Brava, Valentine

“I don’t want you underfoot,” I tell him.

“Then we have a problem,” he says.

“Alfred will be a full partner in every way,” Gram says. “He’s going to devote himself to modernizing the company, on a day-to-day basis.”

“How? He already has a job.”

“I’m no longer at the bank,” Alfred says quietly.

“What?” Maybe this is what Pamela and Alfred were fighting about-exactly what Jaclyn heard through the walls at the i

“I was let go,” he admits.

“But you’ve been there eighteen years!” In an instant, I’m defensive for my brother. He is, after all, a brilliant businessman and the biggest success story in our family. The fact that he didn’t respect my work never meant that I didn’t respect his. I’m angry for him. “Those banks!”

“I saw it coming,” Alfred says. “But that doesn’t make it any easier. Believe me, I wouldn’t take this job if I didn’t have to.”

“Gram, it’s not right that you went behind my back and made a deal with Alfred without consulting me.”

“We needed a plan, Valentine. I didn’t want to dump the whole company on you and leave you to struggle in this economy without a plan.”

“Fair enough. But Alfred?”

“Valentine,” Gram warns. “We’re lucky we have someone in the family with Alfred’s knowledge and level of experience.”

“Of all people! He hates my guts.”

“I don’t hate you at all,” my brother says impatiently. “I don’t approve of the way you do things, and I question your choices-”

“Who are you to question my choices? I know how you feel-you think I’m a screw-up, in life and work. How would you like to feel judged all the time?”

“You have good qualities,” he says quietly.

“There’s a ringing endorsement.”

“Look, Gram is right. You need help. Someone to take the reins.”

“You’re not taking the reins, Alfred. We’re sharing them. Right, Gram?”

I remember the ride to the church this morning, and how when the horse went off course, and the wheels slid on the wet pavement, the driver held both reins and guided the carriage back to safety. It would never work to have two drivers, each holding one of the reins, each with a different idea about how to direct the carriage back on course. It takes one driver to steer a carriage-and a singular vision to run a company.

I have no idea how a partnership with my brother could possibly work. I can’t picture myself side by side with Alfred, making important decisions or haggling about inventory. But this is the deal Gram has made, and it’s her company, and her building. She could have given them both to me outright, but she didn’t. I have to accept her terms. I have no choice. And she knows it.

“When you return home, I’ve set up a meeting with Ray at the shop. He’ll go over the details, but I’ve already signed off on my end. I’m no longer sole proprietor of the Angelini Shoe Company. I will maintain an emeritus position on the board of directors, which now includes each of you. When the time comes for me to sell the business outright, that will be a decision that we will make together. In the meantime, can I trust you two to take care of our family business?”

Alfred says yes aloud, and I nod in agreement. I’m afraid if I speak, I’ll cry, and I can’t give Alfred that satisfaction.

“Your grandfather would be so happy, and so proud that his grandchildren joined forces to run his company.” Gram’s voice breaks. Grandpop has loomed over this day like a heavy storm cloud threatening rain. In the glow of her present happiness with Dominic, Gram has been thinking about her first husband. She and Grandpop’s long and difficult marriage has fallen into shadow, but not so far into the dark as to not be seen. Gram spent more than fifty years of her life with my grandfather, and even in death, his wishes matter to her.

“You took good care of the family brand,” I reassure her.

“You can do better,” she assures me. “And with Alfred, you will.”

The things I will remember about Gram’s wedding won’t be poignant (the recitation of the vows) or sad (Aunt Feen hitting the floor), they won’t be joyous, or romantic, they will be practical. With one hand she signed her wedding license, and with the other she cut the Angelini Shoe Company in half, like a sheet of leather.

As we climb the steps of the i

3. Ain’tcha Ever Coming Back

I TURN THE KEY IN the door of my room at the Spolti I

I don’t know what Gram was thinking, sticking me with Alfred as my partner, but she hasn’t done me any favors since she fell in love with Dominic. It’s almost as if True Love has rotted her brain. And here I am-her defender and champion-left with partial when I deserved the whole. She split the Angelini Shoe Company in two, like a pair of shoes, handing one to my brother and the other to me, rendering one completely useless without the other.

I drop my shawl and my purse on the bed. Then I kick off my shoes.

I look around the room for something, anything, to eat. I’m starving. Well, there’s always the welcome platter that Signora Guarasci left in each of our rooms. A bottle of pink liquor, some breadsticks, and a bowl of fresh figs call my name.

I grab the bottle and the corkscrew off the platter and, placing it on the nightstand, stab the point into the cork. I’m so over this day, I could bite off the neck of the bottle with my teeth. I need a drink, and I need it now. How ironic. I spent most of the day at the hospital waiting for my drunken great-aunt to sober up-and the first thing I do in the hotel room is grab the booze. At least this particular weakness is in the DNA, it’s not my fault.

I fill the crystal tumbler from the dressing table with pink whatever-it-is to the brim. I rip open the breadsticks, anchor one in my mouth like a cigar, and chew. Then I sit down in the rocker, pull the footstool over, and put my feet up. I hold up the glass and toast myself. Congratulations! You didn’t get kissed! You didn’t eat cake! You were upstaged by Bella Boobs, and you’re in business with your brother, who has never liked you! We’ve got a wi

Then, I look down at the scads of faux pearls that lie on my chest in a tangled clump. What was I thinking? They are ticky-tacky. On top of all the indignities of the day, I didn’t even look good.

After twelve hours, the pearls feel like pe

I text Gabriel Biondi, who would be the love of my life if he weren’t gay. We’ve been best friends since college, and he’s the desperate call I can make at 3:00 A.M.-or the transatlantic text I can make at any other hour of the day. Right now, he’s devising the seating chart for the sold-out Saturday night show at the Carlyle. He’ll be happy to hear from me, if only to procrastinate at work.