Brava, Valentine

“I like to let the shoes do the talking,” I tell Kathleen as I open the large cabinet behind the worktable and remove seven boxes that contain the prototypes that make up our line of shoes. Bret and Alfred help me carry them to the table. “My passion is in the contents of these red and white striped boxes.”

Bret and Alfred help me lift off the lids. I unwrap the gold standard of this company, the exquisite hand-crafted shoes, stored in their pristine cotton sleeves. I know that Kathleen could travel the five boroughs and beyond and never find shoes as magnificent as the ones we make here. When it comes to my work, I know what I’m talking about, and I know how to sell them.

Kathleen’s eyes widen as I give her the samples to examine. But in one glance, I can see I’ve got her. No woman can refuse the glamour of a couture wedding shoe, the kind of thing that would make her Cinderella for a day. She sighs when she holds the Lola, marvels at the leather treatment on the Ines, wants to try on the Mimi boot, can’t take in the embroidery on the Gilda, she’s so blown away by it, comments on the simplicity of the Osmina, and then, when she picks up the Flora, she’s sold. “I always wanted a ballet slipper in calfskin,” she says. “Always.”

“What size is your foot?”

“I’m a five.”

“How lucky. You’re the sample size!”

“I always do well at sales,” she admits. Kathleen slips off her boot, and slips on The Flora.

Alfred and Bret, in full corporate mode, are visibly relieved.

Gram used to tell me that she could tell exactly what kind of customer she was dealing with by the shoe she chose from our collection. A woman who went for The Flora was modern, impetuous, and stubborn. Without saying a word, Kathleen has just told me who she is, and now I have the insight I need to close the deal with her. This is a woman who knows what she wants, and moves in to get it-I have to work fast with her. She makes decisions quickly, and from the gut.

Kathleen models the shoes in the freestanding full-length mirror. I watch how she looks at her leg and ankle and the shoes now on her feet. She doesn’t look at her body in the critical way that most women do. There’s something different in the look in her eye as she scans her image in the glass. Kathleen, unlike most women who’ve been in the shop, likes what she sees.

“We know we have something special here,” I say with warmth and enthusiasm, remembering salesmanship is as important as a great product. “And we’re building upon years of experience and quality craftsmanship. Even the big guns uptown agree.” I hand her the press kit that Gabriel helped me put together after we were featured in the Christmas windows at Bergdorf’s. “But we know we have to grow the brand and make a product that’s accessible to all women. And that’s the Bella Rosa.”

I go to the shelf and pull three samples of the Bella Rosa, one in pumpkin suede, one in sailor blue leather, and one in chic violet microfiber.

Maybe because it’s nighttime and lower Manhattan is doused in a fog, or maybe it’s that the work lights over the table illuminate the shoes to their best advantage while the rest of the shop recedes in shadow, but whatever the reason, the vivid tones of the Bella Rosa explode in the light, like diamonds in a Tiffany window.

Kathleen grabs the violet Bella Rosa. “I would totally buy this shoe!” she says.

“Good. Because your loan will help us put them into production,” I say, knowing my job is done. I shoot my brother a look of pure triumph.

“Where are you on that?” Kathleen examines the shoe.

Alfred takes my cue and opens his research file. “I’ve had some conversations with American manufacturers, but our initial run isn’t large enough for them. There are some interesting alternatives in China, and I have sent them patterns and samples to get some bids going.”

“I’d like to keep the manufacturing in the United States,” I pipe up. Alfred has been trying to convince me to go to China for the manufacturing, but I know how Gram would have felt about that. We’re an American company, and I’d like to keep it here, to honor our tradition and keep the jobs in Greenwich Village.

“The China bids are often half of what it would cost to make the same shoe here,” Alfred says pointedly, talking more to me than Kathleen.

“I understand.” Kathleen looks at Alfred. “If you can make your shoes according to existing agreements with foreign countries, and it’s profitable and economical, why wouldn’t you? But we’re also looking for our piece of the pie.” Kathleen turns to me. “Could you do any of the labor here besides the design? We like to keep as many jobs stateside as possible.”

“I could definitely do packing and labeling here. Maybe some finishing-bows, piping, embellishments. But we need a real factory for the numbers we’re hoping to achieve.”

“What are you looking at for your first shipment?”

“Ten thousand pairs.”

“That’s fairly ambitious. So…you’re looking for a loan to finance the first ten thousand?”

“Yes.”

Kathleen types some numbers into her laptop. I look at Bret, who lets me know that I did a great job. As Kathleen squints at her screen, I pray silently that she will come through.

“We can do that,” she says.

I clap my hands together. “That would be great.”

“I’m going to need a timeline.” Kathleen types into her laptop.

“And we need to review the terms of the loan,” Alfred pipes up. “Of course, of course.” Kathleen closes her laptop and gives Alfred her card. “Give me a call-we’ll make an appointment for you to come in, and you’ll be off to the races.” She turns to me. “You are not invited. The highest and best use of you is right here in this shop making these glorious shoes. You let us worry about the rest.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever loved anyone so much in my whole life,” I exclaim.

“That doesn’t say much about us.” Bret points to Alfred and then himself.

“Well, you guys are all well and good, but Kathleen has the money. And now, we’re going to have the Bella Rosa.”

I spent about an hour at Kate’s Paperie on 13th Street searching for the best stationery upon which to write to Gianluca. Every time I reread his letter, I find something new. It’s good to be adored.

When things go well at work, it frees me up to think about my personal happiness. When there is a problem in the shop, I become consumed by it, and I don’t rest until there’s a solution. Gabriel says the downfall of women is that no matter what we achieve in our work lives, we don’t feel successful unless we have a man at home. I argue with him about this, because I don’t believe it. I’m not that kind of woman. For me, fulfillment comes from taking a scrap of leather and cutting it to the specifications of a pattern, carving a stacked heel from wood, and sewing trim on a buttress. There is nothing like the satisfaction I get when I make something with my own hands.

I am my best self, the most alive I can be, when I’m creating in the shop. I would never admit this to a man I was interested in, but it’s the truth. Love is not the main course in the banquet of my life. It’s dessert. My mother would say that’s why I’m still single. And my sisters would say that I’m lying. But I know this to be true, that love is my treat, my tiramisu, because I’m living it.

I have not been tempted to scrap my life in Greenwich Village and get on a plane and go to Italy to be with Gianluca, even though I crave the idea of him. I know about women who drop the lives they lead in one place to go and be with a man in another. I’m fascinated by their impulse to choose the possibility of love over the certainty of work. I would never leave my work behind for a man, no matter how scrumptious he might be. I am, however, interested in romance on my own terms, and in my own time. I’m no master craftsman when it comes to love, strictly an apprentice in training.