’ve known her a long time. What do you think she’s thinking?”
“Your grandmother is my best friend, but she is an enigma to me in many ways. I’m very open about what I want, but she never has been. She’s a brilliant woman, you know. But she holds a lot in.”
“She’s the only person in our family who does.”
June smooths the pattern paper with one hand. “I think she’s been better since you’ve worked here.”
“You do?”
“You’re a good team. She gets a kick out of you, too. That helps.”
“Has she ever said anything about retirement?”
“Never,” June replies, which I take as a very good sign.
Gram pushes the door of the shop open. “Morning, ladies.”
“Coffee is fresh,” I tell her.
“You should have woken me up, Valentine.” Gram goes to the desk, picks up her notes, reads them, and sighs. Lately, Gram is like the shoemaker in the fairy tale. I think she half-expects that some morning, she’ll wake up, come down the stairs, and magically, elves will have done our work for us while we dreamed; splendid new handmade shoes will be assembled and ready to wear. “I could have used the early start.”
“We’ve got everything under control,” I tell her.
“Besides that, you were hardly wasting time up there. Weren’t you dreaming of Gable?” June says, smiling.
“How do you know?” Gram asks her.
“Who doesn’t dream of Gable?” June shrugs.
I pull the finished shoes off the shelf. Gram has wrapped them in clean, white cotton. I unwrap the shoes gently, like taking a blanket off a newborn baby.
I place the left shoe on my work pedestal, smoothing the satin carefully. I marvel at Gram’s needlework around the border of the vamp. The stitches are so tiny they are practically invisible.
There is a loud banging at the door. I look up at June, who is at a point in her cutting that can’t be interrupted. Gram is making notes on her list. “I’ll get it,” I tell them.
I open the entrance door. A young woman, around twenty, stands under a flimsy black umbrella. She is soaking wet and carries a clipboard. She wears a backpack and a headset around her neck, which leads to a walkie-talkie hooked to her belt.
“Do you guys fix shoes?” She pushes the wet hood of her zippered sweatshirt off her head. Her long red hair is secured with a navy-and-white bandanna tied in a bow. Her creamy skin has a sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of her nose, but not a single one elsewhere.
“Sorry. We don’t do repairs.”
“It’s an emergency.” The girl looks as though she might cry.
The girl props her umbrella in the corner of the vestibule and follows me into the shop.
“Who are you?” Gram asks politely.
“My name is Megan Donovan.”
“You’re Irish,” June says without even looking up. “I’m a lass myself. We’re outnumbered here. You can stay.”
“What do you need?” Gram asks her.
?
??I’m a PA on the movie shooting over at Our Lady of Pompeii Church…” Her voice goes up at the end of the sentence, like a question, but she’s not asking one.
“That’s my parish.” Gram sounds surprised that they’d be making a movie where she attends mass, got married, and baptized my mother.
“They didn’t check with you first?” June continues to pin fabric, but this time she looks up. “Call the Vatican,” June says with a grin.
“What’s the movie about?” I ask Megan.
“Well, it’s called Lucia, Lucia. And it’s about a woman in 1950 in Greenwich Village. Anyhow, we’re filming the scene of her wedding and her heel broke. And I Googled wedding shoes in Greenwich Village and found you guys. I thought maybe you could fix it.”
“Where’s the shoe?”
Megan drops the wet backpack off her shoulders, unzips it, and lifts out a shoe, which she hands to Gram.
I join Gram behind the table to assess the damage. The heel has completely ripped away from the shaft.
“It can’t be fixed,” I tell her. “But this is a size seven. Our samples are sevens.”
“Okay, let me tell them.” Megan whips out a BlackBerry and types rapidly with both thumbs across the keypad. She waits for a response. She reads. “They’re on their way.”
“Who?” Gram asks.
“My bosses. The costume designer and the producer.”
“We can’t fix this shoe,” Gram says firmly.
Megan looks flustered. “This is my first movie and these people are real perfectionists. When the heel broke, they all started screaming. They gave it to me and said, ‘Get it fixed,’ like they’d kill me if I didn’t. They’re serious about every freakin’ thing. I mean, totally picky. The bride couldn’t just carry white roses; it had to be a certain kind of white roses. I was at the flower market this morning at three AM to get some Ecuadorian rose that blooms, like, once a year.” Megan wipes her eyes with her sleeve; I don’t know if she’s wiping away tears of frustration or rain.
Gram pours Megan a cup of coffee. Megan dumps cream and sugar into the mug until the coffee is the color of sand. She grips the mug with both hands and sips.
“Well, now we know where the craftsmanship in America has gone. It’s in the movies.” Gram smiles.
“Here, give me your sweatshirt. I’ll throw it in the dryer,” I tell Megan. She peels it off and hands it to me. Her black T-shirt with bold white letters that say ADDICTED is, amazingly, dry.
“This place is really old.” Megan looks around and drinks in the operation.
“Yes it is.” Gram nods. “How do you like making movies?”
“I’m so low on the ladder, you don’t need a step to reach me.” Megan sighs.
There is another loud knock at the door. “That’s them!” Megan panics, puts her coffee down, and goes to the door.
Megan returns followed by two women who talk rapidly to each other and at the same time seem preoccupied. “This is Debra McGuire, our costume designer.” Megan almost curtsies.
Debra’s long, dark brown hair is worn in a loose braid to her waist. She wears bright red lipstick, and has half-moon-shaped brown eyes that squint around the room as she takes in our operation. She peels off her black patent trench coat. Underneath, she wears turquoise sari pants tucked into yellow patent leather wellies, a short pink silk skating skirt over the pants. On top, she wears a yellow-and-white-pin-striped band jacket that looks like she stole it off the body of Sergeant Pepper. It’s hard to say how old she is. She could be in her thirties, but she has the presence and command of a woman of fifty. “Have you fixed the shoe?” she snaps at Megan.
“No,” Gram interjects. “And who are you?” Gram turns to the woman standing beside Debra.
“I’m Julie Durk, the producer.”
Julie is in her thirties, with pale skin and blue eyes. Unlike the demanding Debra, she dresses like me, in faded denim jeans and a black turtleneck and black suede boots. Julie also wears a navy blue baseball jacket that says LUCIA, LUCIA in red where the team logo would go.
“Where are we?” Debra looks around the shop and then at Megan, more annoyed than curious. Before Megan can speak, Gram interrupts.
“The Angelini Shoe Company,” Gram tells her. “We make custom wedding shoes.”
“I’ve never heard of you.” Debra circles around the cutting table to get a view of the pattern June is working on. “Do you know Barbara Schaum?”
“The sandal maker in the East Village? She’s wonderful,” Gram says. “She’s been around since the early sixties.”
“This shop has been here since 1903,” I say, hoping this woman will get the hint to be respectful to my grandmother.
“Not many of you left.” Debra moves over to study the shoe I’ve been working on. “You guys do what again?”
“We make wedding shoes.” Now I’m peeved.
“Ms. McGuire has a lot on her mind,” Megan apologizes for her boss.
“Please.” Debra waves her hand at Megan dismissively. “Now why can’t you fix my shoe?”
“It’s beyond repair,” I tell her.
“We have to do reshoots, then,” Julie says, biting her lip.
“It’s a fashion film,” Debra snaps. “We have to get it right.”
“Who made this shoe?” Gram holds up the broken model.
“Fougeray. He’s French.”
“If you talk to him, tell him it’s better to use titanium in the heel.”
“He’s dead, but I’ll tell his rep,” Debra says sarcastically.
“Young lady, I’m busy. I don’t need your attitude,” Gram continues, unfazed. “The shoemaker glued the shaft.” She lifts up the heel. “That’s inferior workmanship.”
“They were very expensive.” Julie sounds apologetic, but I’m not sure if it’s directed to Gram or to Debra.
“I’m sure they were. But they’re poorly made, no matter how much they cost.” Gram raises her eyebrows. “So how much of the shoe do you see in the scene?”
“The shoe is the scene. There’s a close-up, a tracking shot—” Debra puts her hands on the cutting table and bows her head to think.
“Maybe—,” Julie begins.
Debra stops her. “If they can’t repair it, they can’t repair it. We’ll have to reshoot with a different shoe.”
“Would you like to see our collection?” Gram asks. Debra doesn’t answer. “We’re not French, but we’re experts.”
“Okay, okay, let’s see what you have.” Debra sits down on a work stool and rolls to the table. “You dragged me over here.” She looks at Megan. She folds her hands on the pattern paper. “So dazzle me.” She looks at us.
“This place is a wonderland of possibilities,” Megan says, looking at Gram and me with hope.
“It’s a custom shoe shop,” Gram corrects her. “Valentine, bring out the samples, please.”
“What are you looking for, exactly?” June asks Debra.
“It’s a Cinderella moment.” Debra stands and dramatizes the scene. “The bride runs out of the church and her shoe falls off.”
“Bad luck,” Gram says.
“How do you know?” Debra says.
“It’s an old Italian wives’ tale. Is the movie about an Italian?”
“Yes. A grocer’s daughter in the Village.”
“Megan said it takes place in 1950.” Gram looks at Megan, who smiles gratefully for including her in the professional conversation. “One of our styles was designed in 1950 by my husband.”
“I’d love to see it,” Debra says, smiling with feigned enthusiasm.
I line up on the worktable the boxes from the sample closet. Gram takes a soft flannel cloth and wipes down the outside of the boxes before opening them. This is a habit, since we work with pale shades of fabric that can stain and scuff on touch.
“We offer six styles of wedding shoes. My father-in-law named his designs after his favorite characters in operas. The Lola, inspired by Cavalleria Rusticana, is by far the most pop
ular,” Gram begins. “It’s a sandal with a stacked heel. We often embellish the straps with small charms and trims. It’s usually made with calfskin, but I have made it in double-sided satin.”
Debra looks at the shoe. “It’s lovely.” She puts it down on the table. “But it’s too light and airy. I need substantial.”
Gram opens the next box. “This is the Ines from Il Trovatore.”
Debra examines the classic kid pump with its sleek heel. “Getting there, but not quite right.”
“The Mimi from La Bohème is an ankle boot most often ordered in satin faconne or embossed velvet. I add delicate grommets and grosgrain ribbon laces.” Gram places the boot on the table.
“Gorgeous,” Julie says. “But a boot would never fall off.”
“The Gilda from Rigoletto is an embroidered mule with a stiletto heel, though we’ve often made it without the high heel.”
“That’s my favorite,” June pipes up.
“The Osmina from Suor Angelica is a Mary Jane with buttons. The bride’s choice of a double or single strap, or a T-strap.”
Debra squints at the shoe. “No.”
“The Flora from La Traviata is fairly new. I designed this style in 1989.” Gram shows them a calfskin ballet flat with ribbons that crisscross over the ankle and go midway up the calf. “I got tired of sending brides over to Capezio, so I decided to get a piece of that market with this shoe. It really was the only style we were missing from the original collection.”
“If I was getting married again, I’d wear those in a heartbeat.” Debra points to the Flora. “But this isn’t about what I like. It’s about our character.” Debra picks up the Gilda. “I think it’s this one. It’s breathtaking. And a mule could fall off.”
“That’s the one my husband designed in 1950. So you are historically accurate.”
“And you, Mrs. Angelini, are the best-kept secret in shoes.” Debra smiles for the first time. I don’t know if it’s from relief or the shoes, but she’s pleased.