Very Valentine

“How long have you worked with your grandmother?” he asks.

“Almost five years.”

Roman lifts another pumpkin blossom from the plate. “Five years. So that makes you about…?”

I don’t even blink. “Twenty-eight.”

Roman tilts his face and looks at mine from a different angle. “I would have guessed younger.”

“Really.” I’ve never lied about my age, but being almost thirty-four years old seems like a good time to start.

“I got married when I was twenty-eight,” he says. “Divorced at thirty-seven. I’m forty-one now.” He rattles off the numbers without the slightest hesitation.

“What was her name?”

“Aristea. She was Greek. To this day, I’ve never seen a woman more beautiful.”

When a man tells you that the most beautiful woman in the world is his ex-wife, and he’s been looking at your face for over an hour, it sets like a bad anchovy. “Greek girls are Italian girls with better tans.” I sip the wine. “What went wrong?”

“I worked too much.”

“Oh come on. A Greek would understand hard work.”

“And-I guess I didn’t work hard enough on the marriage.”

I look at Roman’s handiwork-the mural, the candles, the feast on the table-and then I look in his eyes, which I’m begi

“I’m glad you called me-,” he begins.

“There’s something I need to tell you,” I interrupt. “I’m thirty-three.” My face turns the color of the red pepper slices in the crudité dish. “I never lie, okay? I just did because, well, thirty-three seems almost thirty-four, and that seems like a number that’s getting up there. You should know the truth.”

“No worries. You don’t go out with Italians. Remember?” He smiles. Then he gets up from his chair and comes over to me. He takes my hands in his and pulls me up to stand. We look at each other in that way people do when they’re deciding whether or not to kiss. I feel guilty that I told Gabriel Roman’s nose was like the one with the Groucho Marx glasses. From this angle, his nose is lovely, straight and absolutely fine.

Roman takes my face in his hands. As our lips meet for the first time, his kiss is gentle and sensual, and very direct, like the man himself. I might as well be on the Piazza Medici on the isle of Venice, as his touch takes me far from where I stand and off to someplace wonderful, a place I haven’t been in a very long time. As Roman slides his arms around me, the silk of my dress makes a rustling sound, like the dip of an oar into the canal in the mural behind him.

The last man I kissed was Cal Rosenberg, the son of our button supplier from Manhasset. Let’s just say it didn’t leave me wanting more. But this kiss from Roman Falconi, right here in this sweet restaurant on Mott Street in Little Italy, with my feet in gunboat clogs, makes me feel the possibility of a real romance again. As he kisses me again, I slide my hands down his arms to his biceps. Chefs, evidently, do a lot of heavy lifting, whereas button suppliers and hedge fund managers don’t.

I bury my face in Roman’s neck, the scent of his clean skin, warmed by amber and cedar, is new, and yet familiar. “You smell amazing.” I look up at him.

“Your grandmother gave it to me.”

“Gave you what?”

“The cologne.”

I can’t believe my grandmother gave Roman the free men’s-cologne sample in the goody bag from Jaclyn’s wedding. I don’t know whether to be embarrassed that she gave it to him, or embarrassed for him that he decided to use it.

“She said either I had to take it, or she’d unload it on Vi

“I love it.”

“That’s a strong word, love.”

“Well, that’s a strong cologne.”

The sound of laughter from the street breaks the quiet of the restaurant. Through the windows, I can see the feet of a group of Saturday-night party hounds on their way to the next stop. Their shoes, a mix of polished wingtips, suede ankle boots, and two pairs of high-heeled pumps, one ruby red leather and the other black mock croc, stop in front of Ca’ d’Oro. “Closed,” I hear a woman say in front of the entry door.

Not for me. Roman Falconi kisses me again. “Let’s eat,” he says.

For all the extensive construction going on here on the Manhattan side of the Hudson River, there is plenty happening across the water as well. Construction cranes, dangling with cords hoisting parcels of wood, pipes, and cement blocks play in the far distance like marionettes on a stage. The rhythmic chuff of the pile driver softens as it crosses the water, reminding me of the sound of a coffee percolator.

I lean over the railing on the pier outside our shop and wait for Bret to meet me on his lunch break. A painting class is in full swing under the permanent white tents on the pier. Twelve painters with their backs to me and their easels facing east are painting the landscape of the West Village riverfront on white canvases.

I watch the students as a teacher silently moves through the easels, stepping back to observe their work. She touches the shoulder of one painter. She points. The artist nods, leans back, squints at his canvas, and then takes a step forward, dips a small brush on his palette, and paints a slim white seam along the top of an old factory building he has painted in detail. In an instant, the gray sky in his painting, hovering over the rooftops like old cotton, is suffused with light, changing the entire mood of his cityscape. Gram taught me about the power of contrast, using a light trim to heighten the vamp of a shoe, or a dark one to define it, but I’ve never seen the concept come alive with such a subtle placement of color. I’ll remember it the next time I choose a trim.

Bret works at a brokerage house within walking distance of our shop. When we were together, he’d sometimes come and help on weekends when he needed a break from studying for his MBA. I admired that he never forgot his working-class roots and was able to roll up his sleeves and do good old-fashioned manual labor when it was called for. I think if we needed help with an order and we asked him to come over today, he would still pitch in for old times’ sake.

In the distance, I see him, walking briskly toward me in his suit, his beige Burberry trench flapping open in the breeze. Bret finishes the last bite of an apple and tosses the core into the Hudson River. I’m genuinely proud of him and all he’s accomplished; but I also worry. He’s the only man I know who has it all, but the man who has it all can top himself only one way: by getting more. I think of Chase and her dazzling smile. Is she more? When Bret reaches me, he gives me a kiss on the cheek. “So fill me in. Tell me everything about the business.”

“Gram has been borrowing against the building to keep the business afloat. Alfred looked at the books and said she needs to restructure her debt.”

“How can I help?”

“I think Alfred is using this as an excuse to have Gram retire and sell the building. He’d be cashing in on sky-high real estate, but it would mean the end of the Angelini Shoe Company. Which would leave me-”

“Without a place to work. Or a home.”

“Or a future,” I add bluntly.

“What does Gram want to do?”

“She told him she’s not ready to sell. But, between you and me, she’s scared.”

“Look, she’s sitting on prime real estate. We have guys who handle that.”

“I don’t want you to help her sell it. I want you to help me buy it.”

Bret’s eyes widen. “Are you serious?”

“You know how much this business means to me. It’s everything. But I don’t have much money saved, nowhere near what it would take. I have no collateral. And while I’m close to being a master, there are still things I’m learning from Gram.”

“Val, this is tough. Alfred has your grandmother’s ear.”