Brava, Valentine

5. Polka Dots and Moonbeams

GABRIEL BIONDI WAVES TO ME from our booth in Pastis, where we have a standing breakfast date once a month, because if we didn’t keep to this schedule, we’d never see one another. Gabriel works nights at the Carlyle, and I work days in the shop, and rarely do the two schedules intersect. We chose Pastis because it’s the closest thing to a French bistro we can get in Greenwich Village. And while we live in New York City happily, once in a while we like to pretend we’re in Paris.

The antique mirrors, black-and-white-checked tile floors, and polished oak tables give the restaurant the down-home feeling of a warm, expansive kitchen. I weave through the chatty crowd. A couple of tables are packed with men in suits, but the rest are neighborhood locals who come regularly for the best eggs, bacon, and brioche in the Village.

Gabriel gives me a kiss on the cheek, his jet black hair tucked under a beret. He wears a fitted black cashmere sweater over jeans so tight they show off every hour he spends in advanced spin class at the gym. Gabriel has turned his shape into an upside-down triangle: wide at the shoulders and slim at the hips. “I got the poached eggs for me, and I ordered the French toast for you.”

“Of course you did. That’s why you have no ass and I do.”

“I have an ass. It’s just pert and shapely. Like a new peach, I like to say. Or I’ve been told.” He helps me off with my coat. “I want to know everything.”

I peel off the rest of my winter layers and pile them next to Gabriel in the booth. “You first. How are you? How’s work?”

“They cut my hours. Not good. But I have time to think about my life. Excellent. And I have time to focus on my friends. Even better. Where’s the letter?”

I open my purse. I store Gianluca’s letter carefully in a second envelope, preserving it like a butterfly saved in a ziplock bag for fifth-grade science class. The onionskin stationery is as delicate as wings, and I don’t want anything to smudge the ink or tear the paper. After all, this is a document of intention, and I’d like to honor any coming my way. “Be careful.”

“Relax. A love letter from Gianluca Vechiarelli is hardly on par with an original Shakespeare manuscript.”

“Yeah, well, Shakespeare never sent me a sonnet. This is all I got.”

Gabriel unfolds the letter carefully and reads aloud.

“‘Cara Valentina.’ That’s a sexy start. ‘ Please accept my apologies for tonight at the Inn. I was carried away with emotions that I have been feeling for quite some time.’ Boy, he wants you in a big way. ‘ You could not know of these feelings, for I had not admitted them to myself.’ Smart man. Mention feelings upfront. Reel her in. ‘ But when I saw you at the church…I was filled with…great longing.’ Longing. Huh. Aka: pent-up sexual attraction that can only be released via you, my youngish American. ‘ I have not had the true love I had hoped for…’ Translation: Never had it but now I’ve found it, and guess what? You’re it! You’re his true love. You! Cara Valentina. It’s right here in navy blue. Might as well be a marriage license, sister. ‘ Your beautiful face.’ He’s a goner. ‘ Reciprocate the feelings…’ Good. ‘ Longing to kisses.’ Hot damn. Marry me, Gianluca. ‘ Do you feel as I do?’ Wow, that’s direct.” Gabriel gives me the letter. “He’s in love with you.”

“Do you think?”

“I know. Look, a man doesn’t show up at a hotel full of family, especially your brood, and find the exact room you’re staying in and almost seduce you unless he’s cuh-ray-zee about you. Tommy Tanner wants you so badly he’d risk running into your father in the bidet just to be with you. Think about that.”

“I don’t want to fall for him.” The truth is, I don’t have time for any man right now. I’ve got a business to run and a new one to build. The last thing I need is a distraction. “I can’t fall for him.”

“Too late for that, sister.”

“I live in New York, he lives in Italy,” I say.

“There are airplanes.”

“Come on, Gabriel. It’s an impossible situation.”

“That’s why you carry the letter around like a Dead Sea scroll. It’s so impossible that you have to reread his letter over and over again to remind yourself why you can’t possibly fall in love with him. Face it, you already like/love him, and you like/love thinking about him.”

“I don’t want to like/love. I want to be the kind of person who just has fun and doesn’t get all wrapped up in it.”

“You mean the opposite of what you had with Roman.”

“Exactly,” I say.

“Well, that was different. Roman works in a kitchen, and people are always hungry. You really couldn’t compete with that. It’s primal. Gianluca, on the other hand, is a tanner, and once he cuts a few hides, he can take a break. So you’ve got a better scheduling situation with him, although there’s the geographical problem-two countries, two hearts-but really, do you need him underfoot twenty-four/seven?”

“Not right now.”

“So enjoy the attentions of an older man. And read the letters. Handwritten letters are a sex life in and of themselves.”

Gabriel is right. I read the letter right before I go to sleep and imagine what Gianluca is doing. I hear the inflection of his voice when I read, and I feel his intent. Then I think about him, and how we happened to get to this place. I remember every detail of my visit to Arezzo when we first met, how he was gruff and didn’t seem to like me at all. And then, how he made excuses to be with me during my visit, how attentive he was, and how he would make plans, pick me up, drop me off, check to see if I needed anything. And then when he came to Capri, I was swimming, and he suddenly appeared by the pool, a welcome surprise. I was brokenhearted and pining for Roman, but that did not deter him. He’s trying to build something with me. Why can’t I at least let him try?

Gabriel continues, “Just enjoy the man. Why does everything have to be an emotional circus? Keep it simple. If you can. If you want to.”

“Okay, Doctor Love. I get it. So, how about you? Are you seeing anyone?” I ask.

“No. And it’s brutal out there. The competition is beyond fierce. Look at me. No one in his right mind would dare kick sand in my face on Far Rockaway beach, but have you noticed? Every guy that checks the ‘Yes, I’m gay’ box these days is in perfect physical condition. Our BMIs are probably close to our shoe sizes-and that’s a national average. Every single homosexual man in America is buff. When did this happen? And why? Now, all of a sudden, if you’re gay, you have to attract a mate with your personality. You have to be charming to find a boyfriend. Well read. Fascinating. The bod isn’t enough.”

“You’ve got a problem, then.”

“I know. It’s back to the New York Public Library for me. I might wind up having to read David Foster Wallace’s oeuvre just to be in the loop. By the way, I’m out of my apartment May first,” he says.

“What happened?”

“Well, I was never officially on the lease. It’s a sublet-you know my cousin Joey. It’s his place, and now that the rents have plummeted, everybody wants to move back into the city, including Joey. And since they’ve cut my hours at the Carlyle, I have to make some cuts of my own. I’d like to pay less rent, so this is a good time to move. Chelsea Boy may become Hoboken Hottie.”

“You can’t leave the city! All the glamour would go-sucked right off of the streets and into the Holland Tunnel, courtesy of your moving van.”

“Ain’t that the truth? But I have to stay open. Realistic is the new black. From now on, it’s beauty on a budget. And that might even mean the other B word: Brooklyn. I know, I know. Italian Americans spent a generation trying to move out of Brooklyn, and now we’re moving back in. It’s insane.”

“Are you open to any offer?” I ask. “You could come and live with me.”

“Are you serious?”

“I have all that space. Three bedrooms! Two empty. I miss Gram. I wander around the roof like an old pigeon looking for crumbs. I traipse from room to room with nothing but my memories to make me smile. Besides, my love life only exists on paper. The mail comes once a day, and Gianluca only has so much ink in his pen. I need you.”

“Living together might ruin our friendship.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.” Gabriel’s eyes widen at the possibilities of moving in to Perry Street. I watch him scheme.

“We’d see more of each other,” I offer.

“We did live together in college,” Gabriel reasons. “And I broke you of your worst habits then: wet towels on the floor…”

“I have a drying rack now.”

“Good. And how’s the coaster situation?”

“I never place a cup of coffee on a bare table. I’ve grown up. I respect wood grains. Always a coaster.”

“Wow. You’re playing hardball here. This is very tempting,” he says.

The waitress serves us our breakfast. Gabriel sprinkles Tabasco on his eggs. “Tabasco burns calories. I even brush my teeth with it.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. Another reason for you to move in-with tips like these, I’ll look like Kate Moss in six months.”

“A year,” he amends.

“Look, just think about it. I mean, if Prince Charming comes along and drives you and your personality away in his Bentley, that’s one thing. But if he doesn’t, why not come and live with me?”

“Soirées on the roof…under the stars…Jersey in the background. I love a roof.”

“You can grow roses up there.”

“The thought of a trellis on a rooftop is almost irresistible.” Gabriel butters his toast with the smallest smidge while I pour a quart of maple syrup on my French toast.

“Think about it?”

“Can I paint?” he asks. “I’m a man who loves to dimple his own stucco.”

“Do it. Paint, stencil, decoupage! Anything you want,” I promise him.

“Your ceilings are high, and I’m into wallpaper.”

“Wallpaper is great.”

He leans in. “How do you feel about a classic toile wallpaper with foil accents? You realize I’ve never had an entire house and roof garden to decorate.”

“Now you do, my friend.”

My brother Alfred, now a few days in as my partner, still seems surprised at how complex the business of making shoes can be. He responds to the challenges of the Angelini Shoe Company in the same way he rose to valedictorian of his college class. He sits at the desk with his back to June and me as he combs through ledgers in a concentration so deep, it’s as though he’s studying for a make-or-break final exam upon which his future depends. Occasionally he types into his laptop.

When he was a boy and wanted to learn something, he’d go to the library and immerse himself in research. He’d carry home stacks of books and plow through them. Never one to get by with general knowledge, Alfred’s goal was to burrow into a subject and come out the other side an expert. Our mother marveled at his intelligence, and used to say, “I don’t know where he came from.” Then of course, she’d take full credit and say, “I am his mother.”

There may be a potential upside to our partnership-he may challenge me to find better ways to do my work. I don’t know if I could work any harder at designing and building shoes, but maybe I could work smarter.

“We should call Mike to come in and help us with the shipment,” June says as she surveys the shipment for McDonald’s bridal boutique in Boston. “Your mother packs shoes like a pro.”

“She buys them like a pro, too,” Alfred says from his work, without looking up.

“Gee, Alfred. A joke.” I nod, impressed.

He turns and faces me. “I’m not the worst person in the world, you know.”

“Now, now, let’s not have any personal feelings in the workplace,” I remind him.

Alfred breaks a slight smile.

“Oh, you two are downright docile. There used to be real battles in this room. And I was the referee. Believe me. Your grandparents would go at it-and Big Mike would get so angry, he’d throw the iron against that wall. One afternoon, it almost hit the cat.”

“Buttons,” Alfred remembers.

“I never worried about that cat. He could take care of himself. They adopted him from the street, and truthfully he needed to be in the zoo. Feral. Used to sleep in the trashcan. But he definitely got his bad attitude from your grandfather.”

“Gram doesn’t remember the fights.” I hold down the pattern paper while June cuts the leather.

“Widows never do. Grief wipes out all bad memories. After your grandfather died, she wrote to the Vatican to have him canonized.”

“No way.” Alfred laughs.

“Nah, but she would’ve. She blamed herself for everything that went wrong between them after he died. I had to remind her that he was human and made mistakes just like the rest of us.”

“Like having a girlfriend on the side,” I say. “This is a particular weakness in our family.”

“Maybe, but that was the least of it to your grandmother. She didn’t care about that. She cared about stability. Home was on the second floor, and she never took her work problems up those stairs at night. And this is a rough business. You have to show up every single day and produce. It’s not easy. I felt for both of them.” June places the pattern paper and the leather in a stack for me to sew.

I place a finished kid leather dress shoe on the brushes. I pump the pedals with my foot as the brushes whirl rhythmically, evenly buffing the leather. Small striae of the palest pink begin to peek through the vamp of the eggshell pump. I concentrate on making the patina even. I stop the pedal when the pink is the exact shade of a new dogwood blossom. As I lift it up to the light, I realize that Alfred stands beside me.

“I remember when Grandpop used to buff the shoes on that machine. You’re pretty good at it.”

“Surprised?” I’m so used to snapping at my brother in self-defense, I do it even when he pays me a compliment. “I didn’t mean that,” I tell him. “I meant to say, Thank you.”

The phone in the shop rings. June’s and my hands are full, so Alfred picks it up.

“Angelini Shoes,” he says.

I look at June. I’ll bet it’s the first time in my brother’s professional life that he has picked up the phone like a receptionist.

“It’s Mom.” Alfred gives me the phone.

“Checking in!” Mom says. “What’s going on?”

“June wants to retire.”

June chuckles as she sorts straight pins and shakes her head.

“Don’t let her,” Mom says.

“Too late.”

“Valentine, listen to me,” Mom says. “June has threatened to quit for years. We give her a good long three-week vacation and she comes back fresh and says, ‘I don’t know how people lead lives of leisure.’ Okay? She’s not going anywhere.”

“Tell your mother I mean it this time,” June says.

“Ma, she means it this time.”

“Put her on the phone,” Mom says.

I bring the phone to June’s ear. I can hear my mother through the receiver. June says, “Uh-huh…” And listens. Then June says, “Okay, all right, Mike…Uh-huh…Okay, then. Good-bye.”

I take the phone back from June.

“It’s all settled,” Mom says to me. “June wants a nice break this summer. So you need to get ahead of the game in the shop. I’m coming in to help out.”

“When?”

“As soon as I take care of some things around the house,” she says.

Mom is fibbing. She doesn’t have any chores in Queens. Her house is in tip-top shape down to the hand-polished brass doorknobs she made my father install when she saw them in a layout of an English manor house in British House & Garden. Mom is simply buying time to plan her glamorous working-girl wardrobe. Mike Roncalli does not set foot on the island of Manhattan without planning her outfit down to her underwear. Her highest dream is to be snapped unaware by trendspotting Bill Cunningham, the New York Times photographer who takes pictures of chic New Yorkers on the street.

“Look, I was an Angelini before I was a Roncalli, and this is a family business. With your brother there, it’s all about unity. We all have to roll up our sleeves to help out.”

I hang up the phone. “She’s coming to work.”

“Mom?” Alfred says. “Really?”

“She needs a project. And guess what? We’re it.”

Now that I’ve shored up the staff with a plan to add Mom into the mix (so June can stockpile patterns in advance in order to take her long summer break), it’s time to focus on the Bella Rosa. A long walk on the river to think things through is just what I needed to face the work ahead. The March sky, the color of driftwood, reminded me that spring is here, and with it, the urgency of meeting deadlines on the annual calendar. The fashion world works a full year in advance, and every moment counts as we plan the new line.

As I hang up my coat, I hear Bret and Alfred inside the shop having a lively discussion about the New York Yankees. It sounds like an argument, but I can never tell-when men talk sports, they show a range of emotions rarely exhibited in other parts of their lives.

My brother and Bret have always gotten along on the surface. When I broke up with Bret years ago, Alfred made it very clear that he thought I was making a huge mistake. But, as in most things, Alfred will usually take the adversarial position when it comes to me. His disapproval wasn’t as much about Bret as about my inability to embrace the responsible, expected path-marriage to a nice, respectable breadwinner and all the claptrap that comes with it.

Bret and Alfred share the same working-class background, and both were brilliant in school, top of their classes. They even followed the same personal path: they married, moved to the suburbs, and each had two children. They appear to have a lot in common, but I know them both well, and Bret brings empathy to his aggressive business style, while my brother is ruthless. Our new arrangement, with Bret advising me on raising capital, will require some diplomacy, and the middle child (me) will play the middleman.

June left work a couple hours ago, and I skipped dinner to mentally prepare for our first meeting with Kathleen Sweeney from the Small Business Administration. I interrupt Bret and Alfred’s sports talk. “Whose idea was it to have a night meeting? I’m beat.”

“Kathleen is really backed up at work. It would take weeks to get a regular appointment-I finagled this because she owes me a favor,” Bret says.

“Now, we’re not committing to anything in this meeting, are we?” Alfred asks. There’s a tone of suspicion to his question.

“Alfred, if we’re going to grow, we have to be aggressive. There’s not a lot of cash out there, and while I’d prefer not to take a loan, we have to.”

“Have you looked at investor funds? Other sources of revenue?” Alfred turns to Bret.

“Absolutely. But you know the climate at the banks.”

“Yeah, I do,” Alfred says impatiently. “That’s what worries me. The banks are gouging people, ramping up interest rates.”

“I hear you,” Bret says.

“Just so you do,” Alfred carps.

I look at Alfred. “Hey, Bret is trying to help here.”

“Look, Alfred, there are options here. The SBA is looking to support small business. You’d be foolish not to entertain the idea of a low-interest loan to finance the production of the Bella Rosa.”

“I’m not a fan of taking on more debt,” Alfred grumbles.

“But if it yields results, what’s the problem?” Bret says.

Alfred senses he is being cornered, two against one. So I say, “Let’s see what she has to offer.”

“Fair enough.” Alfred leans back on the work stool and folds his arms. The showdown between the traditional banker (Alfred) and the Wall Street wonder (Bret) has been diffused for the moment. I hope this Kathleen is on her game. She’d better be, to deal with Alfred.

The buzzer sounds, and Bret goes to answer the door. I open the business file Gram left for me because I don’t want to make eye contact with my brother. He can’t seem to let go of his old image of me, and refuses to accept that I might know what I’m doing. I won’t let him rock my confidence. I can’t. The stakes are way too high right now.

“I’d like you to meet Kathleen Sweeney,” Bret announces.

Alfred stands and extends his hand. “Nice to meet you,” he says.

Kathleen smiles at Alfred. She’s petite, with an athletic build, around thirty, with short, layered red hair. She wears a Max Mara coat. Good sign-she knows quality. Her tiny nose has a few freckles, and she has bright green eyes. She comes straight off a poster for the Aer Lingus Welcome to Ireland campaign.

Bret helps her out of her coat. She wears a classic navy blue wool suit with a peplum jacket and a white blouse underneath. She also wears understated gold jewelry, small hoops and simple cross on a chain around her neck. But the gold is real.

“I’m Valentine.” I extend my hand.

“Great to meet you. You submitted the loan proposal. Very thorough work,” she says.

“Thanks.” I look at my brother. He definitely heard the professional compliment thrown my way.

Bret sits down next to me, Kathleen takes the work stool at the head of the table, and Alfred sits across from her.

Bret looks to me to run the meeting. He gives me an encouraging smile that says, It’s your show. So I step up.

“Kathleen, first of all, thank you for coming over to the shop. It’s important that you see the operation firsthand, so you might understand what we do here, and how the Small Business Administration can help us grow.”

“You make custom wedding shoes.” Kathleen pulls her laptop out of her shoulder bag.

“Yes, we do. And we’ve been here, on-site, in Greenwich Village since 1922. Our great-grandfather started the business in Italy in 1903, and moved it here to this building, where we’ve been ever since. We’re a family-run operation, but we’ve employed five to ten additional workers over the years.”

“I see that you were in profit last year. But you have quite a debt load.”

“Our grandmother took out various loans and refinanced to keep the shop running after our grandfather died,” Alfred explains, cutting me off before I can answer.

“So, like every other business in the United States in 2010, you have no cash, but you have a great product and the vision to grow,” Kathleen says wearily. Clearly, she’s not moved by my enthusiasm; she gets this same spiel a thousand times a day from people just like me who need loans from people like her.

This is a big lesson to learn, and one I have to take in. I operate in a small custom world, and while the craft of handmade shoes consumes me, in the greater universe, our company is just a blip. I have to make Kathleen understand why Angelini Shoes is a special place with a one-of-a-kind American product. “Kathleen, we’re not just any shoe company.”

Kathleen looks up from her laptop.

“-we’ve got something very special here.”

Alfred smiles. “That’s exactly right. And I would also add, there’s a great young designer behind the brand.” He indicates me. “I recently came on as CFO after twenty-three years at Merrill Lynch.”

“So you shored up the think tank.” She looks at me. “That’s very smart.”

“We think so.” I haul out the old Roncalli family solidarity, even though my tender ego would rather not. My mother would be proud.

“So, what have you got to show me?” Kathleen looks around the shop, taking in the contents, the machines, and the workspace with a very different eye than what I’m accustomed to. Kathleen is no dewy-eyed bride-to-be here for a fitting, or a customer who wants a one-of-a-kind creation; she’s a tough businesswoman who has to discern the viability of my product in the marketplace against all the other applicants vying for the same pool of funds. However, I’ve got something none of the other businesses have. The power of the shoe.

“I like to let the shoes do the talking,” I tell Kathleen as I open the large cabinet behind the worktable and remove seven boxes that contain the prototypes that make up our line of shoes. Bret and Alfred help me carry them to the table. “My passion is in the contents of these red and white striped boxes.”

Bret and Alfred help me lift off the lids. I unwrap the gold standard of this company, the exquisite hand-crafted shoes, stored in their pristine cotton sleeves. I know that Kathleen could travel the five boroughs and beyond and never find shoes as magnificent as the ones we make here. When it comes to my work, I know what I’m talking about, and I know how to sell them.

Kathleen’s eyes widen as I give her the samples to examine. But in one glance, I can see I’ve got her. No woman can refuse the glamour of a couture wedding shoe, the kind of thing that would make her Cinderella for a day. She sighs when she holds the Lola, marvels at the leather treatment on the Ines, wants to try on the Mimi boot, can’t take in the embroidery on the Gilda, she’s so blown away by it, comments on the simplicity of the Osmina, and then, when she picks up the Flora, she’s sold. “I always wanted a ballet slipper in calfskin,” she says. “Always.”

“What size is your foot?”

“I’m a five.”

“How lucky. You’re the sample size!”

“I always do well at sales,” she admits. Kathleen slips off her boot, and slips on The Flora.

Alfred and Bret, in full corporate mode, are visibly relieved.

Gram used to tell me that she could tell exactly what kind of customer she was dealing with by the shoe she chose from our collection. A woman who went for The Flora was modern, impetuous, and stubborn. Without saying a word, Kathleen has just told me who she is, and now I have the insight I need to close the deal with her. This is a woman who knows what she wants, and moves in to get it-I have to work fast with her. She makes decisions quickly, and from the gut.

Kathleen models the shoes in the freestanding full-length mirror. I watch how she looks at her leg and ankle and the shoes now on her feet. She doesn’t look at her body in the critical way that most women do. There’s something different in the look in her eye as she scans her image in the glass. Kathleen, unlike most women who’ve been in the shop, likes what she sees.

“We know we have something special here,” I say with warmth and enthusiasm, remembering salesmanship is as important as a great product. “And we’re building upon years of experience and quality craftsmanship. Even the big guns uptown agree.” I hand her the press kit that Gabriel helped me put together after we were featured in the Christmas windows at Bergdorf’s. “But we know we have to grow the brand and make a product that’s accessible to all women. And that’s the Bella Rosa.”

I go to the shelf and pull three samples of the Bella Rosa, one in pumpkin suede, one in sailor blue leather, and one in chic violet microfiber.

Maybe because it’s nighttime and lower Manhattan is doused in a fog, or maybe it’s that the work lights over the table illuminate the shoes to their best advantage while the rest of the shop recedes in shadow, but whatever the reason, the vivid tones of the Bella Rosa explode in the light, like diamonds in a Tiffany window.

Kathleen grabs the violet Bella Rosa. “I would totally buy this shoe!” she says.

“Good. Because your loan will help us put them into production,” I say, knowing my job is done. I shoot my brother a look of pure triumph.

“Where are you on that?” Kathleen examines the shoe.

Alfred takes my cue and opens his research file. “I’ve had some conversations with American manufacturers, but our initial run isn’t large enough for them. There are some interesting alternatives in China, and I have sent them patterns and samples to get some bids going.”

“I’d like to keep the manufacturing in the United States,” I pipe up. Alfred has been trying to convince me to go to China for the manufacturing, but I know how Gram would have felt about that. We’re an American company, and I’d like to keep it here, to honor our tradition and keep the jobs in Greenwich Village.

“The China bids are often half of what it would cost to make the same shoe here,” Alfred says pointedly, talking more to me than Kathleen.

“I understand.” Kathleen looks at Alfred. “If you can make your shoes according to existing agreements with foreign countries, and it’s profitable and economical, why wouldn’t you? But we’re also looking for our piece of the pie.” Kathleen turns to me. “Could you do any of the labor here besides the design? We like to keep as many jobs stateside as possible.”

“I could definitely do packing and labeling here. Maybe some finishing-bows, piping, embellishments. But we need a real factory for the numbers we’re hoping to achieve.”

“What are you looking at for your first shipment?”

“Ten thousand pairs.”

“That’s fairly ambitious. So…you’re looking for a loan to finance the first ten thousand?”

“Yes.”

Kathleen types some numbers into her laptop. I look at Bret, who lets me know that I did a great job. As Kathleen squints at her screen, I pray silently that she will come through.

“We can do that,” she says.

I clap my hands together. “That would be great.”

“I’m going to need a timeline.” Kathleen types into her laptop.

“And we need to review the terms of the loan,” Alfred pipes up. “Of course, of course.” Kathleen closes her laptop and gives Alfred her card. “Give me a call-we’ll make an appointment for you to come in, and you’ll be off to the races.” She turns to me. “You are not invited. The highest and best use of you is right here in this shop making these glorious shoes. You let us worry about the rest.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever loved anyone so much in my whole life,” I exclaim.

“That doesn’t say much about us.” Bret points to Alfred and then himself.

“Well, you guys are all well and good, but Kathleen has the money. And now, we’re going to have the Bella Rosa.”

I spent about an hour at Kate’s Paperie on 13th Street searching for the best stationery upon which to write to Gianluca. Every time I reread his letter, I find something new. It’s good to be adored.

When things go well at work, it frees me up to think about my personal happiness. When there is a problem in the shop, I become consumed by it, and I don’t rest until there’s a solution. Gabriel says the downfall of women is that no matter what we achieve in our work lives, we don’t feel successful unless we have a man at home. I argue with him about this, because I don’t believe it. I’m not that kind of woman. For me, fulfillment comes from taking a scrap of leather and cutting it to the specifications of a pattern, carving a stacked heel from wood, and sewing trim on a buttress. There is nothing like the satisfaction I get when I make something with my own hands.

I am my best self, the most alive I can be, when I’m creating in the shop. I would never admit this to a man I was interested in, but it’s the truth. Love is not the main course in the banquet of my life. It’s dessert. My mother would say that’s why I’m still single. And my sisters would say that I’m lying. But I know this to be true, that love is my treat, my tiramisu, because I’m living it.

I have not been tempted to scrap my life in Greenwich Village and get on a plane and go to Italy to be with Gianluca, even though I crave the idea of him. I know about women who drop the lives they lead in one place to go and be with a man in another. I’m fascinated by their impulse to choose the possibility of love over the certainty of work. I would never leave my work behind for a man, no matter how scrumptious he might be. I am, however, interested in romance on my own terms, and in my own time. I’m no master craftsman when it comes to love, strictly an apprentice in training.

I dump four different boxes of stationery onto the kitchen table. There’s the classic airmail blue onionskin paper, a box of note cards with various sketches of Palladian villas (too Italian), a box of plain white stationery with a black mock grosgrain trim (too Upper East Side), and finally, plain ecru note cards with a simple embossed gold heart. I’m going with the onionskin.

March 5, 2010

Dear Gianluca,

When I was twelve years old, Siser Theresa Kelly FMA required me to write the Prayer of Saint Francis of Assisi twenty times in order to commit it to memory. It worked. I will, when I see you again, take you through the poetry of God’s instrument of Peace. In the meantime, I first and foremost would like to thank you for the most beautiful letter any man has ever written to me. I am humbled by the simple beauty of your words. Your feelings are real and true. Now, I’d like to tell you about mine. I was not looking for love, and I’m still not sure if I should be. I think about you constantly, and even in my mind’s eye, you thrill and excite me. Could this be love? I don’t know. Could it one day be love? I don’t know the answer to that either. But I surely wonder what would have happened that night at the inn. And here’s what’s true for me: I dream of the possibilities.

Love,

Valentine

I cross out the e in Valentine and replace it with an a.

Gabriel looks out the window on the Saturday commuter train to Chatham, New Jersey. I balance a paint set for Maeve’s birthday party on my lap, while Gabriel holds the Eloise compilation, wrapped in pink tissue paper and tied with green yarn.

“You’re not over Roman,” Gabriel says.

“Why do you say that?”

“Because you won’t give it up for Gianluca.”

“I thought my letter was funny and tender.”

“It was filled with doubt. An I don’t know here, an I don’t know there. What do you know? Certainly not the contents of your human heart. You didn’t know nothin’ writing to him. And Saint Francis? Who mentions a saint in a sex plea?”

“What should I have said?”

“For starters? Not that. The letter should have been filled with erotica. You either want the man or you don’t. Or maybe this ocean between you is just too big. Maybe you need a local love. What about Roman?”

“What about him?”

“Maybe you should go back with him.”

“I’m not going to get back together with Roman just so you can get a seat in his restaurant.”

“It’s as good a reason as any.”

“For you. Forget it. I’m not calling him.”

“Maybe he’s done with Becky Bruschetta…,” Gabriel muses.

“You mean Caitlin Granzella.”

“He only went with her because she was easy pickings. She’s there, working for him in the restaurant. That should be a lesson to you. A man eats what’s in the cupboard.”

“Listen to me, Gabriel. Roman and I are done. I have no strings to pull over there any more, so fall in love with somebody else’s osso bucco already. There are a thousand Italian restaurants in New York City-”

“Ca’D’oro is pretty spectacular.”

“Furthermore, if you love me, and I think you do, you don’t want me to spend my life following my husband around to make sure he’s faithful.”

“You need to get real. And fast. A man can only be faithful in the beginning. You cannot sustain fidelity beyond a month. Six weeks max even if the sex is otherworldly, electrifying, and explosive. Magical sex. But that’s why they call it magic-because poof, in an instant, it disappears like Siegfried and Roy’s white tiger. No, the truth is, you have to watch your man like a hawk. Any man. I know. I am one.”

“I don’t have trust issues,” I assure Gabriel.

“Really,” he says.

Before I can argue the point, the train pulls into the station in downtown Chatham. It’s blustery and wintry cold in March as we deboard. I pull the directions out of my pocket. Mackenzie and Bret’s house is just a couple of blocks away, according to the map he drew.

We make the turn up Fairmont Avenue. Staying on the sidewalk, we pass lovely homes, which, even in barren winter, have manicured lawns and evergreen touches in the landscaping.

At the top of the hill is Bret’s home, a stately red brick Georgian with two white pillars anchoring a glossy black door with brass embellishments. It’s the best house on the block. The street in front of the house is packed with cars. It’s a big party. An enormous bunch of pink balloons tied to the railing sways in the wind.

As we climb the steps, there’s a wreath of white baby roses on the door dotted with small gift packages wrapped in gold. Glittering white letters spelling out MAEVE are fixed in the flowers. More handmade touches by the perfect mother; and I know one when I see one, because I grew up with the best.

“I hope the book I brought is enough to cover the plate.” Gabriel rings the bell. “This looks fancy.”

We hear music and chatter and laughing and kids whooping inside. Gabe takes a deep breath. “I hope there’s a bar.”

Bret’s wife, Mackenzie, opens the door, balancing her toddler, Piper, on her hip. “Valentine, Gabe,” she says. “You made it.”

“The ride was delightful,” Gabe says.

Mackenzie laughs. “Now you know why I never go into the city. Well, there’s also the fact that I don’t want to leave the city once I’m there.”

Mackenzie is willowy, on the sporty side, with blue eyes that match her cashmere sweater. Her blond hair is the color of ginger ale, and her legs are still tawny from their midwinter trip to Disney World in Florida. She wears a simple beige wool skirt and matching Tod’s flats.

Maeve, the birthday girl, is dressed like a fairy, with net wings that light up anchored to her shoulders. She peeks at us and then runs past when she sees it’s two grown-ups.

“Bret! Your friends are here!” Mackenzie calls out. “Come on in,” she says to us.

Gabriel shoots me a look at the mention of “your friends.”

Mackenzie has never really accepted us because we were part of Bret’s life before she was. To be fair, I wouldn’t want any ex-fiancée hanging around my husband either. Her demeanor with us manages to be warm, yet simultaneously chilly, like the first full day of spring.

According to Bret, Mackenzie made it very clear that she wanted marriage and children from their first date, so their romance progressed at lightning speed a year after our breakup. But those were the years when books like The Rules and Marry the Man of Your Choice topped the best-seller lists; women felt pressure to issue ultimatums, and men felt like they had to cave in, or at least Bret did.

It’s as if Mackenzie caught Bret in a butterfly net in Manhattan, carried him into New Jersey, and let him loose directly into the pages of House Beautiful. Even with children running around and a party in full swing, the house is neat and in order. The foyer, with a small toile-covered bench and an enormous silver-framed mirror, sets the stage for the rooms beyond it.

Mackenzie has decorated the house in a polished and understated way. The furniture is Georgian, all sleek lines and black polished wood accents. A delicate chintz of mint green and beige covers the sleek sofas. The straight-backed chairs have striped seat cushions, with a bit of navy blue trim thrown in to complement the wood. An oval Berber area rug trimmed in navy gives the large room a cozy feel.

There are plenty of polished silver frames filled with family moments on beaches, at parties, and in high chairs. Over the mantel hangs an oil painting of Mackenzie in an elaborate bridal gown. It’s obvious that she, like me, grew up idolizing Princess Diana. The portrait is right out of the Great Hall of Althorp.

Bret comes out of the kitchen and is happy to see us. “You’re here!”

“I only come to Jersey for corn…and for you.” Gabriel gives him a pat on the back.

Mackenzie hands Piper off to Bret. “Make yourselves at home,” she says as she goes into the living room to corral the kids.

We’ve had an awkward past, Mackenzie and I. I wasn’t invited to their wedding, but after they had been married for a year, Bret invited me out to dinner with them. In the spirit of lifelong friendship, Mackenzie put aside her apprehensions and I dropped my judgments. We were actually fine with one another and had a lot of fun.

Bret is the kind of man who has to have everyone in his life get along. He can’t abide acrimony. He wouldn’t even break up with me until I promised that I wouldn’t hate him forever. Of course, he couldn’t rest until he knew I was happy for him and approved of his choice of wife. The truth is, I think Mackenzie is the best woman for Bret.

Piper reaches for me, and I take her in my arms. She puts her arms around my neck. The tension in my body goes as she holds me close. Her skin has the scent of apricots. She rubs her cheeks on mine. Babies are a balm.

“Where’s the bar?” Gabe asks.

“In the den at the back of the house.” Gabe disappears through the door. “My folks are dying to see you,” Bret says to me. “They’re in the kitchen.” He points.

The kitchen is filled from counter to table with Fitzpatricks. When they’re home in Queens, they gather in the kitchen, and evidently, when they go anywhere else, they gather in the kitchen as well. I have many memories of their family dinners, a table full of cousins, aunts, and uncles. There was always lots of laughter, plenty of beer, and hearty casseroles at their table. Bret comes from a close family like mine.

“Valentine!” Bret’s mother throws her arms around me. Mrs. Fitz looks like Mrs. Santa Claus. She has smooth pink skin, not a wrinkle on it, and thick, white hair. She’s always been warm and dear, and since the day I met her, she’s been on a diet. Her husband is tall and lanky, like Bret, and he’s nuts about her. “Look, Bob, it’s Val.”

“So great to see you.” I kiss her on the cheek. “And you look great, both of you.” I kiss Mr. Fitz.

“Look at him,” Mrs. Fitz mock complains as she turns to her husband. “He eats the same amount of fudge I do, and he’s a beanpole.”

“You know men. They got us coming and going, especially when it comes to metabolism.”

“You look wonderful.” Mrs. Fitz nods in approval. “Slim.” Mrs. Fitz and I have a brand of banter that’s all about our figures and what we eat and how we look. I wonder what she and Mackenzie talk about. “Are you seeing anyone?” she whispers conspiratorially.

“Kind of.”

“Is it serious?”

“Could be.”

“Oh, good for you.” Mrs. Fitz squeezes my hand. In one grip, I fill in what she’s thinking: sorry it didn’t work out with Bret, but life goes on, so go for it.

“Hey, everybody. The Pirate is here,” Mackenzie announces from the doorway of the kitchen. “You don’t want to miss him.”

The kitchen drains of Fitzpatricks, followed by Gabriel, until Mrs. Fitz, Mackenzie, and I are left alone.

“It’s a great party,” I assure the hostess. “The invitation was beautiful.”

“Mackenzie made them herself,” Mrs. Fitz says proudly.

“Thanks. My old career in advertising comes in handy.” She smiles. “It’s my way of staying creative. You know, making necklaces out of Cheerios is only so fulfilling.”

“Oh, don’t you worry. It all goes by like a shot-and you’ll remember these days and wonder where they went.” Mrs. Fitz takes a cookie from the Lazy Susan.

An awkward silence sets in.

This is why I don’t come to the suburbs. Mothers have a lot to talk about with one another, but what can I converse about with them? Making shoes? How can I relate to their daily lives? Wives and mothers already know the answers to the big questions that loom before a woman when she’s unattached and focused on her career: Will love find me? (It did.) Will that love make a family? (It does.) Their world seems complete, renovated, redecorated, and fully loaded. Everything is done.

A stay-at-home mother in the suburbs can plan her life for the next fifteen years. The markers are determined by the children themselves, and the calendar follows: the school year, summer vacation, birthday parties, camp, holiday breaks, and piano lessons. A stay-at-home mother knows weeks, months, and years in advance what life has in store for her. There’s an order to family life. In contrast, I have no idea what lies ahead. I don’t even know what the next six months will bring, much less the coming year. When it comes to a long-range view for my life, I’m still figuring out which pattern to cut.

“Bret is really optimistic about your company. I haven’t seen him this jazzed about a business plan in a long time,” Mackenzie says.

“It’s an exciting time for us. And it’s exhausting. I mean, not as exhausting as children…”

“Oh, it’s a different thing entirely,” she says. “I used to put in twelve-hour days in the office, and still have enough energy to meet Bret for dinner and clubbing. Now, I’m bone tired by six o’clock. Stay single. Keep your freedom. This is all overrated. Bret has all the adventures in the family,” she jokes.

But is she kidding? I can’t tell. “I’m sorry about the late meetings at the shop.” I realize that the statement sounds suspicious, so much so Mrs. Fitz raises an eyebrow. I cover quickly, throwing my brother into the mix to make everything seem innocent, which it is. “Bret and Alfred are a real think tank. They’re brainstorming with the Small Business Administration, doing the loans, raising the money. I do the heavy lifting by making the shoes.”

Even Mrs. Fitz seems relieved that I dug myself out of that one.

“I should make you a pair of shoes to thank you,” I tell Mackenzie.

“Size eight,” Mackenzie says. “Someday, I’ll need them. You know, when I’m back on Madison Avenue trying to impress clients, instead of hiring a pirate for birthday parties.”

Pirate Billy Bones stands before the mantel in the living room. He’s the handsome actor, David Engel on dry land, dressed up like Captain Hook without the hook. He has a blacked-out tooth and wears striped MC Hammer pants and a pile of gold chains around his neck. A wide-brimmed hat with a plume matches the stuffed parrot on his shoulder. At his feet rests a large plastic treasure chest. The children gather closely around him, while the adults form a semicircle just behind their offspring.

Gabriel sips his drink, takes in the pirate’s opening joke, grimaces, and pivots back to the kitchen. Gabriel may not like children, but he enjoys children’s theater even less.

Bret puts his arms around Mackenzie as they laugh at the pirate shtick. But Mackenzie tenses and, after an awkward pause, removes his hands from her shoulders. Bret continues to watch the show and places his hands in his pockets instead.

I wonder if she has any idea that Bret was being pursued by his sexy assistant last year. I think not. Mackenzie is appropriate, and the truth of that is dramatized in every nook and cranny of this party. She invites all of Bret’s family over, including Uncle Rehab, the dry drunk. Her largesse is admirable. She makes sure everyone is comfortable, that the food is delicious, the bar well stocked, and the entertainment fun. She really is a wonderful wife, straight out of a storybook. But does she want to be?

Is there a perfect life waiting for any of us? I always believed it until, of course, I took the trip to out there. Here in Chatham, sadness has a different hue. Mackenzie doesn’t struggle with survival, as I do in the city. She struggles with her unmet potential, or the nagging question, Is this what my life was supposed to be? I imagine she doesn’t have an answer. If she did, she would embrace her husband, and she certainly wouldn’t complain about making necklaces out of cereal. But something is going on out here, and it’s not the dark suburbia written about in my mother’s magazines. This is about personal fulfillment and the best and highest use of an intelligent woman’s time.

This is the dilemma that hangs over this birthday party like the hand-painted mural of clouds and breaking sun on the ceiling in the breakfast room. Mackenzie is not happy.

“When are we leaving?” Gabe whispers in my ear. “I can’t eat one more carrot stick dipped in ranch dressing. I even had the cotton candy.”

“What do you think of the pirate?”

Gabriel checks him out head to toe. “Cute. But he’s straight.”

“Well, that’s that. We’re outta here.”

Pirate Billy Bones takes his final bow. The children stand and jump up and down, screaming in gratitude.

We weave our way through the guests to say good-bye to Mackenzie and Bret and their girls.

Maeve gives me a big hug while Piper extends her chubby arms to me and falls out of her mother’s embrace into mine.

“I could take them home,” I tell Mackenzie.

“Anytime.” She laughs.

The foyer is cluttered with pink goody bags.

“Do not take a goody bag,” Gabe says.

“It’s rude if you don’t.”

“Do we need a Little Mermaid blow-up beach ball and a SpongeBob tabletop croquet set? Sorry. Pass.”

The commuter back to the city arrives right on time at the tiny station just off Chatham’s Main Street. I climb up the steps and see that the train is mostly empty, yet I have a hard time deciding which seats to take.

“What’s the matter with you?” Gabriel chooses our seats. “There’s no first class on a commuter. Just grab anything.” He takes the window, and I sit down next to him.

“Something’s wrong,” I say.

“No kidding. You look ashen. Oh, no. Was it the guacamole?”

“I didn’t have any.”

Gabriel pounds his chest lightly. “I did.”

“What didn’t you have?”

“A makeout session with Uncle Rehab. But he wanted to-believe me. I know why he drinks.”

“You do?”

“Closet. In it. Can’t get out.” Gabriel shrugs.

As the train careens out of Chatham and rolls through Summit, a strange feeling comes over me again.

I can’t describe it, but I’m troubled about something. I’m unsettled by the party. By the conversations. By the atmosphere.

I close my eyes and imagine the party again. And then, I remember when Piper fell into my arms and held me tightly. There was something about that moment that was profound. Something happened when she hugged me and wouldn’t let go. I’ve held a lot of babies, and done my share of babysitting my nieces and nephews, but this embrace, from this little girl, was entirely different. It had meaning beyond the moment. Dear God. This isn’t the cry for motherhood women get, is it?