Brava, Valentine

2. From the Bottom of My Heart

GRAM AND DOMINIC CHOSE THEIR favorite restaurant in Arezzo for their wedding reception. Tucked into a narrow side street off the plaza, Antica Osteria l’Agania is a quaint, local spot that has been in operation since Dominic was a boy. We are welcomed through a rustic oak door by the maître d’. The large wrought iron scrollwork handle is decorated with a small cluster of bridal greenery and white ribbons.

We enter a large main room with wooden beams on the ceiling, surrounded by stucco walls painted a dull gold. The large picture windows are dressed with gold chiffon Roman shades. One long farm table, situated at the center of the room, is covered in a white lace tablecloth with small silk tassels in the shape of bells draped over the sides. Orsola works her way around the table, placing small net bags of confetti (pink and white candied almonds) at each place setting. Small bouquets of violets are placed down the center of the table, surrounded by clusters of twinkling votive candles.

Whenever I see a garden of flickering cut-crystal votive candles, I think of my ex-boyfriend Roman Falconi and our first date at his restaurant, Ca’Doro. For a moment, I miss that long, tall chef from Chicago.

“What’s the matter?” Tess asks. “Don’t tell me-”

“No, I’ve moved on. I’ve definitely moved on.”

“If you want Roman back-”

“No, I don’t want him back.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.” Here’s the thing. I could use an escort today. Whenever there’s a family function, I’m reminded I’m single, so I shuffle through the Old Boyfriend File, my version of People magazine’s “Where Are They Now?” to see if there’s anyone I could have scrounged up to accompany me, instead of suffering through solo. It’s not healthy to walk through the boneyard of my romantic past because the results are always the same, but I do it anyway. If self-improvement is a theme in my family, so is self-punishment.

On ordinary days I love being single, and I consider it a choice, not a curse, but I’ve learned that a woman needs a date at family funerals and weddings, if only for diversion from the drama. It’s comforting to have a date to dump all the extra emotions upon, like gravy on macaroni. That’s why in-laws were invented-if only to point out that your family is crazier than mine, as Charlie reminds Tess, and Tom reminds Jaclyn. Even Clickety-Click-Pamela-can be seen supporting my brother in her firm Germanic fashion. The spouses quell the histrionics-or at least, they try to.

Wedding receptions in Italy are not like our extravaganzas back home, and tonight, I wish they were. I would prefer to hide in a big crowd in a cavernous, noisy hall. It’s easy to slip away when the disco ball descends and the guests are covered in white polka-dots in the dark. I like to have the option of slipping out early, before the Beach Boys medley and the chicken dance, without anyone missing me. Loud music that drowns out any unpleasant comments or intrusive conversation is also a plus. This intimate wedding reception (intimate for Italians is a head count under fifty)-twenty of us gathered around one table, most of us blood relatives-will be a lot of work.

Gram and Dom make the rounds, greeting the guests. The bride is so openly happy and optimistic, I can’t help but be. I had no way of knowing how I would feel once Gram was actually married. Her happiness is as important to me as my own, so I never wavered in wanting her to be with the man she loved, even if it meant giving up her life on Perry Street and starting over in Italy. But now that the ceremony is over, and she’s officially Mrs. Vechiarelli, it’s another feeling entirely to be on the other side of it. Now it’s back to reality.

We take our seats around the table. I look for Gianluca, who hasn’t arrived yet. He disappeared after the ceremony as soon as we were done taking pictures. I was curious, wondering where he went, but quickly reasoned that there are Italian customs I know nothing about-and who knows, maybe he had to go to city hall and sign papers or meet with the priest. It could be anything.

“I left the seat next to you wide open,” Tess whispers. “Where is Gianluca?”

“I don’t know.” I check the door again.

“He’s the only single man at this wedding.”

“Besides Gepetto over there.” I point to a robust eighty-year-old with a thick swatch of white hair and a matching mustache who hammers loose tobacco down into his pipe like he’s pounding rocks at the state prison. “He’s starting to look good to me.”

“You can date twenty years above your decade, and not one year more,” Tess says.

I guess Gianluca, eighteen years my senior, qualifies in the under-twenty category.

Dominic and Gram make a stop and talk to Gepetto. The blood relatives are clumped in the center, with the children staggered in and out of the adult seating, in the hope that separation will keep them out of trouble. My brother-in-law Tom pours champagne into our glasses; evidently the waiters don’t dispense the booze fast enough for him. He fills Aunt Feen’s glass.

My brother, Alfred, takes his seat across the table from me.

“What do you think?”

“It seems like a nice restaurant,” Alfred says as he taps the table absentmindedly with his soup spoon. My brother usually appears spit polished and fresh, but today he seems tired. He has dark circles under his eyes, and more than a bit of gray shows through his shiny black hair, parted neatly to the side. He loosens his tie.

“No, I mean about Gram getting married.”

“I’m going to miss her,” he says. “I don’t see her every day like you do, but I like knowing she’s there.”

“Me too.” I reach into my purse for Gianluca’s handkerchief. My brother’s sweet comment, coming from a guy who isn’t known for those, moves me.

“Why are you crying?” Alfred says.

“Oh, I don’t know, about a million things.” I rarely cry, so when I have a good sob, it’s about everything. I’m sad about my relationship with my brother, who I will never be close to after a lifetime of trying. I cry about the changes ahead back home, and how much I will miss Gram. I weep because I don’t have a date to this shindig and because world peace has not been achieved in my lifetime. I just let it flow.

The door to the restaurant opens, and a woman enters. She’s a knockout, a tall blonde in a jet-black mink coat. My mother looks up-she has a sixth sense whenever a sable enters a room.

Every head in the room turns to drink in the sight of this mysterious goddess, and the men’s heads stay turned. It’s as if invisible LoJacks have been attached to their necks and rotated in her direction. Yes, she is that beautiful. “Maybe she is here to pick up take-out,” I say to Tess.

“Don’t think so,” she says softly.

The bombshell is followed by Gianluca, who guides her by the arm to the table. He helps her out of her coat. The men exhale like they’ve found middle C on the pitch pipe as they drink her body in. Her shape is lushly proportioned: tiny waist, ripe bust and hips-like a bow tie on its side. Her bella figura lives up to her bella faccia.

“You got to be kidding me,” Tess says under her breath. “Gianluca brought a date?” Tess yanks her purse from the chair she was saving for him and shoves it under the table. “He’s on his own.”

I’m stunned. Maybe I’ll switch seats. There’s an empty next to the bachelor Gepetto.

Gram, unaware of the goddess, leans over me and takes my hand. “Valentine, what did you think of the ceremony?”

“It was perfect.”

“I think so.” Gram smiles. “How was the carriage ride?”

“Like a hayride to the pumpkin patch,” Aunt Feen complains loudly. “Bumpy, rickety and annoying…like old age.” Then she picks up her glass of champagne and drains it like she’s dousing a parched houseplant upon returning from a two-week vacation at the shore. Tom quickly refills her glass.

“It was quaint,” I correct her.

“Too much hoopla.” Aunt Feen dabs her lips with the napkin. “Simplicity should be a goal in life.”

Gianluca brushes past us to greet the guests at the far end of the table.

Tess scoots her seat back.

“Where are you going?” I don’t want her to leave me.

“I’m going to say hello to the blonde,” she says.

“Why?”

“It’s a fact-finding expedition,” she says, then whispers, “make friends with the enemy.”

“I’m going with you.” I take a swig of champagne and follow my sister. When I stand, my pearls rattle like Marley’s chains in A Christmas Carol.

“Hello!” Tess says to the lady.

“Ciao.” The mink lady’s blond hair cascades over her bare shoulders, accentuated by a portraiture sweetheart neckline on a black velvet strapless (of course) cocktail dress. Her green eyes are framed by thick black eyelashes. She’s downright hypnotic. She wears a luscious perfume that has the scent of lavender and honey. I can’t tell how old she is, and it doesn’t matter. She’s one of those women who can’t be placed in a particular decade.

“Parla inglese?” Tess chirps.

She replies, “Un po.”

“Che nomme?” I ask.

“Mi chiamo Carlotta,” she says. Then she points to Tess and me. “ Sorelle?”

“Si, si, siamo sorelle.”

Tess says, “Teodora é la nostra nonnina.”

“Boy, that Rosetta Stone program paid off,” I compliment my sister.

“Si,” Tess nods proudly.

My father, brother, and the men from the village gather around behind us, squeezing us closer to Carlotta. We encircle her like contestants in a cakewalk, and guess who’s the coveted grand prize, the Lady Baltimore layer cake?

Tess and I step back, our personal space violated by this intruding pack. This room is not large to begin with, and it’s best if everyone stays seated, but Carlotta is a lure, and her beauty and whatever else she’s got have created a tight stag circle around her. Tess and I turn to go back to our seats, and we have to actually push hard to break the seawall of men to return to our places.

Carlotta throws her head back and laughs as she chats with the adoring men. She is captivating. If I were Gianluca and had to choose between her and me in this moment, I’d go with Carlotta.

I look down at the garlands of pearls around my neck. This morning, they were chic, and now they seem more plastic than fashionable faux, more childish than sophisticated, and about twelve strands too many. I’m the overdecorated lower branches of a Christmas tree where the kids have free rein to hang ornaments. Cluttered. In contrast, Carlotta wears a simple gold chain around her long neck, 24K for sure. It nestles in her ample cleavage like two tributaries feeding into the Mighty Miss-i-ssip. The rope of gold glitters against her tawny skin.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Jaclyn says.

“I’ll bet you don’t.”

“You’re younger,” Jaclyn reasons.

“I don’t think that matters.”

“Well…you’re every bit as attractive as she is.” Tess’s brow furrows as she observes her husband pour Carlotta a glass of champagne. Even Charlie Fazzani is smitten.

“Let’s face it-she could do the Anita Ekberg turn in the Trevi fountain in La Dolce Vita better than Anita Ekberg. I could do the same scene, and all I’d be is…wet.”

Gianluca has joined the boys as they vie to dazzle Carlotta. I put my champagne flute down and head for the kitchen.

The kitchen is twice the size of the dining room. A chef, a tense man in his forties, and two cooks prepare the meal.

“Avrebbe bisogno di un po’ d’aiuto?” I ask.

The chef breaks a smile and shakes his head that he doesn’t.

“Le dispiace se rimango a guardare mentre lavora?”

He nods that I may. Better to be in this hot hell than the one in the dining room.

The cook pulls a large strainer out of a boiling vat of pasta. The steam sends clouds of mist over the worktable. The chef reaches up and grabs a copper pot shaped like a wok with a handle and puts it on a low flame. Then he spoons butter into the pan, followed by cream and a handful of sugar. Then he opens a small bottle of liqueur. He leans across the worktable for me to sniff. It’s a sweet brandy of some sort.

“Questo l’ho fatto io. E’ un liquore fatto di pesche e more,” he explains.

He drops a bit of the liquor into the butter and cream, then swishes the mixture around. The sweetest scent of a summer garden loaded with thickets of ripe berries rises from the pot.

The cook takes the pasta shaped like delicate rosettes and spills them into the pan of sauce without losing one to the floor or leaving one in the strainer. The chef lifts the pot to the worktable and flips the mixture, without using a spoon, until the rosettes are coated in the buttery cream sauce.

The second cook takes small plates and ladles the pasta onto the plates. The chef takes sprigs of sugared violets and places them in the center. The waiters gather the plates on their arms and exit to the dining room.

“Mangia!” the chef says, clapping his hands, shooing me out of his kitchen. But I want to stay. I want to watch him create our meal. I want to learn and retain his techniques. I want to wash dishes, scrub pots, anything, just so I won’t ever have to go back into the dining room and have to face this long meal of many courses with my family and Carlotta and Gianluca and the mess of it all. I’ve hit the wall. I want to go home. To the United States of America. To sleep in my own bed. Alone.

Mom peeks into the kitchen. “It’s time, Val.”

I’m a middle child, who only stands up for what she wants when absolutely forced to in a life-and-death situation. At all other times, I suck it up and defer to the will of the group. Gianluca showing up with a hot date isn’t exactly life or death, unless you consider humiliation terminal, so I give up and follow my mother into the dining room, where the guests are seated and already fawning over the pasta.

Gianluca has his seat turned toward Carlotta and away from the guests. Lovely. Aunt Feen is munching off a flat of bread, while the children amuse themselves with the cutlery. My father entertains Gepetto with a story, in English, which he pretends to understand while Gram and Dom take their places at the head of the table. Dominic stands.

“Benvenuti tutti al nostro matrimonio. Teodora ed io ci consideriamo davvero fortunati d’esserci trovati e siamo lieti di avere le nostre famiglie unite in amore.

“Vi ringraziamo d’essere qui presenti a celebrare con noi questo bellissimo giorno, e tutti i bei giorni del nostro avvenire. Auguriamo che il nostro matrimonio porterà tanta fortuna alle nostre famiglie. SALUTE!” He raises his glass.

The glasses touch, clinking together softly like piano keys.

The pasta course is followed by succulent roasted capon on polenta. Next is a small purse of filet mignon in pastry, then a fresh salad of greens and pignoli nuts with sliced oranges. I forget my troubles and slights, and do what I do best no matter what else is happening in the universe: eat. I enjoy every single bite. Every once in a while I look down to the end of the table where Carlotta and Gianluca are engrossed in conversation, and shovel in another bite in their honor.

Finally, after a meal with more courses than a Berlusconi bacchanal, the wedding cake is brought from the kitchen. It’s a traditional white layer cake, but on the top tier, instead of a miniature bride and groom, there is a pair of tiny pink marzipan pumps next to a pair of men’s wing tips made of chocolate. The guests applaud as the cake topped with candy shoes is placed in the center of the table.

The waiters quickly fill the center of the table with platters of pastries iced in pink, dusted with sugar, or drizzled in honey. I’m going to sample every cookie, and I’d like to see somebody try and stop me. I motion to the waiter to bring espresso so I might stay awake through my binge.

Aunt Feen rises from her seat and holds up her glass. “I’d like to make a toast.”

The guests are silent as all eyes go to Aunt Feen. “My sister Tessie-that’s right, Tessie-I know you fancy-pants Italians called her Teodora, but that’s your choice. I’m gonna call my sister what I called her all my life. Tessie…Now, where was I?…Tessie is my sister…and she happens to be a good egg. Dominic, I don’t know you from a hole in the wall, but you seem okay. It’s a little kook-a-luke for two eighty-year-olds to get married-that’s just me. But you did it and it’s done and that’s where we are…”

It’s more than fine that half the people in this room don’t speak English, because if they did, they would know to be insulted. I look down the table at my mother, who is mouthing words with no sound coming out, like a carp marooned on dry land. As Aunt Feen drones on, Jaclyn and Tess exchange worried looks. My sister-in-law Pamela has her eyes squeezed shut as if she’s witnessing the massacre finale in the Texas Chainsaw movie.

Aunt Feen continues, “So raise your glasses to the seminarians-”

“Octogenarians,” my father corrects her softly. This is a first-he’s correcting someone else’s misuse of the English language. My immediate family exchanges looks of utter surprise. What could be next? Sophia Loren actually looks her chronological age?

Feen waves her hand dismissively at my father and turns to Dominic and Gram. “Octopuses. Whatever the hell you are. Cent’Anni.”

The glasses clink with a ferocity, as if to drown out any further commentary by Aunt Feen. I hear Charlie say, “Whoa,” under his breath, while Jaclyn freezes her gaze, like Bambi seeing flames, upon Aunt Feen.

My family’s insanity can only be kept under wraps before the general public for four hours max. We’re on hour five, and it’s dire. I chew on my pearls.

Gram and Dominic share a kiss at the end of the table, but cut it short when Aunt Feen bellows, “Cut the cake!” Evidently, the newlyweds are not moving fast enough for Aunt Feen. She stands up, picks up the silver knife decorated with white ribbons, and wields it over the cake like a sword. A collective gasp goes up in the room.

“Auntie,” my mother says, and then laughs gaily as though we have knife play at all our family gatherings.

Aunt Feen stands firmly gripping the knife with two hands poised over the cake like a chef preparing to hack an eel in half in a Benihana commercial.

“Oh, Auntie, put the knife down,” Mom says casually, then glares at my father to do something.

I look around to my father and brothers-in-law, who evidently, when they gawked at Carlotta’s assets, inhaled her perfume loaded with kryptonite and have lost their ability to wrangle knives out of the hands of old ladies. They look away. Even Gepetto looks off in the distance, exhaling smoke in gray puffs like a leaky exhaust pipe. Clearly, the men don’t believe this is their problem. So I stand up and place my hand out. “Aunt Feen, give me the knife.”

“I’m gonna cut the cake,” she yells. “Cut the cake!”

“No, you’re not. The bride cuts the cake,” I say firmly.

“And the mouse takes the cheese!” Aunt Feen bellows as she circles the knife above her head. The guests shriek. Aunt Feen yells, “And the cheese stands alone!”

“Give me the knife, Aunt Feen,” I repeat. “Now.”

Gram rises and scoots behind the seated guests until she’s behind her sister. “Feen…,” she whispers, “give it to me.” Gram gets a grip on the knife handle and Aunt Feen relinquishes it.

“Ah, what the hell.” Aunt Feen drops down into her seat. “Cut your cake. Cut your cake.”

Dominic joins Gram, and together they place their hands on the knife handle and evenly slice it into the lowest layer. The gentle cut of true love triumphs over the potential hack job of hate. The guests resume their revelry as the cell phones come out and we commence snapping happy photos from all angles. Gram and Dominic hold for pictures as the waiter takes the cake to the kitchen.

“That was close,” Tess whispers.

“We have to get her out of here,” I whisper back.

Aunt Feen drains her wine and slams the empty glass onto the table. Every head turns toward the thud. Aunt Feen lifts herself out of her chair, gripping the table edge for balance. She stands. She straightens her shoulders. She surveys the room. Even Gepetto, who doesn’t understand a word of English, looks frightened as Aunt Feen looms over the table.

“And one more thing…,” she announces, raising one hand with a pointed finger to the ceiling. And then, like the drop delivery of a box spring from 1-800-MATTRESS, Aunt Feen falls full-body backward.

To the sound of twenty chairs scraping the wood floor, accompanied by cries of “Dear God” and gasps of “O Dio,” Aunt Feen hits the floor on cue, and at the drop of her Second Act curtain.

The Hospital of Santo Pietro looks less like a haven of healing, and more like a perfunctory credit union back home. The sparse waiting area has a plain desk and lamp, and simple wooden benches along the wall. There is a suite of small rooms tucked behind the waiting area, according to my mother, who peeked. I don’t have a good feeling about this place, and from the looks on the faces of my family, they don’t either. This place makes Queens General Hospital (the insignia in Latin is translated to: Don’t Go There) seem like the Mayo Clinic.

Aunt Feen is inside with the doctor. For whatever reason, when she came to she glommed on to Charlie, who carried her out of the restaurant in his arms and into the carriage, which brought us here. Aunt Feen, forgetting she’d rebuffed him earlier, or maybe guilty because she had, insisted Charlie go with her to be examined.

Tom took the baby and the kids back to the hotel. A quick call to Signora Guarasci, the proprietor at the inn, and she was on hand to help with my nieces and nephews. This is going to be a long night, and my sisters need the backup so they can be here for Aunt Feen.

Mom paces the floor. Her aqua chiffon cocktail dress looks like something the alto section might wear during a “Harvest Moon” number on The Lawrence Welk Show. A panel of fabric studded with pale blue seed pearls flows behind her as she paces the floor. Whenever my mother dresses formally, she resembles a bird, going for color, movement, and flight. Her upsweep, which stayed up at the restaurant, has begun its downward spiral.

My father sits between Jaclyn and me on a small bench under a framed movie poster in Italian of the Marx Brothers’ Animal Crackers.

“Feen went down like a brick.” Dad loosens his tie. “Ka-boom.”

“I hope there’s not permanent damage.” Jaclyn’s eyes fill with tears.

“Who knows? It’s a wait-and-see situation. When it comes to a head injury, I know it’s better if you see blood. Then you know she’s not bleeding on the interior. P.S. I didn’t see a drop of blood,” Dad says.

It’s times like these that I wish someone in my family had gone into the field of medicine. We could use an expert right now. “You can bleed inside and out,” I correct my father. “It’s not an either/or.”

“Okay. Then her fall could be a killer of the silent type caused by a stroke.” My father folds his arms across his chest. “A stroke and a sub-see-quent blow to the head…she’s finished.”

“Dad.” Jaclyn mops up her tears with a scrap of brown paper towel from the restroom.

When Aunt Feen toppled, the reception officially ended. She came to fairly quickly while lying on the floor, after the thud, but she was woozy. The cake went uneaten, the net bags of confetti remained on the tables, the cookie trays were untouched. We grabbed our purses and followed Aunt Feen to the hospital quickly. I’m worried about my great-aunt, but I’m sad for Gram that her wedding day has been ruined. I get up and go to Gram. “I’m sorry about all of this.” I put my arms around her.

“It’s okay. I just want Feen to be all right.”

The doctor pushes through the door. Dominic rushes over to him. They converse in Italian.

“Does Dr. Kildare over there speak English?” Dad says.

“I do.” The doctor looks at my father. He’s around forty, slim build, balding, and wears glasses.

“No wedding ring,” Tess whispers.

I glare at her.

“Is it serious?” I ask the doctor.

“We did a scan of her brain and neck-there appears to be no trauma to the head.”

We actually applaud the good news.

“I’d like to see that scan,” Dad says under his breath. “What did they do it with? Pliers and a mirror?”

“Allora, dottore,” my mother purrs, “ mi dica la prognosi per mia zia?” My sisters and I look at one another. My mother flirts whenever a situation requires immediate service. This rule applies to mechanics and doctors as well as Pierre, who dyes Mom’s roots at the Jean Louis Hair Salon on Queens Boulevard.

“The scan showed nothing.” The doctor shrugs. “She is very lucky.”

“So what caused the fall?” Dad wants to know.

“Her blood alcohol level is extremely high,” the doctor says. “She’s inebriated.”

“Drunk?” My father throws his hands up. “Feen is drunk!” My father turns away in disgust.

“We gave her an espresso and two aspirins,” the doctor says. “She’s sobering up.”

“I don’t believe this,” Jaclyn says.

I’m beginning to miss the cake and the platter of cookies we left back at the restaurant. I could use a cannoli or two right about now.

“So, what do we do?” Mom asks the doctor.

“Take her home and let her sleep it off,” the doctor says.

My family goes from a grief-stricken pre-funeral-planning state to annoyance, then anger, in ten seconds flat. Only Gram breaks a smile. She’s relieved, and now her new life can begin. We gather our belongings to go.

“I knew no good would come of this trip. You can’t take senior citizens abroad and hope they survive out of their comfort zone. I don’t think anybody should venture into areas where they don’t speak the language,” Dad says.

“Really. They don’t speak English in Bayside, Dutch, and that’s a quarter of a mile from our house.”

“You know what I mean. Foreign countries. Aunt Feen is too old and too American to be cavorting around the world. She can’t handle the stress, so she hit the bottle.”

“What stress?” Tess wonders. “She had to get dressed up and sit in a church and then go to a restaurant to eat. How hard is that?”

“It’s not. But something is troubling her. Why would Aunt Feen get drunk?” My mother addresses our group. “She’s not a drinker.”

“She’s jealous,” I tell them.

“Of what?” Mom asks.

“Of whom. She’s jealous of Gram.”

“Oh come on. They’re eighty and seventy-eight-jealous of what?”

“They’ve been competitive all their lives. Feen has always felt second-class, the baby who could never surpass the older sister. And Feen remembers who got the roller skates for Christmas and who got the socks.”

“Valentine, that’s ridiculous.”

“Really? If you had caught Aunt Feen on her second cocktail, three before she hit cement, she would tell you all about how Gram was the favorite, and how her sister always got everything she wanted. And now, Gram even has a husband. Aunt Feen faked being sick this morning for attention. She fell asleep at the ceremony like it wasn’t important enough for her to stay awake at her own sister’s wedding, and then, when neither of those things worked to her advantage, when her mere disdain of the whole wedding didn’t get it canceled, she did what she had to do to refocus the limelight off Gram and onto herself by getting stewed at the reception.”

“Dear God.” My mother shakes her head in disbelief. “Is this who we are?”

“And look. Aunt Feen won. We left the reception and came to the hospital and sat vigil for her. Now, instead of the bride being the center of attention on her wedding day, it’s Feen. Mission accomplished! And now, get ready. When she sobers up, expect complete contrition. She’ll be so sorry that she turned this day that belonged to her sister into one that she stole with an accidental fall. But don’t believe a word of it. This has been an act all along.”

“Charlie overheard her playing it up in there to the doctor. She pulled a full Meryl Streep, with tears and everything,” Tess says. “Told the doctor she had a nervous condition.”

“Aunt Feen ruined this wedding, and that was her intention from the moment she set foot on the flight,” I assure them.

“That’s sick,” Jaclyn says.

It’s hard for Jaclyn to imagine that one sister could ever turn on another. Tess, Jaclyn, and I have had our fights, but we get over our disagreements quickly. We root for one another’s happiness and do everything we can to support one another. We are not like Great-aunt Feen and Gram. Tess shakes her head sadly at the realization that what I am saying is true.

“It’s just awful. That’s all,” Mom says.

Gianluca and Lady Zing-Zang-Zoom push through the door. Carlotta’s perfume fills the air like a breeze after a sweet, summer shower. I hate her.

Gianluca looks around the room. When his eyes find his father, Dominic, he goes directly to him. They speak rapidly in Italian as Dominic explains the diagnosis. I can’t catch everything he says, but it sounds like Dominic is telling Gianluca that everything is okay and he is free to go.

Gianluca kisses Gram on the cheek, and then embraces his father. He then goes to my parents and says good night. Then he turns to the group, the rest of us, and sort of does a wave on his way out. I got a wave for you, I want to shout after him, and it’s four fingers short of a hand. Now, I hate him too. I can’t believe I was longing to kiss him only twelve hours ago. Now I’d like to sock him. Take your lips and go, I’d like to tell him. Too late. He took his lips and he’s gone. He’s out the door with Carlotta- lotta everything I ain’t got.

A cold winter wind kicks up, sending a chill through us as we walk back to the inn. It took Aunt Feen an hour to sober up, and when she did, Mom, Dad, Dominic, and Charlie loaded her into the carriage to take her back to the Inn. My sisters, Gram, Alfred, and I volunteered to follow on foot.

Arezzo is serene; it closes down early like most quiet Italian villages when night falls. The lights from the houses throw streaks of gold light onto the dark streets as we pass.

Alfred, Gram, and I walk together, not saying much. The only sound we hear is the soft click of our heels hitting the stone streets and the muted chatter of Tess and Jaclyn, who walk ahead of us, no doubt discussing whether to put Aunt Feen in rehab. We revel in a crisis that results in putting one of our own in a short-term residential facility. We enjoy nothing more than packing a picnic basket and visiting our infirm on the weekends.

Gram takes Alfred’s arm on one side, and mine on the other. “This is nice, just the three of us,” she says.

When it comes to Alfred and me, Gram is on a peacekeeping mission at all times. Even though I’m her longtime partner at the Angelini Shoe Company, and she confides in me, Gram had a lot of decisions to make, big and small, personal and professional, when she accepted Dominic’s proposal to marry. Alfred has become a sounding board for all the arrangements, and has helped her shape her life plan moving forward.

Alfred holds the place of authority in our family universe. He is our grandmother’s only grandson. He is also the eldest and only son in our family, which gives him the advantage thanks to the ancient Roman law of primogeniture. Alfred is “the prince,” and our de facto leader. A decision is never final until my brother gives it his stamp of approval.

“What a day.” Gram sighs.

“We’ll remember the good parts, Gram,” I tell her.

“I hope so.” Gram smiles. “I’m relieved my sister is going to be all right.”

“She’ll be fine,” I assure her.

“You know, I count on both of you.” Gram tightens her grip on my arm.

Gram had planned to meet with Alfred and me after the reception. One last attempt to encourage us to be nice to one another, I’m sure. I haven’t trusted my brother’s motives since he tried to sell Gram’s building out from under us last year, and close the shoe company that has been in operation since 1903.

I was four years into my apprenticeship when he attempted his takeover. The economic collapse of the American banking system last fall helped me throw him off his plan. As real estate values plummeted, he became less eager to sell Gram’s building, but I can tell from his demeanor that he’s still up to something. My brother always has a plan B.

In the world of Manhattan real estate, Gram’s building is still prime, with its West Village location and spectacular Hudson River views. But Gram could never sell it now for the price she would have gotten only one year ago. This has only made Alfred more resentful toward me. Now that Gram has a new life in Italy, it’s clear I’m on my own again. I’m the only thing that stands between Alfred and a hefty sale on Perry Street. I accept that I will be in the fight of my life when the plane lands at JFK tomorrow night.

“I hope you’ll look out for Aunt Feen,” she begins.

“I will,” Alfred promises.

“We all will,” I amend. I’m always amending my brother. Plus, I know the truth of the situation. It won’t be Pamela and Alfred running over to Feen’s apartment with meals. My brother won’t do her laundry and take her to her doctor’s appointments. He won’t be the one to sit with her at the senior center on bingo night. It will be the women, my mother, sisters, and me.

“I didn’t mean you wouldn’t-I was just assuring Gram that she can count on me.”

Alfred’s tone is insulting.

“Great,” I snark.

“That’s enough. Listen to me. I have given a lot of thought to what’s to become of the Angelini Shoe Company. And I’ve come up with a plan. I’m going to make you partners.”

“Alfred and me? You can’t be serious. We’d have to call the company Chalk and Cheese, because we couldn’t be more different.”

Alfred puts his hands in his pockets and looks away.

“It’s the Angelini Shoe Company now and forever,” Gram says firmly.

“All of sudden you’re nostalgic? How could this work?” I point to my brother. “Ever?”

“It has to work. I trained you, Valentine, and you’ve proven you’re at the start of a great career as a shoemaker-a designer-an artist, which, really, I never was. But you need help.”

“I don’t need his help. I don’t want his help. I’m doing fine without him.”

“You need help on the financial end of things.”

“The financials are easier than the design,” I say defensively.

“That statement alone shows that you don’t know what you’re talking about,” Alfred jabs.

“What don’t I know, Alfred?”

Alfred faces me. “We should have sold that building last year, when we could have gotten a fantastic price. We could have been proactive and moved the company to a cheaper site, like Jersey. Now, because we waited, because you made us wait, we have to ride this bad economy out until it turns!”

“I’m not riding out my design career! I’m in it for life!”

“No, he means the value of the building versus the debt,” Gram says calmly. “Valentine, I wouldn’t be comfortable saddling you with everything involving the business. But you’ve been right on two counts.” Gram looks at Alfred to make certain he is listening. She turns back to me. “The custom bridal shoe business should not move from Perry Street-it’s been there nearly a hundred years and it should stay there. It’s important to keep the original shoe business going as you develop your new line. There is power in the name, and in our tradition, so exploit it. I think you’re brilliant to have come up with a design for an everyday shoe. It never dawned on me to expand the company in this way. But you thought of the Bella Rosa, and you’re doing it, and good for you-good for all of us.”

“Thanks,” I mumble.

Gram continues, “Now, I’ve worked everything out with my attorney, Ray Rinaldi. Alfred, I’ve made my decision, and I expect you to honor my wishes. The workshop and the business will remain in the building. Valentine, you may also continue to live in the building. You will be the chief executive officer of Angelini Shoes. You will be in charge of everything creative, and of the day-to-day operation of the shop. And Alfred, you will be the chief financial officer.”

“Don’t do this to me, please!” I beg her.

“Valentine, you have to trust me,” she says.

“But this is a huge mistake!” I stop and throw up my hands. Jaclyn is right. My family is always yelling-inside the hotel, on the quiet streets of Arezzo-it doesn’t matter, anywhere you look, no matter what time of day or night, we are ready for a fight.

“It’s what Gram wants.” Alfred turns to face me. “It’s her decision.”

My mind reels. I don’t want this, but it seems if I don’t agree to it, Gram will be forced to devise another strategy-and it won’t be in my favor. On the other hand, Alfred has a full-time job-so really, how much would he be around? Not much. I take a deep breath. “Okay, Gram, if this is what you want…”

“It’s what’s best,” Gram says.

“But there have to be conditions to this deal.”

“Oh, now you have terms.” Alfred folds his arms across his chest.

“I work there, I’ve been working there for over five years, and I intend to stay.”

“Fair enough,” Alfred concedes.

“I run the shop. On the custom side, I buy the materials, make the deals with the vendors, and maintain the stock. I meet with the customer, design the shoe to her liking, and then put it through the construction process on a schedule. I oversee the pattern cutting, and I build the shoe. I’ve developed the secondary line, and I don’t intend to share the copyright of the Bella Rosa with anyone. Anything that I design belongs to me. At the moment, I also keep the books, pay the bills, and juggle the loans. If you want to take over the books, handle the loans, and structure the debt and the taxes, great. The time I save with you doing all of that will free me up to do more design work. I’m not interested in being your boss, and I won’t have you be mine.”

“Fair enough,” he says quietly.

“And…I’m not going to agree to any of this unless you agree that you will not be directly involved in the creative side-”

“Fine.” Alfred cuts me off, not because he doesn’t want to argue, but the truth is, he could not care less about the shoes. He could as easily be CFO of a company that makes bricks-Angelini shoes are just a product to him, numbers on a ledger. Legacy is a cross to my brother, not a crown.

“I don’t want you underfoot,” I tell him.

“Then we have a problem,” he says.

“Alfred will be a full partner in every way,” Gram says. “He’s going to devote himself to modernizing the company, on a day-to-day basis.”

“How? He already has a job.”

“I’m no longer at the bank,” Alfred says quietly.

“What?” Maybe this is what Pamela and Alfred were fighting about-exactly what Jaclyn heard through the walls at the inn. “You quit the bank?”

“I was let go,” he admits.

“But you’ve been there eighteen years!” In an instant, I’m defensive for my brother. He is, after all, a brilliant businessman and the biggest success story in our family. The fact that he didn’t respect my work never meant that I didn’t respect his. I’m angry for him. “Those banks!”

“I saw it coming,” Alfred says. “But that doesn’t make it any easier. Believe me, I wouldn’t take this job if I didn’t have to.”

“Gram, it’s not right that you went behind my back and made a deal with Alfred without consulting me.”

“We needed a plan, Valentine. I didn’t want to dump the whole company on you and leave you to struggle in this economy without a plan.”

“Fair enough. But Alfred?”

“Valentine,” Gram warns. “We’re lucky we have someone in the family with Alfred’s knowledge and level of experience.”

“Of all people! He hates my guts.”

“I don’t hate you at all,” my brother says impatiently. “I don’t approve of the way you do things, and I question your choices-”

“Who are you to question my choices? I know how you feel-you think I’m a screw-up, in life and work. How would you like to feel judged all the time?”

“You have good qualities,” he says quietly.

“There’s a ringing endorsement.”

“Look, Gram is right. You need help. Someone to take the reins.”

“You’re not taking the reins, Alfred. We’re sharing them. Right, Gram?”

I remember the ride to the church this morning, and how when the horse went off course, and the wheels slid on the wet pavement, the driver held both reins and guided the carriage back to safety. It would never work to have two drivers, each holding one of the reins, each with a different idea about how to direct the carriage back on course. It takes one driver to steer a carriage-and a singular vision to run a company.

I have no idea how a partnership with my brother could possibly work. I can’t picture myself side by side with Alfred, making important decisions or haggling about inventory. But this is the deal Gram has made, and it’s her company, and her building. She could have given them both to me outright, but she didn’t. I have to accept her terms. I have no choice. And she knows it.

“When you return home, I’ve set up a meeting with Ray at the shop. He’ll go over the details, but I’ve already signed off on my end. I’m no longer sole proprietor of the Angelini Shoe Company. I will maintain an emeritus position on the board of directors, which now includes each of you. When the time comes for me to sell the business outright, that will be a decision that we will make together. In the meantime, can I trust you two to take care of our family business?”

Alfred says yes aloud, and I nod in agreement. I’m afraid if I speak, I’ll cry, and I can’t give Alfred that satisfaction.

“Your grandfather would be so happy, and so proud that his grandchildren joined forces to run his company.” Gram’s voice breaks. Grandpop has loomed over this day like a heavy storm cloud threatening rain. In the glow of her present happiness with Dominic, Gram has been thinking about her first husband. She and Grandpop’s long and difficult marriage has fallen into shadow, but not so far into the dark as to not be seen. Gram spent more than fifty years of her life with my grandfather, and even in death, his wishes matter to her.

“You took good care of the family brand,” I reassure her.

“You can do better,” she assures me. “And with Alfred, you will.”

The things I will remember about Gram’s wedding won’t be poignant (the recitation of the vows) or sad (Aunt Feen hitting the floor), they won’t be joyous, or romantic, they will be practical. With one hand she signed her wedding license, and with the other she cut the Angelini Shoe Company in half, like a sheet of leather.

As we climb the steps of the inn, the night sky changes from midnight blue to steel gray. A small sliver of a powder blue moon pushes through the dark clouds. The moon doesn’t throw much light, but it doesn’t have to. I can see everything plainly: the road is dark, it’s winding, and I have no idea where it leads.