Brava, Valentine

  “I hear you,” Bret says.

  “Just so you do,” Alfred carps.

  I look at Alfred. “Hey, Bret is trying to help here.”

  “Look, Alfred, there are options here. The SBA is looking to support small business. You’d be foolish not to entertain the idea of a low-interest loan to finance the production of the Bella Rosa.”

  “I’m not a fan of taking on more debt,” Alfred grumbles.

  “But if it yields results, what’s the problem?” Bret says.

  Alfred senses he is being cornered, two against one. So I say, “Let’s see what she has to offer.”

  “Fair enough.” Alfred leans back on the work stool and folds his arms. The showdown between the traditional banker (Alfred) and the Wall Street wonder (Bret) has been diffused for the moment. I hope this Kathleen is on her game. She’d better be, to deal with Alfred.

  The buzzer sounds, and Bret goes to answer the door. I open the business file Gram left for me because I don’t want to make eye contact with my brother. He can’t seem to let go of his old image of me, and refuses to accept that I might know what I’m doing. I won’t let him rock my confidence. I can’t. The stakes are way too high right now.

  “I’d like you to meet Kathleen Sweeney,” Bret announces.

  Alfred stands and extends his hand. “Nice to meet you,” he says.

  Kathleen smiles at Alfred. She’s petite, with an athletic build, around thirty, with short, layered red hair. She wears a Max Mara coat. Good sign—she knows quality. Her tiny nose has a few freckles, and she has bright green eyes. She comes straight off a poster for the Aer Lingus Welcome to Ireland campaign.

  Bret helps her out of her coat. She wears a classic navy blue wool suit with a peplum jacket and a white blouse underneath. She also wears understated gold jewelry, small hoops and simple cross on a chain around her neck. But the gold is real.

  “I’m Valentine.” I extend my hand.

  “Great to meet you. You submitted the loan proposal. Very thorough work,” she says.

  “Thanks.” I look at my brother. He definitely heard the professional compliment thrown my way.

  Bret sits down next to me, Kathleen takes the work stool at the head of the table, and Alfred sits across from her.

  Bret looks to me to run the meeting. He gives me an encouraging smile that says, It’s your show. So I step up.

  “Kathleen, first of all, thank you for coming over to the shop. It’s important that you see the operation firsthand, so you might understand what we do here, and how the Small Business Administration can help us grow.”

  “You make custom wedding shoes.” Kathleen pulls her laptop out of her shoulder bag.

  “Yes, we do. And we’ve been here, on-site, in Greenwich Village since 1922. Our great-grandfather started the business in Italy in 1903, and moved it here to this building, where we’ve been ever since. We’re a family-run operation, but we’ve employed five to ten additional workers over the years.”

  “I see that you were in profit last year. But you have quite a debt load.”

  “Our grandmother took out various loans and refinanced to keep the shop running after our grandfather died,” Alfred explains, cutting me off before I can answer.

  “So, like every other business in the United States in 2010, you have no cash, but you have a great product and the vision to grow,” Kathleen says wearily. Clearly, she’s not moved by my enthusiasm; she gets this same spiel a thousand times a day from people just like me who need loans from people like her.

  This is a big lesson to learn, and one I have to take in. I operate in a small custom world, and while the craft of handmade shoes consumes me, in the greater universe, our company is just a blip. I have to make Kathleen understand why Angelini Shoes is a special place with a one-of-a-kind American product. “Kathleen, we’re not just any shoe company.”

  Kathleen looks up from her laptop.

  “—we’ve got something very special here.”

  Alfred smiles. “That’s exactly right. And I would also add, there’s a great young designer behind the brand.” He indicates me. “I recently came on as CFO after twenty-three years at Merrill Lynch.”

  “So you shored up the think tank.” She looks at me. “That’s very smart.”

  “We think so.” I haul out the old Roncalli family solidarity, even though my tender ego would rather not. My mother would be proud.

  “So, what have you got to show me?” Kathleen looks around the shop, taking in the contents, the machines, and the workspace with a very different eye than what I’m accustomed to. Kathleen is no dewy-eyed bride-to-be here for a fitting, or a customer who wants a one-of-a-kind creation; she’s a tough businesswoman who has to discern the viability of my product in the marketplace against all the other applicants vying for the same pool of funds. However, I’ve got something none of the other businesses have. The power of the shoe.

  “I like to let the shoes do the talking,” I tell Kathleen as I open the large cabinet behind the worktable and remove seven boxes that contain the prototypes that make up our line of shoes. Bret and Alfred help me carry them to the table. “My passion is in the contents of these red and white striped boxes.”

  Bret and Alfred help me lift off the lids. I unwrap the gold standard of this company, the exquisite hand-crafted shoes, stored in their pristine cotton sleeves. I know that Kathleen could travel the five boroughs and beyond and never find shoes as magnificent as the ones we make here. When it comes to my work, I know what I’m talking about, and I know how to sell them.

  Kathleen’s eyes widen as I give her the samples to examine. But in one glance, I can see I’ve got her. No woman can refuse the glamour of a couture wedding shoe, the kind of thing that would make her Cinderella for a day. She sighs when she holds the Lola, marvels at the leather treatment on the Ines, wants to try on the Mimi boot, can’t take in the embroidery on the Gilda, she’s so blown away by it, comments on the simplicity of the Osmina, and then, when she picks up the Flora, she’s sold. “I always wanted a ballet slipper in calfskin,” she says. “Always.”

  “What size is your foot?”

  “I’m a five.”

  “How lucky. You’re the sample size!”

  “I always do well at sales,” she admits. Kathleen slips off her boot, and slips on The Flora.

  Alfred and Bret, in full corporate mode, are visibly relieved.

  Gram used to tell me that she could tell exactly what kind of customer she was dealing with by the shoe she chose from our collection. A woman who went for The Flora was modern, impetuous, and stubborn. Without saying a word, Kathleen has just told me who she is, and now I have the insight I need to close the deal with her. This is a woman who knows what she wants, and moves in to get it—I have to work fast with her. She makes decisions quickly, and from the gut.

  Kathleen models the shoes in the freestanding full-length mirror. I watch how she looks at her leg and ankle and the shoes now on her feet. She doesn’t look at her body in the critical way that most women do. There’s something different in the look in her eye as she scans her image in the glass. Kathleen, unlike most women who’ve been in the shop, likes what she sees.

  “We know we have something special here,” I say with warmth and enthusiasm, remembering salesmanship is as important as a great product. “And we’re building upon years of experience and quality craftsmanship. Even the big guns uptown agree.” I hand her the press kit that Gabriel helped me put together after we were featured in the Christmas windows at Bergdorf’s. “But we know we have to grow the brand and make a product that’s accessible to all women. And that’s the Bella Rosa.”

  I go to the shelf and pull three samples of the Bella Rosa, one in pumpkin suede, one in sailor blue leather, and one in chic violet microfiber.

  Maybe because it’s nighttime and lower Manhattan is doused in a fog, or maybe it’s that the work lights over the table illuminate the shoes to their best advantage while the rest of the shop recedes in s
hadow, but whatever the reason, the vivid tones of the Bella Rosa explode in the light, like diamonds in a Tiffany window.

  Kathleen grabs the violet Bella Rosa. “I would totally buy this shoe!” she says.

  “Good. Because your loan will help us put them into production,” I say, knowing my job is done. I shoot my brother a look of pure triumph.

  “Where are you on that?” Kathleen examines the shoe.

  Alfred takes my cue and opens his research file. “I’ve had some conversations with American manufacturers, but our initial run isn’t large enough for them. There are some interesting alternatives in China, and I have sent them patterns and samples to get some bids going.”

  “I’d like to keep the manufacturing in the United States,” I pipe up. Alfred has been trying to convince me to go to China for the manufacturing, but I know how Gram would have felt about that. We’re an American company, and I’d like to keep it here, to honor our tradition and keep the jobs in Greenwich Village.

  “The China bids are often half of what it would cost to make the same shoe here,” Alfred says pointedly, talking more to me than Kathleen.

  “I understand.” Kathleen looks at Alfred. “If you can make your shoes according to existing agreements with foreign countries, and it’s profitable and economical, why wouldn’t you? But we’re also looking for our piece of the pie.” Kathleen turns to me. “Could you do any of the labor here besides the design? We like to keep as many jobs stateside as possible.”

  “I could definitely do packing and labeling here. Maybe some finishing—bows, piping, embellishments. But we need a real factory for the numbers we’re hoping to achieve.”

  “What are you looking at for your first shipment?”

  “Ten thousand pairs.”

  “That’s fairly ambitious. So…you’re looking for a loan to finance the first ten thousand?”

  “Yes.”

  Kathleen types some numbers into her laptop. I look at Bret, who lets me know that I did a great job. As Kathleen squints at her screen, I pray silently that she will come through.

  “We can do that,” she says.

  I clap my hands together. “That would be great.”

  “I’m going to need a timeline.” Kathleen types into her laptop.

  “And we need to review the terms of the loan,” Alfred pipes up. “Of course, of course.” Kathleen closes her laptop and gives Alfred her card. “Give me a call—we’ll make an appointment for you to come in, and you’ll be off to the races.” She turns to me. “You are not invited. The highest and best use of you is right here in this shop making these glorious shoes. You let us worry about the rest.”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever loved anyone so much in my whole life,” I exclaim.

  “That doesn’t say much about us.” Bret points to Alfred and then himself.

  “Well, you guys are all well and good, but Kathleen has the money. And now, we’re going to have the Bella Rosa.”

  I spent about an hour at Kate’s Paperie on 13th Street searching for the best stationery upon which to write to Gianluca. Every time I reread his letter, I find something new. It’s good to be adored.

  When things go well at work, it frees me up to think about my personal happiness. When there is a problem in the shop, I become consumed by it, and I don’t rest until there’s a solution. Gabriel says the downfall of women is that no matter what we achieve in our work lives, we don’t feel successful unless we have a man at home. I argue with him about this, because I don’t believe it. I’m not that kind of woman. For me, fulfillment comes from taking a scrap of leather and cutting it to the specifications of a pattern, carving a stacked heel from wood, and sewing trim on a buttress. There is nothing like the satisfaction I get when I make something with my own hands.

  I am my best self, the most alive I can be, when I’m creating in the shop. I would never admit this to a man I was interested in, but it’s the truth. Love is not the main course in the banquet of my life. It’s dessert. My mother would say that’s why I’m still single. And my sisters would say that I’m lying. But I know this to be true, that love is my treat, my tiramisu, because I’m living it.

  I have not been tempted to scrap my life in Greenwich Village and get on a plane and go to Italy to be with Gianluca, even though I crave the idea of him. I know about women who drop the lives they lead in one place to go and be with a man in another. I’m fascinated by their impulse to choose the possibility of love over the certainty of work. I would never leave my work behind for a man, no matter how scrumptious he might be. I am, however, interested in romance on my own terms, and in my own time. I’m no master craftsman when it comes to love, strictly an apprentice in training.

  I dump four different boxes of stationery onto the kitchen table. There’s the classic airmail blue onionskin paper, a box of note cards with various sketches of Palladian villas (too Italian), a box of plain white stationery with a black mock grosgrain trim (too Upper East Side), and finally, plain ecru note cards with a simple embossed gold heart. I’m going with the onionskin.

  March 5, 2010

  Dear Gianluca,

  When I was twelve years old, Siser Theresa Kelly FMA required me to write the Prayer of Saint Francis of Assisi twenty times in order to commit it to memory. It worked. I will, when I see you again, take you through the poetry of God’s instrument of Peace. In the meantime, I first and foremost would like to thank you for the most beautiful letter any man has ever written to me. I am humbled by the simple beauty of your words. Your feelings are real and true. Now, I’d like to tell you about mine. I was not looking for love, and I’m still not sure if I should be. I think about you constantly, and even in my mind’s eye, you thrill and excite me. Could this be love? I don’t know. Could it one day be love? I don’t know the answer to that either. But I surely wonder what would have happened that night at the inn. And here’s what’s true for me: I dream of the possibilities.

  Love,

  Valentine

  I cross out the e in Valentine and replace it with an a.

  Gabriel looks out the window on the Saturday commuter train to Chatham, New Jersey. I balance a paint set for Maeve’s birthday party on my lap, while Gabriel holds the Eloise compilation, wrapped in pink tissue paper and tied with green yarn.

  “You’re not over Roman,” Gabriel says.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because you won’t give it up for Gianluca.”

  “I thought my letter was funny and tender.”

  “It was filled with doubt. An I don’t know here, an I don’t know there. What do you know? Certainly not the contents of your human heart. You didn’t know nothin’ writing to him. And Saint Francis? Who mentions a saint in a sex plea?”

  “What should I have said?”

  “For starters? Not that. The letter should have been filled with erotica. You either want the man or you don’t. Or maybe this ocean between you is just too big. Maybe you need a local love. What about Roman?”

  “What about him?”

  “Maybe you should go back with him.”

  “I’m not going to get back together with Roman just so you can get a seat in his restaurant.”

  “It’s as good a reason as any.”

  “For you. Forget it. I’m not calling him.”

  “Maybe he’s done with Becky Bruschetta…,” Gabriel muses.

  “You mean Caitlin Granzella.”

  “He only went with her because she was easy pickings. She’s there, working for him in the restaurant. That should be a lesson to you. A man eats what’s in the cupboard.”

  “Listen to me, Gabriel. Roman and I are done. I have no strings to pull over there any more, so fall in love with somebody else’s osso bucco already. There are a thousand Italian restaurants in New York City—”

  “Ca’D’oro is pretty spectacular.”

  “Furthermore, if you love me, and I think you do, you don’t want me to spend my life following my husband around to make sure he’s
faithful.”

  “You need to get real. And fast. A man can only be faithful in the beginning. You cannot sustain fidelity beyond a month. Six weeks max even if the sex is otherworldly, electrifying, and explosive. Magical sex. But that’s why they call it magic—because poof, in an instant, it disappears like Siegfried and Roy’s white tiger. No, the truth is, you have to watch your man like a hawk. Any man. I know. I am one.”

  “I don’t have trust issues,” I assure Gabriel.

  “Really,” he says.

  Before I can argue the point, the train pulls into the station in downtown Chatham. It’s blustery and wintry cold in March as we deboard. I pull the directions out of my pocket. Mackenzie and Bret’s house is just a couple of blocks away, according to the map he drew.

  We make the turn up Fairmont Avenue. Staying on the sidewalk, we pass lovely homes, which, even in barren winter, have manicured lawns and evergreen touches in the landscaping.

  At the top of the hill is Bret’s home, a stately red brick Georgian with two white pillars anchoring a glossy black door with brass embellishments. It’s the best house on the block. The street in front of the house is packed with cars. It’s a big party. An enormous bunch of pink balloons tied to the railing sways in the wind.

  As we climb the steps, there’s a wreath of white baby roses on the door dotted with small gift packages wrapped in gold. Glittering white letters spelling out MAEVE are fixed in the flowers. More handmade touches by the perfect mother; and I know one when I see one, because I grew up with the best.

  “I hope the book I brought is enough to cover the plate.” Gabriel rings the bell. “This looks fancy.”

  We hear music and chatter and laughing and kids whooping inside. Gabe takes a deep breath. “I hope there’s a bar.”

  Bret’s wife, Mackenzie, opens the door, balancing her toddler, Piper, on her hip. “Valentine, Gabe,” she says. “You made it.”

  “The ride was delightful,” Gabe says.

  Mackenzie laughs. “Now you know why I never go into the city. Well, there’s also the fact that I don’t want to leave the city once I’m there.”