Brava, Valentine

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 I

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.

“First day of school,” June says wryly as she picks up her pinking shears to resume her work from yesterday.

“That’s exactly what it feels like,” Alfred says.

I give Ray a gift bag off the desk. “Confetti from Gram’s wedding.”

“Thanks. I love Jordan almonds, but I can’t have them anymore.” Ray points to his mouth. “Too much bridgework.”

“Soak them in vodka first. That’s my tip,” June says.

“Shall we meet upstairs?” Alfred proposes.

Ray and Alfred go up the stairs. June motions for me to have courage as I follow them.

Ray sits down at the end of the table and pulls files from his briefcase. I take a folder of documents that I compiled for Alfred and Ray from Gram’s stack on the end of the table. I sit down across from Alfred with a pit of despair in my stomach.

Ray lays out the contracts, I look over them, but the words are a blur to me. I pretend to read them as Alfred pores over them. I look at Ray. He knows I’m making a deal that I never would have agreed to if I didn’t feel forced. But I have no choice in the matter. If I want to live and work here, I have to play along.

“Valentine, we’re going to establish a rental payment for you in the apartment above the workspace,” Ray says.

“That’s fine. I told Gram that’s okay with me.”

“We’ll keep it low.” Ray smiles.

“I hope so,” I tell him.

“It says here that all financial decisions are made jointly.” Alfred looks at Ray.

“It does,” Ray says.

“But Valentine has full control of the creative also.”

“Alfred, your grandmother was very clear. She wants you to serve as chief financial officer, setting budgets and payroll, restructuring debt, and assisting Valentine in whatever she may need to grow the company. This includes research and pursuit of future contracts. Now, Valentine has been engaged in product development with Bret Fitzpatrick…” Ray explains.

“He’s a fund-raiser,” Alfred says. “And he should be compensated for that.”

“Yes. And Teodora is comfortable with Bret in the mix, as long as his efforts serve Valentine’s vision.”