Brava, Valentine

He shakes his head no. “Papa and Teodora.”

“Right, right.” I think again. “Is there a hotel?”

“This one.”

We look at one another.

“We’re doomed,” I whisper.

“No.”

“How do you figure? I’m leaving in the morning.” I throw myself against his chest.

“You might be going home,” he says softly, “…but you will never leave me.”

Gianluca’s lips find my own with such tenderness, then he kisses my cheek, and into my ear he whispers, “Never.”

4. Just as Though You Were Here

THE FOLDERS LIE NEATLY ON Gram’s long dining room table, just as she left them, plainly marked in her own hand: House/Maintenance, City/Codes and Taxes, Angelini Shoe Company, and Personal. On top of the house folder are sets of keys, marked for every door and window of 166 Perry Street.

I open the file marked Personal first. Gram has written down her international cell phone number, the shop numbers at Vechiarelli & Son, her new address, and a current bank statement from Banca Popolare that lists me jointly with her on the account. It has $5,000 in the plus column and in her handwriting, a Post-it that says: For Emergencies.

I can’t imagine what emergencies she could be referring to-until I open up the House/Maintenance folder. Here are a few potential disasters: boiler breakdown, roof leaks, plumbing fiascos, and wiring/electrical issues. I put my face in my hands.

Now that I officially live here alone, the decor and placement of Gram’s furniture, the couch, the curtains, the old television set, all seem dated. I need to make the place my own. But where to start? I do revere and want to preserve the memories, the history, of this apartment, but every time I walk through, I miss Gram-and it’s because it’s still her house.

Before she left, she was uninterested in the fate of the contents. “Do whatever you want,” she said. But what I really want is for her to be home, and back in the shop with me, the way it used to be.

I make my way downstairs to the workroom. The hallway has the scent of lemon wax and leather, and a tinge of motor oil, because I greased the gears on the cutting machine before going to bed last night.

I push the glass door etched with a cursive A open. My anxieties seem to dissipate once I set foot in this shop. This is a magical place where I feel in total control. We call it a workroom, and while we put in long hours, it’s actually a playroom-where ideas are born.

The patterns June cut yesterday lie neatly on the table, layers of tissue paper and fabric pi

I unlock the window gates and roll them back. It’s a bleak February morning with low winter clouds that hover over the West Side Highway like a sheet of gray-and-white marble.

Delivery trucks sit in a row at the stoplight heading for the Brooklyn Tu

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.”