Brava, Valentine

4. Just as Though You Were Here

THE FOLDERS LIE NEATLY ON Gram’s long dining room table, just as she left them, plainly marked in her own hand: House/Maintenance, City/Codes and Taxes, Angelini Shoe Company, and Personal. On top of the house folder are sets of keys, marked for every door and window of 166 Perry Street.

I open the file marked Personal first. Gram has written down her international cell phone number, the shop numbers at Vechiarelli & Son, her new address, and a current bank statement from Banca Popolare that lists me jointly with her on the account. It has $5,000 in the plus column and in her handwriting, a Post-it that says: For Emergencies.

I can’t imagine what emergencies she could be referring to-until I open up the House/Maintenance folder. Here are a few potential disasters: boiler breakdown, roof leaks, plumbing fiascos, and wiring/electrical issues. I put my face in my hands.

Now that I officially live here alone, the decor and placement of Gram’s furniture, the couch, the curtains, the old television set, all seem dated. I need to make the place my own. But where to start? I do revere and want to preserve the memories, the history, of this apartment, but every time I walk through, I miss Gram-and it’s because it’s still her house.

Before she left, she was uninterested in the fate of the contents. “Do whatever you want,” she said. But what I really want is for her to be home, and back in the shop with me, the way it used to be.

I make my way downstairs to the workroom. The hallway has the scent of lemon wax and leather, and a tinge of motor oil, because I greased the gears on the cutting machine before going to bed last night.

I push the glass door etched with a cursive A open. My anxieties seem to dissipate once I set foot in this shop. This is a magical place where I feel in total control. We call it a workroom, and while we put in long hours, it’s actually a playroom-where ideas are born.

The patterns June cut yesterday lie neatly on the table, layers of tissue paper and fabric pinned together without a bump or a gather. She propped my sketch of the Osmina on the shelf to remind herself to cut the pattern for our newest addition to the line of custom shoes first thing this morning.

I unlock the window gates and roll them back. It’s a bleak February morning with low winter clouds that hover over the West Side Highway like a sheet of gray-and-white marble.

Delivery trucks sit in a row at the stoplight heading for the Brooklyn Tunnel. It may snow today, and it wouldn’t matter. There’s plenty of work to be done inside. We were in Italy for five days, and even though June worked through, according to the schedule, we’re behind. There is no such thing as vacation in a family-owned business. When we take time off, we pay for it.

I pull on the overhead lights and sit down at the desk. I move the statue of Saint Crispin, who anchors a stack of bills and the paperwork from our payroll company. June left me a heap of mail with a note that reads, “Good luck.” I shuffle through the envelopes.

I open the bank statement. The coffers are full-for now. But the prospects for 2010 are bleak. Our custom line will suffer as luxury goods take a hit in the marketplace. Therefore, I am going to have to move very quickly to establish Angel Shoes, our new, economical line of flats. I designed the Bella Rosa, a durable yet elegant shoe with hip signature embellishments that I hope will be coveted by women sixteen to ninety. I also hope to get the inaugural shoe, the Bella Rosa of the Angel Shoes line, into mass production by the fall.

But there is much to do! I need financing to go into production on a large scale, so I can sell the Bella Rosa to as many vendors as possible. My ex-fiancé, Bret Fitzpatrick, survived the Wall Street meltdown and now works to finance new business. He took me on because of our lifelong friendship, but also because he believes in the vision I have for growing our brand.

We have to find a manufacturer to make the Bella Rosa. Research and leads, subsequent meetings, and conversations point to China, where most American-designed goods are made these days. My grandfather would be horrified at Angelini shoes being made anywhere but Perry Street, and anywhere but the United States, but I have to stay open to all possibilities.

There’s a knock on the window. Bret waves to me through the glass, motioning that he’ll meet me at the entrance. We’ve made a habit of these early-morning meetings. He takes an early train from his home in New Jersey and swings by before he makes his way to Wall Street. As he turns the corner, his navy topcoat flutters behind him in the wind, like the wings of a bluebird in a barren tree.

“I bet you wish you were still in Italy.” He kisses me on the cheek and pushes past me into the shop.

“You have no idea.”

“I got your text. I can’t believe Gram hired Alfred.”

“He starts today. Mr. CFO.”

“Where?”

“Right there.” I point to the desk, which I have cleared to make room for Alfred. It’s the first time since I was a kid that the desk has not been cluttered with stacks of paper. “This new partnership might kill me.”

“It won’t kill you. In fact, if you work it and stay cool, Alfred can actually make your life easier.”

“Do you think so?”

“Absolutely. You’re going to put him to work for you, and he won’t even realize it. First of all, I will deal with your brother on the manufacturing plan. He will do the research, draw up the budgets, make the projections, and reach out to factories that can make your shoes. In the meantime, I’m out raising the money to launch the Angel Shoes brand. With that money, we will put the Bella Rosa into production. Once we have the shoes in production, I will help you place them in the market. Don’t worry. I got your back.”

“You always have.”

“I’m all over it.” Bret opens his briefcase.

His light brown hair is ruffled by the wind. I resist the urge to smooth it, as I did for the ten years we dated, one of them-the last year-actually betrothed before we broke up. There might be a million reasons why it didn’t work out with us, but it only took one to end it. I wanted to be a shoemaker, and he needed a stay-at-home wife. Neither of us wanted to deprive the other of our dreams, so we decided not to marry. No one was more surprised than I. My childhood friendship with Bret had blossomed into a romance, and when it came time to make the difficult decision to move on, the foundation of mutual respect and love carried us through. We have always had a natural, easy relationship-which is why we could be honest with one another when our lives went in different directions.

He looks at me. “What the heck are you thinking about?”

“I was remembering when we went into business selling industrial cleaner door-to-door in the seventh grade.”

“You needed a lot of breaks.” Bret laughs.

“I still do. You were such a natural salesman. You talked those housewives into buying that cleaner like nobody else could.”

“I believed in the product. Just like I believe in you.”

“I’m just a struggling cobbler.”

“Not for long, Val. This is so much fun for me. It’s going to be something to watch this company grow. And you’re different from most of the companies out there. This economic collapse might actually work in your favor.”

“I’d like to know how.”

“The federal government has really stepped up. There’s an incentive program for small business in New York State-they’re taking applications for loans right now.” Bret hands me a folder filled with forms. “The city will reassess your property taxes and adjust them according to deflation in the real estate market, and they’ll give you some breaks on utilities, as long as you keep a minimum of four employees on the payroll. Right now, you’ve got three-you, Alfred, and June. You need a fourth to qualify-but you have time to hire that person. And then, there’s the new development fund. I think you might be able to swing a very low-interest loan to launch the Bella Rosa.”

“I haven’t been able to get any traction with the banks,” I admit.

“No one can at this point. The small business rep in New York is a woman named Kathleen Sweeney. I hear she’s tough.”

“Nice Irish girl.”

“Exactly. Here’s her information. Call her and schedule an appointment. And it would be smart for you to include Alfred, so he’s invested in this.”

“Good point. So what can I do for you? How can I ever repay you for all you’ve done for me?”

“You can come to Maeve’s birthday party. She’s turning five.” Bret gives me an envelope covered with pink balloons made of felt.

“Already?”

“Already. I can’t believe it. Piper is going to be two.”

“It seems like yesterday that you told me that Mackenzie was expecting.” I can’t believe all that Bret has accomplished in the past six years. He’s built a family with Mackenzie, broken into the financial world, bought a home, and moved out to the suburbs. When I look back on the same period of time, I think about how I mastered sewing kidskin by hand. We are leading two very different lives. “Are you going to have more children?”

“Mackenzie says the shop is closed. I would love more.”

“I think you defer to the lady on those matters.”

“Of course. Always.”

“I’ll definitely be at the party.” I give Bret a hug.

“Bring Gabriel.”

“The black cloud? No way. He hates kids.”

“Yeah, but he gives our suburban New Jersey parties some edge. And when he has a couple glasses of wine, he sings the Rodgers and Hammerstein song book like nobody’s business.”

“I’ll bring him.”

I walk Bret to the door. “I don’t know how to thank you.”

“You don’t have to. It’s fun for me.”

“Yeah, but you’re busy, and this is small potatoes. Of course, I say potatoes because you’re Irish.”

Bret laughs. “I have a feeling when you get these shoes off the ground, it’s going to mean some big changes for you.”

“Wouldn’t that be something? I’d pay off the mortgage and the loans and remove the ax of impending doom that hangs over my head.”

“The good news: the ax is imaginary. You’ll get Alfred where you want him. And Val, if anybody can do it, it’s you.” Bret pushes the door open and turns to me. “You’re on to something big here.”

Sometimes when I look at Bret, I see all the years we’ve known each other unspool like a long, endless ribbon without a beginning or an end. We’ve known each other most of our lives, and there is a trust that is so deep, I wonder if I could ever have it with any other man. “You always come through for me.”

“It’s easy.” He smiles and goes.

I open the invitation to Maeve’s birthday party. The invitation has been written in calligraphy and assembled by hand, with glitter and lace. The section with the date, time, and place pops up out of the crease with a bunch of balloons. Maeve’s round face appears inside the balloons.

How does Mackenzie do it? Would I ever be the sort of mother who could assemble birthday party invitations with sequins and glue? Would I even be the kind of parent who would enjoy doing it?

What a beautiful face Maeve Fitzpatrick has, with her father’s serene countenance and her mother’s blond hair. I pin the invitation up on the bulletin board. I’ll endure anything for Bret-including screaming five-year-olds, a pirate who does magic tricks, and a train ride to New Jersey.

A letter from Gianluca arrives in the mail from Italy, along with a sleeve of leather samples from his shop. Business and pleasure tucked into one envelope.

I open the letter first. His handwriting is artful, that glorious Italian script with the curlicue edges. He wrote it with a fountain pen in midnight blue ink. A fountain pen in 2010! Miraculous!

14 febbraio 2010

Cara Valentina,

Even my name looks prettier when written by an Italian. The letter is dated the night of Gram’s wedding, the night we almost spent together. Here’s a fundamental difference between us: that night, Gianluca went home and wrote down his thoughts, while I slammed the door of my room at the Spolti Inn and stewed.

Please accept my apologies for tonight at the inn. I was carried away with emotions that I have been feeling for quite some time. You could not know of these feelings, for I had not admitted them to myself. But when I saw you at the church, down the long aisle before the altar, I was filled with, and there is no other word to use, a great longing.

I have not had the true love I had hoped for in my life, and now, I wonder if it is even possible. Many men, except the poets, seem to search for this particular love, and they find it somehow, in words and intention. But me? I do not know. There was a moment in the church when I thought I saw it, in your eyes, your face, your beautiful face. Later, when I found you in your room at the inn, I wondered if it could be true, that you might reciprocate the feelings I had, and turn my longing to kisses. Now, I hope. Do you feel as I do?

My love,

Gianluca

Oh, for Godsakes. I have to sit down. I’m thirty-four years old, and no one has ever written me a love letter. Full disclosure: there’s an old shoe box in my mother’s attic with evidence to the contrary. I saved notes I passed in school with Bret (the phrase that sent me swooning then was “You’re my girl” written in pencil on lined school paper). And I did put the text messages sent by Roman Falconi (“Love U”) in a place called permanent memory on my phone. But I’ve never received a letter on onionskin paper stamped “Par Avion,” written in indelible ink, that described me as “beautiful” and “longed for,” or specifically asked me what I want and what I need, romantically. This is a first.

I imagined that if I was ever presented with a letter describing such ardent feelings, in plush and meaningful sentences, that of course I would believe them. I want to believe them. I’d like to think that every now and again, I could render a man weak-but this isn’t the English countryside, and I’m not Jane Eyre, and he’s not Mr. Rochester riding up on his horse to the manor where he hides his mentally unstable wife in the attic. Or is he?

I go to the ironing board and plug in the old equipment, as I have done by rote many mornings. I need something to do, because I don’t want to think about what I want to do with Gianluca. When I was a girl, I bought my mother’s lines about one man for every woman, referred to it in passing as “a lid for every pot,” “a hat for every head,” “a glove for every hand”(oddly, no “shoe for every foot,” despite the fact that we are in the business). Nevertheless, I thought my life in love would go as my mother’s had before me, even though every conscious decision I have ever made regarding my future followed the motto “Whatever Mom did, do the opposite.” My mother kept it simple. The old “One God, one man, one life” is the philosophy she built her life upon, but it has not panned out as a realistic path for me.

I lick my finger and test the base of the iron. I leave my finger there a second too long and burn it.

I should never pick up a hot iron when I’m distracted.

“Whoo hoo!” June calls from the doorway. She plows in wearing so much winter gear, I can barely see her face. Her bright blue coat is the only touch of color on this dank morning. She carries a bag with coffee for us from the deli. “Don’t yell at me. I got doughnuts. We need to celebrate!”

As June takes off her hat, gloves, and coat, she listens carefully as I tell her the story of Gram’s wedding day. When the story turns to night, she sits, peels the plastic lid off the paper coffee cup, and stirs. She leans in as I tell her about Gianluca showing up at my room at the Spolti Inn.

When I’m done, she breaks her doughnut in half, giving me the larger portion. “It’s always the man you don’t make love to, the one who wanted you and didn’t have you, that’s the man who will never forget you,” she says. “The anticipation of sex is often more thrilling than the reality.”

“Who are you kidding?” I look at June, who stores the sexual history of Greenwich Village since 1952 in her boudoir drawer like a satin nightie.

“No harm in trying to make you feel better.” She laughs. This is what I love about June. Sex is God’s greatest gift to the planet, with a sense of humor coming in a close second. Gram taught me how to make shoes, but June has taught me it’s important to let go-and have fun.

“Okay, and all right,” she says. “I would have liked the story better had you actually made love to the Italian. At my age, we want to hear all about it because we don’t get it so much anymore. So now we’re both frustrated. Why didn’t you and Gianluca leave the hotel and find a quiet spot somewhere to make some noise?”

“I tried! I don’t even have kids, and my night was ruined by one. It’s like Chiara knew her frazzled auntie was going to get lucky and had to do anything she could to stop it. Now I know why they call it getting lucky-because when you don’t get it, you feel cursed.”

“I don’t mean to add to your stress levels.” June dunks the last bite of her doughnut in her coffee. “But we need to talk.”

June rolls the work stool close to me and places her hands on the table. Her bright red hair is braided in small pigtails that rest on her shoulders. Her rhinestone-studded reading glasses anchor her bangs off of her face. At seventy-one, June is in great shape; her porcelain complexion is flawless from a life of avoiding the sun. Only the creases around her mouth, a legacy of years of smoking, tell her age. She still wears bright blue eye shadow, bohemian East Village style, with leggings and a multicolored voile print smock over a turtleneck. June could be any ex-dancer in New York City. “Honey, I’m old,” she says.

“Never.”

“Never has arrived. And it’s brought varicose veins and memory loss along for the ride. Here’s the deal. I’m tired. I don’t know how much longer I can cut patterns for you.”

“Is something wrong?” I panic. Two hours on the job as boss, and I’ve already lost my key employee.

“You mean like a disease or something? Oh God, no…unless years of smoking weed has finally caught up with me. But I don’t think it has. I unwind with God’s gift to the garden and so far, so good. No, it’s not my health that’s forcing this decision. It’s the number: seventy-one. Seven. One. My wrists hurt, and my fingers are getting stiff with arthritis. I think I need to retire.”

“And do what?”

“Well, I thought I’d sit around and listen to Miles Davis and paint my toenails. And I’d like to catch that show The View live-I love that Whoopi.”

“You want to watch TV and hang out? May I join you?”

“Absolutely not. You have a name to make for yourself.”

“I don’t want to do this without you.”

“Sure you do. And you can. And you will. Valentine, you know, your Gram’s marriage was a wake up call. I’m a little younger than she is, of course, but one year over the age of seventy is equivalent to ten years under seventy. Time is slipping through my hands like cheap satin.”

“Anybody can die at any age, June.”

“Yeah, but when you’re over seventy, you’re more likely to die. And I want to relax with the time I have left.”

“When do you want to leave the company?” Tears sting in my eyes.

“Once you get the Bella Rosa going, I think I should go. And we should think about getting someone in here who I can train.”

“Okay.” But it’s not okay. I can’t imagine working without June. And I don’t want to work with anyone else. We rarely argue, we figure out how to solve a problem without drama, and we even like our coffee the same, light no sugar.

“Look, it’s not the end of the world. Things change, Valentine. I’m sure you don’t want me keeling over on the pattern table.”

“Actually, I would like that.”

June laughs. “You’ve had enough of us old girls around. Teodora understood that. She cleared out so you could have your own life. And with Alfred starting…”

“You don’t want to work with him either.” The idea that June would leave because of Alfred, or even partly because of him, makes me angry about the situation Gram left me in all over again.

“I can handle Alfred.” June shrugs. “I just don’t want to. And he’s not the reason I’m leaving.”

The entrance door opens. Alfred, who has not set foot on the island of Manhattan in anything but a Brooks Brothers suit since he graduated from Cornell twenty years ago, wears jeans and a polo shirt with a parka thrown over it for his first day of work at the Angelini Shoe Company.

Gram’s attorney, Ray Rinaldi, trudges in behind him, carrying the same briefcase he’s had since the Korean War. He wears layers for warmth: a sweater vest under his trench coat and a Cossack hat with flaps over his ears. He’s dressed to place a flag on the highest peak in Antarctica.

“First day of school,” June says wryly as she picks up her pinking shears to resume her work from yesterday.

“That’s exactly what it feels like,” Alfred says.

I give Ray a gift bag off the desk. “Confetti from Gram’s wedding.”

“Thanks. I love Jordan almonds, but I can’t have them anymore.” Ray points to his mouth. “Too much bridgework.”

“Soak them in vodka first. That’s my tip,” June says.

“Shall we meet upstairs?” Alfred proposes.

Ray and Alfred go up the stairs. June motions for me to have courage as I follow them.

Ray sits down at the end of the table and pulls files from his briefcase. I take a folder of documents that I compiled for Alfred and Ray from Gram’s stack on the end of the table. I sit down across from Alfred with a pit of despair in my stomach.

Ray lays out the contracts, I look over them, but the words are a blur to me. I pretend to read them as Alfred pores over them. I look at Ray. He knows I’m making a deal that I never would have agreed to if I didn’t feel forced. But I have no choice in the matter. If I want to live and work here, I have to play along.

“Valentine, we’re going to establish a rental payment for you in the apartment above the workspace,” Ray says.

“That’s fine. I told Gram that’s okay with me.”

“We’ll keep it low.” Ray smiles.

“I hope so,” I tell him.

“It says here that all financial decisions are made jointly.” Alfred looks at Ray.

“It does,” Ray says.

“But Valentine has full control of the creative also.”

“Alfred, your grandmother was very clear. She wants you to serve as chief financial officer, setting budgets and payroll, restructuring debt, and assisting Valentine in whatever she may need to grow the company. This includes research and pursuit of future contracts. Now, Valentine has been engaged in product development with Bret Fitzpatrick…” Ray explains.

“He’s a fund-raiser,” Alfred says. “And he should be compensated for that.”

“Yes. And Teodora is comfortable with Bret in the mix, as long as his efforts serve Valentine’s vision.”

“I get it,” Alfred says.

“So any decisions about financing are to be made by you and Valentine-jointly,” Ray clarifies.

“That leaves me hamstrung,” Alfred says aloud as he continues reading.

“Well, it is my business.” I look at Ray.

“But I’ve been brought in as chief financial officer to run it,” Alfred corrects me.

“I mean-” I take a deep breath and lower my voice-“that it’s my business in the sense that I create the product we sell-and you rely on me to deliver that product. Otherwise, I’m happy to share everything.”

“Okay.” Alfred looks at me.

I realize that he’s only being agreeable because he’s been on the job for all of ten minutes. “So here’s my budget.” I reach across the table and give Alfred the current budget with operating expenses. “And here’s the list of custom shoes under current contract, with down payments and shipment dates.” I place the report on top of that. “And here are my projected business goals-including the manufacturing of the Bella Rosa. This file includes all of Bret’s research with the Small Business Administration and some information about foreign manufacturers. But the foreign element is incomplete. You can help me figure out that piece.”

“Wow.” Alfred seems slightly impressed. Then he says, “I’ll read over this.”

“Take your time.” I stand up. “Ray, thank you for setting this up for us.” I extend my hand to him. “I’ll probably be calling on you from time to time.”

Ray shakes my hand. “My pleasure.”

“My goal in life is to sell enough shoes so I might purchase you a proper briefcase.”

“Old habits die hard, I’m afraid.” Ray pats his old satchel.

“And sometimes they need to,” I tell him.

Gram left her bedroom suite behind. The heavy, dark stained oak furniture with its four-post finials and deep carvings on the headboard says 1940 like Rosie the Riveter or garter hose with seams. The bed is made with the same pale green satin spread that’s covered it since I was a child.

Gram suggested I move into her room, because it’s larger. I’ve been living in the smaller guest room all these years. My mother’s bedroom, across the hall, is a shrine to the 1950s. The wallpaper has a pattern of bunches of violets tied with gold ribbons that gives the effect of a year-round garden. I like the vintage paper but I don’t want to move in there either. I’m going to stay put. Gram will be back to visit, I hope, and when she returns, I want her to find some of the old familiar things she loves in place as she left them. Besides, I’ve grown to love the guest room across from the bath, with the stairs outside my door that lead to the roof. It’s home to me now.

My mother’s room is filled with stacks of storage boxes that Gram didn’t have time to sort through before she left. We packed up her clothes, and some heirlooms from her mother, to take to her new life in Italy. She and Dominic plan to redo his house in Arezzo, so she wanted to start fresh. She didn’t even take her reliable spaghetti pot, which signaled to me that she’s determined to start over.

I’ve promised myself that I will go through a box at a time, whenever I get a chance, and eventually I will have distributed these mementoes to my mother, sisters, and Alfred. There are lots of pictures of my mother, the only child, enough to fill a crate, and at least one wall in the homes of each of her four children. My mother’s life is chronicled from her birth in black and white to her marriage, in vivid shades of Kodachrome film. I’m getting to know her all over again.

The photographs are so telling of the moods we were in, and what was happening when the pictures were taken. The pictures taken in the 1980s, when Tess, Jaclyn, Alfred, and I were young, tell the story of a family in crisis, and then, once into the 1990s as we go off to college, you see the mood lift and the joy return.

My mother and father survived a crisis of my dad’s own design, when he had an affair and Mom moved us into this building during the summer of 1986. Of course, she never told us the real reason she moved us into the city-she said our house needed rewiring-but it was actually our dad that needed the redo. As the years went on, we got bits and pieces of the story, until our parents felt we were old enough to handle it, and then we were allowed to ask anything about it that we wished. Today, if we discuss the past, their story is told in full, complete with my father’s confession, my mother’s forgiveness, and my father’s return to the fold.

My father’s ancient infidelity is now part of the fabric of our family. We don’t embroider over it, or pretend it never happened-it’s just become one of those things-like a cancer diagnosis, a failed driver’s test, surviving the mumps, or the celebration of a deserved promotion with the Parks Department. Dad’s indiscretion is dropped into conversation like any date or period of historical significance in the story of our family. So, then too, is The Aftermath, the “better years,” Mom calls them, after our parents renewed their vows and we, their four children, stood up for them in church, knowing full well what they, and we, had been through. In a sense, they gave us the gift of forgiveness by forgiving one another. It was a lesson that took with my sisters and me, but not with Alfred. We had to convince him to come to the church. Finally, though, after a lot of pleading, he showed up.

Sometimes I marvel at my family’s ability to accept the worst, and to forgive, but that’s due to my mother and father’s determination that no one, not even a seductress named Mary from Pottsville, Pennsylvania, would come between us. How ironic, then, to think that it isn’t an outsider that threatens to tear us apart and destroy us now, thread by thread, but a boll weevil from within. The real enemy of our family unity, as it turns out, is a sharp businessman with a cold heart-my brother.

Of all the things Gram left behind, my favorite memorabilia is the collection of annual calendars that used to hang over the desk in the workshop. They are the true minute book of this corporation, an unofficial ledger of business transactions that date back to my great-grandfather’s arrival in the United States.

We have the calendars as far back as 1910, each month illustrated by whatever business or supplier sponsored it. The oldest ones were provided by a company that made Red Goose shoes. There are circled dates and notes made first by my great-grandfather, then my grandfather, and finally Gram. The word affitto is written on the last day of the month, until 1918, where it changes from affitto to pagamento d’ipoteca. I could never throw these out-not with my great-grandfather and grandfather’s notes scribbled on them-so I flip through them, placing them carefully back in the box without wrinkling or tearing the pages.

I’m the sole custodian of our family history, and not because anyone asked me to be. The truth is, no one else is interested in the contents of these dusty old boxes, nor do they want to store them. I’m the only Angelini who treasures these old documents and is inspired by them.

My sister Tess has no patience with anything antique. Even her home decor is sleek and modern: Ikea meets Richard Meier. Tess rebelled against Mom’s interior decoration, ornate English and French, in our family home in Queens. Jaclyn has a streamlined Swedish look in her condo-Gustavian, with distressed furniture and neutrals. Alfred and Pamela are New Jersey chic, a rambling faux farmhouse filled with highly polished Ethan Allen. I don’t think any of them have attics or closets filled with junk. They prune as they go. Pamela would take one look at these old calendars and recycle them.

I flip through 1912, looking at the styles of the time. In less than a hundred years, the world is completely different. They thought they were mod back then, with advertisements for cars with rumble seats and bathing costumes made of fine wool.

I have a separate box of my great-grandfather’s sketches. I often refer to them when I’m drawing, as they are the template for our couture shoes, each named after the heroine of a famous opera. For eighty years, there were six key designs, until Gram added a seventh in 1990. Occasionally I get out his sketch pad, but I did a thorough transfer of the drawings from paper to computer, because I didn’t want to add wear and tear to the delicate drawings, done in his hand with charcoal and ink.

As I pick up the last calendar to replace it in the box, a sheet of thick sketch paper falls out of it. A woman’s dress shoe is drawn in meticulous detail. It has a slim, stacked heel, and it’s made of woven leather, with an ornate flap on the top of the shoe, modified from a Louis XIV style. The toe is rounded, while the vamp is sleek. It is unlike any of the designs in my grandfather’s hand. He sketched in an architectural fashion, and his renderings have actual measurements printed carefully next to the components and notes written in Italian, specifying grommets, velvet piping, laces-whatever the requirements of the shoe might be.

This shoe, however, is pure fancy. You could hang the drawing on the wall-it’s artful and loose, playful and fun. The shoe rests on a cloud, with a thunderbolt indicating a storm underneath it-a powerful image, almost like an advertisement. In the corner of the drawing, I see the signature of the artist. It says:

Rafael Angelini

I’ve never heard of a Rafael Angelini. I find this odd, as I know all the names of my cousins in Italy. My grandfather was an only child, like my mother. My great-grandfather, Michel, had sisters. There was Zia Anna, Zia Elena, and Zia Enes. No Rafaels. And, as far as I know, none of their children were named Rafael.

Maybe my grandfather designed under the name Rafael. Maybe under a pseudonym, he let go, created with abandon, designed whimsical shoes, fashionable shoes, courant shoes. Maybe he even had the idea, long before I did, of developing a line of shoes that could serve a mass market. But why wouldn’t I know this? Surely this would be part of the family story.

I look closely at the drawing. This was definitely not drawn by my great-grandfather’s hand. There’s another Angelini. But who is he? I lay the drawing carefully on the bed, so I’ll remember to ask Gram about it.

Then, I open one of Gram’s prized possessions: a turquoise leather case with a white patent leather top. There’s a gold metal handle and a buckle on the side. I snap it open. It’s filled with record albums.

I can’t believe Gram left her collection of Frank Sinatra records behind. Gram never collected china or silver, or Hummels or Lladro; her only vice was The Chairman of the Board.

The dust jackets of the Sinatra LPs are stored alphabetically in the case. They are uncompromised and untouched by time. I would wager there’s not a scratch on the record albums inside the sleeves. There’s even a pristine chamois cloth folded neatly in an envelope inside in the lid to dust them before playing them.

I remember when Gram would stack the records on the turntable, and the automatic plastic arm would slip across to hold them in place. Then she’d carefully turn the knob, and like magic, one record would drop, the needle would slip over to the outside groove, and then, suddenly, the house was filled with music.

When we were children, we were pretty much allowed free rein with anything in this house, except the Sinatra albums. We were allowed to play Louis Prima and Keely Smith records, or Boots Randolph instrumentals, or even the Perry Comos, but the Sinatra collection was sacrosanct. Only Gram could load Sinatra on the hi-fi.

These were the songs that played through my grandmother’s youth, courtship, and married life. When Sinatra was young, so was Gram. She was a bobby-soxer, only twelve years old when she bought her first record in 1940, with “I’ll Never Smile Again” on the A side and “Marcheta” on the flip side. She danced to “For Every Man There’s a Woman” at her wedding to my grandfather.

My mother remembers Gram taking her to the Fulton Record Shop and waiting when a new album was to be released. Gram was a diehard fan, but she left the sound track of her life before Dominic Vechiarelli behind, which says everything about her desire to start over. All that’s left of her years of stewardship over these albums is the nostalgic scent of the old record shop: high gloss ink and plastic. If I needed proof of my grandmother’s ultimate intentions, it is here, in my hands. She’s never coming home.

I lift out her prized albums and sort through them. I prop them across the headboard of her bed. The covers are a fest of Frank. Sinatra in a single beam of light in front of a microphone; young, thin, and totally sexy. Sinatra illustrated pulp fiction style in vivid tones of turquoise and magenta, on the runway with a TWA airplane behind him, extending his hand to a woman whose lacquered red nails rest in his hand. Another with a sky blue background with a photograph of Frank wearing a dapper fedora. As I shuffle through the collection, Frank Sinatra gets older, but he never loses his luster. The images of the glamorous past get to me. So, I throw on my parka, grab my glass of wine, and head up to the roof, balancing the glass on the stairs as I unlatch the door.

The winter clouds have rolled away, and all that is left is a night sky of the deepest blue, the same shade as the ink on Gianluca’s letter. I go to the edge of the roof and look down across the West Side Highway. The blinking red lights of a police car parked by the pier look like ruby buttons on black suede boots. Even this roof feels different since Gram left. It doesn’t feel safe any longer, it feels as though it can’t be trusted-as if the clouds opened up and carried her away.

This is the biggest change for me. This roof, with its tomato plants in summer and snow drifts in winter, was our sanctuary. In the fall, we would roast chestnuts on the grill, and sit by the fire, waiting for the nuts to cook through, and pop open with a soft crackle. The scent of the iron skillet on the fire and the sweet chestnuts was always a comfort.

I look over at the grill, covered in an old tarp, and wonder if I’ll bother to make the trip over to the Chelsea Market to buy a sack of chestnuts to roast. Will I continue to do the things that Gram did, the rituals that brought us such joy? Will I commit to keeping the treasures of the past alive in the present?

With every crate I unpack, with every box I sort, the list of things I must do grows. There’s the business, the building, the family obligations. I think it’s time to pull the Roncallis together and dole out the traditions, the recipes, and the assignments; to be as specific about who will do what as my mother has been in labeling her jewelry, each piece marked with a name and stored, to be given out after the moment when, God forbid, she passes on.

As I look over to the Hudson River, the expanse of black water seems to widen in the dark, like a pit of velvet quicksand. But I don’t feel consumed by my river, or by this night sky, nor do I feel small, standing downstage of the skyscrapers that loom behind me like black daggers. It’s the boxes in my grandmother’s bedroom, filled with everything my grandmother was and is, that overwhelm me. Papers, contracts, photographs, articles, sketches, and documents filled with the history of our family and the company that made us. Our history can only be told through the things she saved, and now that Gram is gone, it’s left to me to decide what’s worth keeping.