I pull on the overhead lights and sit down at the desk. I move the statue of Saint Crispin, who anchors a stack of bills and the paperwork from our payroll company. June left me a heap of mail with a note that reads, “Good luck.” I shuffle through the envelopes.
I open the bank statement. The coffers are full—for now. But the prospects for 2010 are bleak. Our custom line will suffer as luxury goods take a hit in the marketplace. Therefore, I am going to have to move very quickly to establish Angel Shoes, our new, economical line of flats. I designed the Bella Rosa, a durable yet elegant shoe with hip signature embellishments that I hope will be coveted by women sixteen to ninety. I also hope to get the inaugural shoe, the Bella Rosa of the Angel Shoes line, into mass production by the fall.
But there is much to do! I need financing to go into production on a large scale, so I can sell the Bella Rosa to as many vendors as possible. My ex-fiancé, Bret Fitzpatrick, survived the Wall Street meltdown and now works to finance new business. He took me on because of our lifelong friendship, but also because he believes in the vision I have for growing our brand.
We have to find a manufacturer to make the Bella Rosa. Research and leads, subsequent meetings, and conversations point to China, where most American-designed goods are made these days. My grandfather would be horrified at Angelini shoes being made anywhere but Perry Street, and anywhere but the United States, but I have to stay open to all possibilities.
There’s a knock on the window. Bret waves to me through the glass, motioning that he’ll meet me at the entrance. We’ve made a habit of these early-morning meetings. He takes an early train from his home in New Jersey and swings by before he makes his way to Wall Street. As he turns the corner, his navy topcoat flutters behind him in the wind, like the wings of a bluebird in a barren tree.
“I bet you wish you were still in Italy.” He kisses me on the cheek and pushes past me into the shop.
“You have no idea.”
“I got your text. I can’t believe Gram hired Alfred.”
“He starts today. Mr. CFO.”
“Where?”
“Right there.” I point to the desk, which I have cleared to make room for Alfred. It’s the first time since I was a kid that the desk has not been cluttered with stacks of paper. “This new partnership might kill me.”
“It won’t kill you. In fact, if you work it and stay cool, Alfred can actually make your life easier.”
“Do you think so?”
“Absolutely. You’re going to put him to work for you, and he won’t even realize it. First of all, I will deal with your brother on the manufacturing plan. He will do the research, draw up the budgets, make the projections, and reach out to factories that can make your shoes. In the meantime, I’m out raising the money to launch the Angel Shoes brand. With that money, we will put the Bella Rosa into production. Once we have the shoes in production, I will help you place them in the market. Don’t worry. I got your back.”
“You always have.”
“I’m all over it.” Bret opens his briefcase.
His light brown hair is ruffled by the wind. I resist the urge to smooth it, as I did for the ten years we dated, one of them—the last year—actually betrothed before we broke up. There might be a million reasons why it didn’t work out with us, but it only took one to end it. I wanted to be a shoemaker, and he needed a stay-at-home wife. Neither of us wanted to deprive the other of our dreams, so we decided not to marry. No one was more surprised than I. My childhood friendship with Bret had blossomed into a romance, and when it came time to make the difficult decision to move on, the foundation of mutual respect and love carried us through. We have always had a natural, easy relationship—which is why we could be honest with one another when our lives went in different directions.
He looks at me. “What the heck are you thinking about?”
“I was remembering when we went into business selling industrial cleaner door-to-door in the seventh grade.”
“You needed a lot of breaks.” Bret laughs.
“I still do. You were such a natural salesman. You talked those housewives into buying that cleaner like nobody else could.”
“I believed in the product. Just like I believe in you.”
“I’m just a struggling cobbler.”
“Not for long, Val. This is so much fun for me. It’s going to be something to watch this company grow. And you’re different from most of the companies out there. This economic collapse might actually work in your favor.”
“I’d like to know how.”
“The federal government has really stepped up. There’s an incentive program for small business in New York State—they’re taking applications for loans right now.” Bret hands me a folder filled with forms. “The city will reassess your property taxes and adjust them according to deflation in the real estate market, and they’ll give you some breaks on utilities, as long as you keep a minimum of four employees on the payroll. Right now, you’ve got three—you, Alfred, and June. You need a fourth to qualify—but you have time to hire that person. And then, there’s the new development fund. I think you might be able to swing a very low-interest loan to launch the Bella Rosa.”
“I haven’t been able to get any traction with the banks,” I admit.
“No one can at this point. The small business rep in New York is a woman named Kathleen Sweeney. I hear she’s tough.”
“Nice Irish girl.”
“Exactly. Here’s her information. Call her and schedule an appointment. And it would be smart for you to include Alfred, so he’s invested in this.”
“Good point. So what can I do for you? How can I ever repay you for all you’ve done for me?”
“You can come to Maeve’s birthday party. She’s turning five.” Bret gives me an envelope covered with pink balloons made of felt.
“Already?”
“Already. I can’t believe it. Piper is going to be two.”
“It seems like yesterday that you told me that Mackenzie was expecting.” I can’t believe all that Bret has accomplished in the past six years. He’s built a family with Mackenzie, broken into the financial world, bought a home, and moved out to the suburbs. When I look back on the same period of time, I think about how I mastered sewing kidskin by hand. We are leading two very different lives. “Are you going to have more children?”
“Mackenzie says the shop is closed. I would love more.”
“I think you defer to the lady on those matters.”
“Of course. Always.”
“I’ll definitely be at the party.” I give Bret a hug.
“Bring Gabriel.”
“The black cloud? No way. He hates kids.”
“Yeah, but he gives our suburban New Jersey parties some edge. And when he has a couple glasses of wine, he sings the Rodgers and Hammerstein song book like nobody’s business.”
“I’ll bring him.”
I walk Bret to the door. “I don’t know how to thank you.”
“You don’t have to. It’s fun for me.”
“Yeah, but you’re busy, and this is small potatoes. Of course, I say potatoes because you’re Irish.”
Bret laughs. “I have a feeling when you get these shoes off the ground, it’s going to mean some big changes for you.”
“Wouldn’t that be something? I’d pay off the mortgage and the loans and remove the ax of impending doom that hangs over my head.”
“The good news: the ax is imaginary. You’ll get Alfred where you want him. And Val, if anybody can do it, it’s you.” Bret pushes the door open and turns to me. “You’re on to something big here.”
Sometimes when I look at Bret, I see all the years we’ve known each other unspool like a long, endless ribbon without a beginning or an end. We’ve known each other most of our lives, and there is a trust that is so deep, I wonder if I could ever have it with any other man. “You always come through for me.”
“It’s easy.” He smiles and goes.
I open th
e invitation to Maeve’s birthday party. The invitation has been written in calligraphy and assembled by hand, with glitter and lace. The section with the date, time, and place pops up out of the crease with a bunch of balloons. Maeve’s round face appears inside the balloons.
How does Mackenzie do it? Would I ever be the sort of mother who could assemble birthday party invitations with sequins and glue? Would I even be the kind of parent who would enjoy doing it?
What a beautiful face Maeve Fitzpatrick has, with her father’s serene countenance and her mother’s blond hair. I pin the invitation up on the bulletin board. I’ll endure anything for Bret—including screaming five-year-olds, a pirate who does magic tricks, and a train ride to New Jersey.
A letter from Gianluca arrives in the mail from Italy, along with a sleeve of leather samples from his shop. Business and pleasure tucked into one envelope.
I open the letter first. His handwriting is artful, that glorious Italian script with the curlicue edges. He wrote it with a fountain pen in midnight blue ink. A fountain pen in 2010! Miraculous!
14 febbraio 2010
Cara Valentina,
Even my name looks prettier when written by an Italian. The letter is dated the night of Gram’s wedding, the night we almost spent together. Here’s a fundamental difference between us: that night, Gianluca went home and wrote down his thoughts, while I slammed the door of my room at the Spolti Inn and stewed.
Please accept my apologies for tonight at the inn. I was carried away with emotions that I have been feeling for quite some time. You could not know of these feelings, for I had not admitted them to myself. But when I saw you at the church, down the long aisle before the altar, I was filled with, and there is no other word to use, a great longing.
I have not had the true love I had hoped for in my life, and now, I wonder if it is even possible. Many men, except the poets, seem to search for this particular love, and they find it somehow, in words and intention. But me? I do not know. There was a moment in the church when I thought I saw it, in your eyes, your face, your beautiful face. Later, when I found you in your room at the inn, I wondered if it could be true, that you might reciprocate the feelings I had, and turn my longing to kisses. Now, I hope. Do you feel as I do?
My love,
Gianluca
Oh, for Godsakes. I have to sit down. I’m thirty-four years old, and no one has ever written me a love letter. Full disclosure: there’s an old shoe box in my mother’s attic with evidence to the contrary. I saved notes I passed in school with Bret (the phrase that sent me swooning then was “You’re my girl” written in pencil on lined school paper). And I did put the text messages sent by Roman Falconi (“Love U”) in a place called permanent memory on my phone. But I’ve never received a letter on onionskin paper stamped “Par Avion,” written in indelible ink, that described me as “beautiful” and “longed for,” or specifically asked me what I want and what I need, romantically. This is a first.
I imagined that if I was ever presented with a letter describing such ardent feelings, in plush and meaningful sentences, that of course I would believe them. I want to believe them. I’d like to think that every now and again, I could render a man weak—but this isn’t the English countryside, and I’m not Jane Eyre, and he’s not Mr. Rochester riding up on his horse to the manor where he hides his mentally unstable wife in the attic. Or is he?
I go to the ironing board and plug in the old equipment, as I have done by rote many mornings. I need something to do, because I don’t want to think about what I want to do with Gianluca. When I was a girl, I bought my mother’s lines about one man for every woman, referred to it in passing as “a lid for every pot,” “a hat for every head,” “a glove for every hand”(oddly, no “shoe for every foot,” despite the fact that we are in the business). Nevertheless, I thought my life in love would go as my mother’s had before me, even though every conscious decision I have ever made regarding my future followed the motto “Whatever Mom did, do the opposite.” My mother kept it simple. The old “One God, one man, one life” is the philosophy she built her life upon, but it has not panned out as a realistic path for me.
I lick my finger and test the base of the iron. I leave my finger there a second too long and burn it.
I should never pick up a hot iron when I’m distracted.
“Whoo hoo!” June calls from the doorway. She plows in wearing so much winter gear, I can barely see her face. Her bright blue coat is the only touch of color on this dank morning. She carries a bag with coffee for us from the deli. “Don’t yell at me. I got doughnuts. We need to celebrate!”
As June takes off her hat, gloves, and coat, she listens carefully as I tell her the story of Gram’s wedding day. When the story turns to night, she sits, peels the plastic lid off the paper coffee cup, and stirs. She leans in as I tell her about Gianluca showing up at my room at the Spolti Inn.
When I’m done, she breaks her doughnut in half, giving me the larger portion. “It’s always the man you don’t make love to, the one who wanted you and didn’t have you, that’s the man who will never forget you,” she says. “The anticipation of sex is often more thrilling than the reality.”
“Who are you kidding?” I look at June, who stores the sexual history of Greenwich Village since 1952 in her boudoir drawer like a satin nightie.
“No harm in trying to make you feel better.” She laughs. This is what I love about June. Sex is God’s greatest gift to the planet, with a sense of humor coming in a close second. Gram taught me how to make shoes, but June has taught me it’s important to let go—and have fun.
“Okay, and all right,” she says. “I would have liked the story better had you actually made love to the Italian. At my age, we want to hear all about it because we don’t get it so much anymore. So now we’re both frustrated. Why didn’t you and Gianluca leave the hotel and find a quiet spot somewhere to make some noise?”
“I tried! I don’t even have kids, and my night was ruined by one. It’s like Chiara knew her frazzled auntie was going to get lucky and had to do anything she could to stop it. Now I know why they call it getting lucky—because when you don’t get it, you feel cursed.”
“I don’t mean to add to your stress levels.” June dunks the last bite of her doughnut in her coffee. “But we need to talk.”
June rolls the work stool close to me and places her hands on the table. Her bright red hair is braided in small pigtails that rest on her shoulders. Her rhinestone-studded reading glasses anchor her bangs off of her face. At seventy-one, June is in great shape; her porcelain complexion is flawless from a life of avoiding the sun. Only the creases around her mouth, a legacy of years of smoking, tell her age. She still wears bright blue eye shadow, bohemian East Village style, with leggings and a multicolored voile print smock over a turtleneck. June could be any ex-dancer in New York City. “Honey, I’m old,” she says.
“Never.”
“Never has arrived. And it’s brought varicose veins and memory loss along for the ride. Here’s the deal. I’m tired. I don’t know how much longer I can cut patterns for you.”
“Is something wrong?” I panic. Two hours on the job as boss, and I’ve already lost my key employee.
“You mean like a disease or something? Oh God, no…unless years of smoking weed has finally caught up with me. But I don’t think it has. I unwind with God’s gift to the garden and so far, so good. No, it’s not my health that’s forcing this decision. It’s the number: seventy-one. Seven. One. My wrists hurt, and my fingers are getting stiff with arthritis. I think I need to retire.”
“And do what?”
“Well, I thought I’d sit around and listen to Miles Davis and paint my toenails. And I’d like to catch that show The View live—I love that Whoopi.”
“You want to watch TV and hang out? May I join you?”
“Absolutely not. You have a name to make for yourself.”
“I don’t want to do this without you.”
“Sure you
do. And you can. And you will. Valentine, you know, your Gram’s marriage was a wake up call. I’m a little younger than she is, of course, but one year over the age of seventy is equivalent to ten years under seventy. Time is slipping through my hands like cheap satin.”
“Anybody can die at any age, June.”
“Yeah, but when you’re over seventy, you’re more likely to die. And I want to relax with the time I have left.”
“When do you want to leave the company?” Tears sting in my eyes.
“Once you get the Bella Rosa going, I think I should go. And we should think about getting someone in here who I can train.”
“Okay.” But it’s not okay. I can’t imagine working without June. And I don’t want to work with anyone else. We rarely argue, we figure out how to solve a problem without drama, and we even like our coffee the same, light no sugar.
“Look, it’s not the end of the world. Things change, Valentine. I’m sure you don’t want me keeling over on the pattern table.”
“Actually, I would like that.”
June laughs. “You’ve had enough of us old girls around. Teodora understood that. She cleared out so you could have your own life. And with Alfred starting…”
“You don’t want to work with him either.” The idea that June would leave because of Alfred, or even partly because of him, makes me angry about the situation Gram left me in all over again.
“I can handle Alfred.” June shrugs. “I just don’t want to. And he’s not the reason I’m leaving.”
The entrance door opens. Alfred, who has not set foot on the island of Manhattan in anything but a Brooks Brothers suit since he graduated from Cornell twenty years ago, wears jeans and a polo shirt with a parka thrown over it for his first day of work at the Angelini Shoe Company.
Gram’s attorney, Ray Rinaldi, trudges in behind him, carrying the same briefcase he’s had since the Korean War. He wears layers for warmth: a sweater vest under his trench coat and a Cossack hat with flaps over his ears. He’s dressed to place a flag on the highest peak in Antarctica.