Very Valentine

Roman came over when I told him I was taking a coffee break on the river. He could tell something was bothering me when I went over to the restaurant and helped him prep a supply of eggplant, and today, while we were talking on the phone, I finally told him about my father’s diagnosis. I hadn’t wanted to tell him because there’s nothing worse than bad news when a romance is in full bloom. One of us (him) would wind up being in charge of cheering up the other one (me). Who needs that?

Roman sips his coffee. “What kind of man is your father?”

I look across the river as though the answer lies somewhere on the shores of lower Tenafly. Finally, I say, “He’s Tuscan leather.”

Roman laughs. “What does that mean?”

“Tough hide, soft underside. Not glamorous. Durable. But very versatile. A lot like me. When he learns a lesson, he learns it the hard way.”

“Give me an example.” Roman pulls me closer, partly for warmth and partly because when we’re together, we can’t hold each other enough.

“Dad was an urban park ranger in Queens and he went to a convention in upstate New York in the summer of 1986. When he was there, he met a woman named Mary from Pottsville, Pe

“Seriously?”

“I know. Pottsville. My mother would have much preferred he fool around with a woman from fancy Franklin Lakes or ultraglam Tuxedo Park, but when you’re the wife, you don’t get to choose. Anyhow, my dad came home from the convention and everything seemed normal, except he suddenly grew a mustache and got contact lenses. I was only a kid but I kept looking at him and thinking, ‘That mustache looks like a mask. What’s Dad hiding?’”

“How did your mom find out?”

“She got an anonymous phone call one day while he was at work. When she hung up, she turned the color of iceberg lettuce, went into her bedroom, closed the door, and called Gram. But even as kids, we knew that my mother would never share bad news with us. So Tess, my older sister, wisely listened on the extension. When Mom hung up the phone, she put a plan in place. She very quietly packed us up and moved us right here to Perry Street with Gram and Grandpop. Of course, Mom never said she was leaving Dad. She simply invented a whole story about taking the summer to ‘rewire the Tudor,’ leaving Dad in Queens to ‘oversee the electricians.’”

“So everyone was pretending.”

“Exactly. Mom told Gram she needed time to think. But no one ever addressed with us kids what was actually going on, so we just lived in a total fog.”

“Did your father ever explain what was happening?”

“He came into the city every Sunday to have di

“I really can’t wait to meet your mother,” he says wryly.

“Then, after a couple of months, Mom regrouped. She pulled a George Patton and began to strategize how to save our family. It turns out Dad is a security junkie. He’s all about safety. He checks every single window and door before he goes to bed. Mom was the adventuress. Dad was the responsible one. Mom knew that he would never give up the security of a wife for the unknowns of Mistress Mary in Pottsville.”

I take a sip of coffee before continuing. “She never mentioned the affair. Ever. She just removed herself from Dad’s world and let him experience life without her for a while. Believe me, if you knew my mom and suddenly she was gone, you’d miss the sheer force of her. She was deeply hurt, but she also knew that if she disappeared from his life, he would remember why he fell in love with her in the first place.”

“Did it work?”

“Absolutely. And I got to watch my parents fall in love for the second time. Trust me. There’s a reason parents are romantic figures before their children are born-it’s because the children can’t take it. I’d catch my mother on my father’s lap when I came home from school. Once I even caught them making out in the kitchen. My mother was so adorable and easygoing and present in the relationship that Dad couldn’t resist her. Suddenly, Mary from Pottsville was, well, Mary from Pottsville. She could never be Mike from Manhattan.”

“I never saw my parents romantic with each other.”

“Why would you? Your poor mother was exhausted from the family restaurant. Who feels romantic after twelve hours of making meatballs, frying smelts, and baking bread? I wouldn’t.”

“And Mom is still killing herself in that kitchen, while my dad wears a suit and chats up the customers. He’s the old-school restaurateur. But it works for them.”

“You know what Gram said to my mother after she got back with my father?”

“What?”

“She said, ‘Keep him on a long leash, Mike.’ In other words, don’t make him pay for a mistake for the rest of his life. Let him go, trust him. And Mom did.”

“You know what?” Roman says. “I like the idea of a long leash.”

“I figured you would.” I put my arms around his neck. As we kiss, I think about the many times I’ve walked the riverfront alone and seen couples kiss on these benches, and turned away because I wondered when and if I’d ever find someone to share a kiss and a coffee break with on a cloudy day. Now he’s here, and I wonder what he’s thinking.

“I’m marinating a flank-steak special,” he says as he stands.

I throw my head back and laugh. He pulls me up from the bench. “What is so fu

“I must be some kisser for you to be dreaming of marination.”

He pulls me close and kisses me again. “You have no idea what I’m dreaming about,” he says, taking my hand. “Come on. I’ll walk you back.”

“What’d I miss?” I hang up my coat in the entry and enter the workshop, which is in full shipping mode. Gram is tucking peau de soie pumps into our signature red-and-white-striped shoeboxes. June covers the shoes in a rectangle of red-and-white-striped tissue paper, places the lid on top, and affixes our logo, a gold crown with simple foil letters stamped ANGELINI SHOE COMPANY.

“Seventy-five pairs of eggshell beige pumps to Harlen Levine at Picardy Footwear in Milwaukee,” June says as she loads a box into a crate. “And now, I could use a beer.”

“Autosuggestion.” I pull my work apron on.

“We’re expecting the Palamara girl any minute,” Gram reminds me. “I’m going to have you measure her for the pattern.”

“Okay.” This is a first. Gram usually does the measurements. I look at June, who gives me an enthusiastic thumbs-up.

There’s a knock on the entrance door. The wind off the river is so strong, the bride-to-be practically blows into the shop when I open the door for her.

Rosaria is twenty-five years old, with a full face, black eyes, a small pink smile, and straight blond hair. Her mother had her wedding shoes made here, and Rosaria is carrying on the tradition. “I’m so excited.” She rummages in her purse. “Hi, everybody,” she says without looking up. Then she pulls a magazine article, stapled to a larger sheet of paper with a hand-drawn sketch of the dress, out of her purse.

“Here’s my gown. I copied an Amsale.”

“Lovely.” Gram hands the picture and sketch to me. “Valentine is going to make your shoes from start to finish.”

“Great.” Rosaria smiles. The sketch shows a simple empire-waist gown in silk faille. It has a square neck and a sheer cap sleeve. “What do you think?”

“It’s very Camelot,” I tell her. “Have you ever seen Camelot?”

She shakes her head that she hasn’t.

“Don’t you watch old movies with your grandmother?”

“Nope.”

June laughs. “Camelot is not an old movie.”