Brava, Valentine

“Look, I was an Angelini before I was a Roncalli, and this is a family business. With your brother there, it’s all about unity. We all have to roll up our sleeves to help out.”

I hang up the phone. “She’s coming to work.”

“Mom?” Alfred says. “Really?”

“She needs a project. And guess what? We’re it.”

Now that I’ve shored up the staff with a plan to add Mom into the mix (so June can stockpile patterns in advance in order to take her long summer break), it’s time to focus on the Bella Rosa. A long walk on the river to think things through is just what I needed to face the work ahead. The March sky, the color of driftwood, reminded me that spring is here, and with it, the urgency of meeting deadlines on the a

As I hang up my coat, I hear Bret and Alfred inside the shop having a lively discussion about the New York Yankees. It sounds like an argument, but I can never tell-when men talk sports, they show a range of emotions rarely exhibited in other parts of their lives.

My brother and Bret have always gotten along on the surface. When I broke up with Bret years ago, Alfred made it very clear that he thought I was making a huge mistake. But, as in most things, Alfred will usually take the adversarial position when it comes to me. His disapproval wasn’t as much about Bret as about my inability to embrace the responsible, expected path-marriage to a nice, respectable breadwi

Bret and Alfred share the same working-class background, and both were brilliant in school, top of their classes. They even followed the same personal path: they married, moved to the suburbs, and each had two children. They appear to have a lot in common, but I know them both well, and Bret brings empathy to his aggressive business style, while my brother is ruthless. Our new arrangement, with Bret advising me on raising capital, will require some diplomacy, and the middle child (me) will play the middleman.

June left work a couple hours ago, and I skipped di

“Kathleen is really backed up at work. It would take weeks to get a regular appointment-I finagled this because she owes me a favor,” Bret says.

“Now, we’re not committing to anything in this meeting, are we?” Alfred asks. There’s a tone of suspicion to his question.

“Alfred, if we’re going to grow, we have to be aggressive. There’s not a lot of cash out there, and while I’d prefer not to take a loan, we have to.”

“Have you looked at investor funds? Other sources of revenue?” Alfred turns to Bret.

“Absolutely. But you know the climate at the banks.”

“Yeah, I do,” Alfred says impatiently. “That’s what worries me. The banks are gouging people, ramping up interest rates.”

“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 a

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 ru

“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.