Brava, Valentine

“I’m so happy for you,” Mom says.

As happy as we all are for Gram’s new life, and all the things that go with it that she deserves, like amazing trips and an attentive husband, I can’t help but wonder if she ever misses making shoes.

“Gram, you know the sketch I found? The one I sca

“She could be.”

“Do you know of other Angelinis?”

“Well, there’s an old story-but I have no idea how true it is. But your great-grandfather had a brother. There was some estrangement, long, long ago-I think it may have happened here in Arezzo. But I really don’t know any details.”

“My great-grandfather had a brother?” I look at my mother.

“Don’t look at me. I’m only an expert on my family after they arrived in America. Hoboken and forward…that’s my area of expertise.”

I can’t believe this. My mother knows the exact count of the family silver, and how we’re missing a ladle that she believes was lifted when she invited the Martinelli cousins over for brunch after the May Day crowning at Queen of the Angels in 1979. My grandmother stored and marked heirloom rosaries for each of her great-grandchildren on the day they were born to be given on their First Communions in the event of her demise. This is a family that knows the contents of every drawer, closet shelf, and jewelry box. Our wills are updated like our dental records (and we are fanatical about teeth!). Can it be possible that we have an entire branch of the family, sawed off the old tree for kindling, and nobody bothered to tell us?

“I didn’t know much about the brother,” Gram says. “They didn’t discuss it. And this is the first thing I’m hearing about Argentina.”

I just stare at the screen. I want to shout: Yeah, you don’t know much-or you just don’t remember to share it with me: just like you never told me this building was in hock or that Grandpop had a mistress until you were already in love with Dominic, who you told me about ten years after the fact!

I have a notion that if I opened the wrong box in storage, I’d uncover enough family secrets and vendettas to blow the roof off 166 Perry Street. “Well, I think it’s important. It would appear that there was another shoemaker in the family.”

“Why should that matter now?” my mother pipes up.

I look at Gram and then my mother. “Are you serious?” Don’t they get it? I’m attempting to grow the brand. I need to know everything about this company and our history. There may be something of value to use going forward-I shouldn’t be in the dark. What I don’t say is that between Alfred and Gram, I get the fu

“Your mother is right,” Gram says. “Let’s look to the future. Besides, that sketch wasn’t as good as your grandfather’s-or your great-grandfather’s.” She smiles. “Or yours.”

“Could you do me a favor anyway?” I ask. “Go to the church there in Arezzo and see if you can find the baptismal records. If Rafael Angelini really was Grandpop’s uncle, he’ll be there.”

“I’m getting chills,” Mom says. “Maybe we should consult a psychic.”

“Ma, the last time we did, it was a disaster. We gave Aunt Feen a free session, and the lady promised her that she would win Powerball.”

“Right, right. And when Aunt Feen didn’t win the lottery she wanted to sue the psychic and the gaming commission.”

Gram interrupts us. “How is Feen?”

“I went to see her on Sunday.” Mom says. “She’s as crabby as ever. She signed up for water aerobics at the Y in Mineola. Better she drink pool water than Joh

My cell phone rings on the counter. I pick it up while Mom and Gram go down the long, lonesome road of life with Feen.

“Valentine, it’s Pamela. When did Alfred leave?”

I check the clock. “Around five. He had a bunch of meetings with the Small Business rep downtown.”

“He’s supposed to be here for Rocco’s parent-teacher conference. I have a sitter and everything.”

“He’s not answering his cell?” I ask.

“It goes straight to voice mail.” She sounds completely frustrated.

“I’ll track him down. You go ahead to school, and I’ll tell him you’ll meet him there.”

I hang up with Pamela and call my brother. He picks up the phone after a couple of rings. “Hey, Alfred. Call Pamela. She couldn’t reach you and said there’s some parent-teacher thing at school.”

“Oh, no.”

“You forgot?” This is not like Alfred at all. He remembers everything-including the grade he got on his calculus final in eleventh grade. “Well, get on the bus, brother. She’s waiting for you.”

I snap the phone shut, completely a

My mother scans the keyboard on the computer. “How do you shut this off?”

“Are you done?”

“Yes.”

I hit the buttons out of Skype. The screen goes black. My mother claps her hands together. “What a trailblazing invention. I just love the 21st century! It’s so William Shatner. So Star Trek.”

“Do you ever miss old-fashioned ways?”

“Which ones?”

“Love letters written with a fountain pen?”

“Oh, God no. Your father can’t spell. He ca

The Small Business Adminstration office is two doors down from the room we are sent to when serving on jury duty. The waiting area is filled with people, laptops out, cell phones on, doing business. I sign in. Whenever you deal with doctors or government agencies, there’s invariably a clipboard and a number 2 pencil dangling from a string.

Kathleen pokes her head out the office door and motions to me. I point to the list-there’s at least nine names in front of mine. She waves me in.

“I have your paperwork all set to go,” she says as she closes the door behind me.

“Already?” I’m amazed and also slightly guilty about the line I just jumped in the waiting room. Kathleen has really been charmed by the Angelini Shoe Company.

“It was a snap. Alfred looked over it and signed it.”

“Great.”

“Ray Rinaldi approved them and sent three sets back to me for your signature.” Kathleen places the documents in front of me and gives me a pen. I sign the paperwork. She stamps them.

“You should have your loan within six weeks. This gives you time to make a deal with a manufacturer.”

“I’m on it.”

Kathleen stands. “You’ve been great to work with.”

I open my tote bag and lift out our signature red and white striped shoebox. “These are for you.”

Kathleen opens the box. “They’re gorgeous!” She lifts out a pair of Flora calfskin slippers. “I can’t possibly keep them.”

“Why not? It’s not a bribe. The loan has already been approved.” I point to a bouquet of flowers with a thank-you card that sits on Kathleen’s desk. “We express our gratitude with shoes instead of flowers. Friend to friend.”

“I’ve had a great time working with you and your family.” Kathleen smiles.

I never noticed how pretty she was, or maybe now I see her as a beauty because she just promised me enough money to make the Bella Rosa.

I place my copy of the contract in my tote bag. I feel very guilty when I pass through the waiting room loaded with people who, just like me, need a loan to survive, and hopefully grow.