Brava, Valentine

6. April Played the Fiddle

1 aprile 2010

Cara Valentina,

I just returned to my new home. I took the rooftop apartment in the old printing press off the square in Arezzo. It has many aspects of the original architecture but is restored with all the modern conveniences. The floors are gleaming squares of white granite that, when hit by the sun, nearly blinds me. I will be shopping for rugs in Florence.

I had dinner with Teodora and Papa this evening. My father is so happy. He is devoted to Teodora. You are not to worry about her. They fill their days with long walks. They cook together in the kitchen. They go to Mass every morning at the church, and according to my father, after they pray, they return home to make love. What a life!

Tonight, at dinner, the conversation was about you. I hope you understand that your grandmother has great faith in you and holds your talent in high esteem. Also, it is important for you to know that I have not discussed my feelings for you with them. And it isn’t because of our families. It is out of respect for your feelings, and the hope that they will grow.

Love is built in a series of small realizations. It begins with a laugh-yours, the first day I met you in our shop. I heard your laughter long after you were gone. I still do. Then, your face, which I remember in detail, even as I write this. How beautiful was your expression of wonder when you held the fragile silk façonné at the Prato mill. I carried that image with me when you returned to America. I still do. And then our kisses. A kiss (not the stolen kisses in Capri, but the kisses at the inn, where it was your idea and mine, as it should be) holds the meaning of love. I dream of yours and of you.

Love,

Gianluca

“What do you think?”

June places Gianluca’s letter carefully on the cutting table as though it’s a yard of rare duchesse satin.

She removes her reading glasses and leans back on the work stool. “You haven’t been with enough men to know about love letters. These babies are rare. I never received a letter like this. And trust me, I would have liked to. The man is into details. And he has vision for your future together. He thinks things through.”

“It’s almost too much. I can’t believe it.”

“You take every salesman that walks into this shop at his word-why not Gianluca?”

“It’s like when I was a kid and I’d eat too much white chocolate-I knew I’d had enough after one bite, but I wouldn’t stop. I’d eat the whole bunny and then have to lie down. I get the same feeling when I read his letters.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“I don’t know. But I’m glad that I have the time and the distance to think about it. He’s there, I’m here.”

“How convenient. There’s an ocean between you and him that you can fill with excuses not to fall in love. I know an avoidist when I see one. But listen to me, sister. This man is one in a million-make that a billion when you factor in worldwide overpopulation. And not just because he’s tall and handsome and Italian, my favorite food group, but because this guy knows what matters to a woman. Some men go their whole lives long and never get it. This one gets it and writes it down and mails it to your door. You don’t know what you have here.”

“Oh I think I know what I’ve got. I just don’t have any idea what to do with it. When it comes to men, what do you want, June?”

“I always hoped to be seen. You know, not a spotlight thing, I got enough of that when I was a dancer. I’m talking about something deeper. I want a man to see me for who I am.”

“That’s the problem with these letters. It’s like he’s talking about a goddess.”

“That’s how he sees you. He’s describing his experience of you. I got news for you-that’s what love is. It’s how he sees you-not how you see yourself. Be the love object. And for Chrissakes, don’t object!”

“All right, all right.”

“I mean, you want him, don’t you?”

“Of course.”

“Part of getting what you want out of life is knowing exactly what to ask for.” June points at me and winks like a gunslinger in an old western. “What are you looking for?”

“I was hoping I’d recognize it when it came my way.”

“This man is for real.”

“You’re like Tess and Jaclyn. They believe in ‘the one.’ You meet a good man, fairly young, and then…that’s it. Forever.” There was a time in my life when I believed in “the one.” That, of course, was back when I had it. I’d known Bret all of my life, and then I was in my twenties and had dated him since high school, and then we got engaged. I thought that’s what happened to people-they grew up with a boy, then after years of being together and spending lots of time with each other’s families, continued the relationship into marriage. Most of the women I know followed that formula, so of course I figured that I would too. And I did, until I found something in my life that would require more of me than teaching school, which I enjoyed, or working in an office, which I didn’t. When I decided to become a shoemaker, I had to sacrifice everything-weekends, a social life, and all the things that a woman must do to make a traditional life. I just couldn’t see how I could do both-and Bret, at the time, didn’t either.

June places the letter on the table. “A man who can seduce with a turn of phrase will not disappoint in the bedroom.” June gets up and pours herself a cup of coffee. “We have all been waiting for this one, honey. And if I were you, I’d hurry up and I wouldn’t be late. Gianluca’s riding in on the night train, and the last place you want to be is the wrong stop. I’d be waiting with my bags, and by God, I’d get on board. I’d take that ride for you if I could. I have moments, even now, when I’d try. But he’s for you. You take Gianluca and run with it.”

“It sounds like I need to yank the emergency cord on the train.”

“The only urgent thing in life is the pursuit of love. You get that one right, and you’ve solved the mystery.”

“And I thought when I could figure out a way to survive in this shop by the labor of my own hands, that would be the mystery solved.”

“Two different things. Work is survival, and love sustains you. You can have work anytime. But love? Not always.”

“Why didn’t you ever get married, June?”

“I didn’t want to.”

“Maybe I don’t want to either.”

“No, you do,” she says quietly.

“How can you tell?”

“Women who take care of old people are the marrying kind,” she says.

“Gram took care of herself.”

“Yes, but you looked after her. It wasn’t a chore, it came naturally. Same with me. Nobody else calls me when I walk home from work in the snow. You always do.”

“Dear God. I sound pathetic!”

June laughs. “Not at all. You nurture people-and we need you to. But you don’t think about yourself enough. And time is passing-it really is. And when you get old, it passes even more quickly, like a lead foot on the accelerator. I hear old people on TV say they don’t have regrets. I have about a thousand.”

“Name one.”

“I would have asked for more. I would have had more.”

“But June…”

“I know, I know, I feasted my way through fifty years of men, all sizes, shapes, and proclivities. God only knows how many miles I schlepped and continents I crossed in the pursuit of pleasure. And when I look back over all the years, and all the men, I would have liked for just one of those men, to sit down, pen in hand, and tell me what he saw when I walked in a room.”

June looks out the windows and off into the middle distance.

“No, I had to guess. I had to fill in the blanks.” She whistles softly. “But you? He’s told you plain, right here on paper, what you mean to him. And if you can’t take these words in now, put the letter aside and reread it tomorrow when you’ve had time to think. Trust me, this Gianluca won’t come along again, not in your lifetime.” June picks up the letter and hands it back to me. “Unless you know something I don’t.”

June perches her reading glasses on her nose and reads the work list. I pick up a shoe and measure the welt to attach it to the heel. June opens her box of straight pins on the table, then takes her pinking shears out of their chamois pouch and places them on the table. She pushes the work stool under the table with her knee, she loads a bolt of raw silk on to the roller, and I help her snap the dowel and close the traps.

We are two women with so much more than friendship in common. We work together, and while I’m supposedly her boss, the truth is, she is mine. June knows more about the world than I ever will-and in matters of love, she would never mislead me. Teacher to student, she has never told me anything but the truth. Maybe I don’t believe Gianluca’s pretty words because he’s Italian and they’re known for their fleur-de-lis approach to life. Maybe I need hardware and nails when it comes to love, not the gentle curves of filigree. Maybe I don’t think the pretty stuff is strong enough to hold.

“I’ve always maintained that this house could use some drama.” Mom sits on one of the red leather bar stools behind the counter that separates the kitchen from the living area in Gram’s apartment. “Everywhere.” She thumbs through Interior magazine, tearing out “looks” that she thinks I might like. “The old homestead needs a total redo.”

“We’ll ask Gram.”

“You don’t have to. She turned the building over to you to do whatever you want. Go wild. Reinvent yourself in a new environment. Have some fun!”

My life is now developing a theme. Evidently, I don’t have enough fun. June wants me to spice up the bedroom, and my mother, the decor. It dawns on me that Mom has another motive entirely. “Has Dad put the kibosh on your renovations in Queens?”

“That has nothing to do with it. But yes, he has. When it comes to interior design, your father is a joy killer. He’d have the same bicentennial red, white, and blue shag carpet from our den in 1976 if I’d let him. He’s like his mother in that way. When you vacuum her rugs, there are permanent grooves in the carpet where the furniture is placed. Actual pits. Your father doesn’t get that surroundings matter, and that change keeps you fresh, young, and on your toes. You wouldn’t wear the same clothes every day, would you?”

“No,” I lie. I look down at my uniform: jeans and work smock.

“Then your home shouldn’t either. The same curtains for thirty years? Come on, people. Might as well live in a HoJo’s lobby. When your father got the prostate diagnosis, the first thing I did after I overhauled his diet with lycopene was to study color therapy. After intense research, I painted our bedroom soft yellow because yellow is conducive to healing. Now, I don’t want to take credit for his stellar remission, but you can’t tell me there’s not a connection.”

“There’s a connection.”

“If only he’d indulge me once in a while.”

“Ma. He does everything you want.”

“Eventually.”

The laptop screen sounds a small series of bells. Then Gram appears on the screen. “Can you see me?”

I sit down and click the camera icon. “Gram, we’re here. I can see you!”

“Hi, hon.” Gram waves. “Where’s Mike?”

“Right here, Ma.” Mom puts down her magazine, fluffs her hair, and presses her lips together to release the micro-beads in her twenty-four-hour lipstick. “I’m camera-ready.” Mom squeezes onto the chair with me and sees her image on the screen. “Dear God, the lighting is atrocious.”

“You look wonderful, Mike,” Gram tells her.

“No, I look over sixty. That’s what I look. I’ve been asking every Blue Cross hotline attendant if they have any idea who did Susan Sarandon’s face work. We are practically the same age, almost exactly, and she looks like she did in the Rocky Horror movie while I look like the Rocky Horror.”

“I don’t think Susan Sarandon had any work done,” I tell them.

“Now I feel worse!” Mom throws her hands up in despair.

“How’s it going with Alfred in the shop?” Gram looks at me and ignores my mother. I can’t believe Gram can pull that off on Skype. She knows if we go down the plastic surgery path with my mother, it will be hours on the line. “Are you two getting along?”

“Not bad,” I lie.

Gram gives me a look. “Alfred tells me it’s going fine.”

“Good. I’m glad you checked with him.”

“Now, now. He e-mailed me about some tax files.”

“Uh-huh.” I know good and well that Gram and Alfred e-mail every day. And I know he reports everything I do back to her. But what he doesn’t get is that Gram only wants good news to go with her positive new life. He should skip the budget and tax talk with her. “How’s Dominic?”

“I’m having the best time here. And our honeymoon. The Black Sea was a stunner.”

“Ma, you won’t believe it.” Mom leans into the screen. “Every time I pick up a travel magazine, there’s something about the Black Sea. I never heard of it before you honeymooned there. You’re cutting-edge.”

“Magnificent. Russian palaces on the coastline-the best caviar I’ve ever tasted. It was cold, but the water was calm, like a smooth pane of mercury glass. Almost silver.”

“I’m so happy for you,” Mom says.

As happy as we all are for Gram’s new life, and all the things that go with it that she deserves, like amazing trips and an attentive husband, I can’t help but wonder if she ever misses making shoes.

“Gram, you know the sketch I found? The one I scanned and sent to you?” I hold up the shoe design by Rafael Angelini. “Do you have any idea who Rafael is? I Googled the name but I couldn’t find him anywhere…But I did find a Roberta Angelini in Buenos Aires. Do you think she’s any relation?”

“She could be.”

“Do you know of other Angelinis?”

“Well, there’s an old story-but I have no idea how true it is. But your great-grandfather had a brother. There was some estrangement, long, long ago-I think it may have happened here in Arezzo. But I really don’t know any details.”

“My great-grandfather had a brother?” I look at my mother.

“Don’t look at me. I’m only an expert on my family after they arrived in America. Hoboken and forward…that’s my area of expertise.”

I can’t believe this. My mother knows the exact count of the family silver, and how we’re missing a ladle that she believes was lifted when she invited the Martinelli cousins over for brunch after the May Day crowning at Queen of the Angels in 1979. My grandmother stored and marked heirloom rosaries for each of her great-grandchildren on the day they were born to be given on their First Communions in the event of her demise. This is a family that knows the contents of every drawer, closet shelf, and jewelry box. Our wills are updated like our dental records (and we are fanatical about teeth!). Can it be possible that we have an entire branch of the family, sawed off the old tree for kindling, and nobody bothered to tell us?

“I didn’t know much about the brother,” Gram says. “They didn’t discuss it. And this is the first thing I’m hearing about Argentina.”

I just stare at the screen. I want to shout: Yeah, you don’t know much-or you just don’t remember to share it with me: just like you never told me this building was in hock or that Grandpop had a mistress until you were already in love with Dominic, who you told me about ten years after the fact!

I have a notion that if I opened the wrong box in storage, I’d uncover enough family secrets and vendettas to blow the roof off 166 Perry Street. “Well, I think it’s important. It would appear that there was another shoemaker in the family.”

“Why should that matter now?” my mother pipes up.

I look at Gram and then my mother. “Are you serious?” Don’t they get it? I’m attempting to grow the brand. I need to know everything about this company and our history. There may be something of value to use going forward-I shouldn’t be in the dark. What I don’t say is that between Alfred and Gram, I get the funny feeling that’s exactly where they’d like to keep me.

“Your mother is right,” Gram says. “Let’s look to the future. Besides, that sketch wasn’t as good as your grandfather’s-or your great-grandfather’s.” She smiles. “Or yours.”

“Could you do me a favor anyway?” I ask. “Go to the church there in Arezzo and see if you can find the baptismal records. If Rafael Angelini really was Grandpop’s uncle, he’ll be there.”

“I’m getting chills,” Mom says. “Maybe we should consult a psychic.”

“Ma, the last time we did, it was a disaster. We gave Aunt Feen a free session, and the lady promised her that she would win Powerball.”

“Right, right. And when Aunt Feen didn’t win the lottery she wanted to sue the psychic and the gaming commission.”

Gram interrupts us. “How is Feen?”

“I went to see her on Sunday.” Mom says. “She’s as crabby as ever. She signed up for water aerobics at the Y in Mineola. Better she drink pool water than Johnny Walker Red.”

My cell phone rings on the counter. I pick it up while Mom and Gram go down the long, lonesome road of life with Feen.

“Valentine, it’s Pamela. When did Alfred leave?”

I check the clock. “Around five. He had a bunch of meetings with the Small Business rep downtown.”

“He’s supposed to be here for Rocco’s parent-teacher conference. I have a sitter and everything.”

“He’s not answering his cell?” I ask.

“It goes straight to voice mail.” She sounds completely frustrated.

“I’ll track him down. You go ahead to school, and I’ll tell him you’ll meet him there.”

I hang up with Pamela and call my brother. He picks up the phone after a couple of rings. “Hey, Alfred. Call Pamela. She couldn’t reach you and said there’s some parent-teacher thing at school.”

“Oh, no.”

“You forgot?” This is not like Alfred at all. He remembers everything-including the grade he got on his calculus final in eleventh grade. “Well, get on the bus, brother. She’s waiting for you.”

I snap the phone shut, completely annoyed. Along with a partnership I never wanted, I am officially my brother’s keeper. What’s next? I spend my Saturday afternoons ironing Alfred’s shirts?

My mother scans the keyboard on the computer. “How do you shut this off?”

“Are you done?”

“Yes.”

I hit the buttons out of Skype. The screen goes black. My mother claps her hands together. “What a trailblazing invention. I just love the 21st century! It’s so William Shatner. So Star Trek.”

“Do you ever miss old-fashioned ways?”

“Which ones?”

“Love letters written with a fountain pen?”

“Oh, God no. Your father can’t spell. He cannot express himself via words at all. He tried to write to me when we were young, but I needed a dramaturg to deconstruct his sentiments. No, no, I like how we communicate now. Dutch tells me how he feels to my face. Press a button and my mother’s face pops up from Italy. There’s nothing like right now, in the moment.”

The Small Business Adminstration office is two doors down from the room we are sent to when serving on jury duty. The waiting area is filled with people, laptops out, cell phones on, doing business. I sign in. Whenever you deal with doctors or government agencies, there’s invariably a clipboard and a number 2 pencil dangling from a string.

Kathleen pokes her head out the office door and motions to me. I point to the list-there’s at least nine names in front of mine. She waves me in.

“I have your paperwork all set to go,” she says as she closes the door behind me.

“Already?” I’m amazed and also slightly guilty about the line I just jumped in the waiting room. Kathleen has really been charmed by the Angelini Shoe Company.

“It was a snap. Alfred looked over it and signed it.”

“Great.”

“Ray Rinaldi approved them and sent three sets back to me for your signature.” Kathleen places the documents in front of me and gives me a pen. I sign the paperwork. She stamps them.

“You should have your loan within six weeks. This gives you time to make a deal with a manufacturer.”

“I’m on it.”

Kathleen stands. “You’ve been great to work with.”

I open my tote bag and lift out our signature red and white striped shoebox. “These are for you.”

Kathleen opens the box. “They’re gorgeous!” She lifts out a pair of Flora calfskin slippers. “I can’t possibly keep them.”

“Why not? It’s not a bribe. The loan has already been approved.” I point to a bouquet of flowers with a thank-you card that sits on Kathleen’s desk. “We express our gratitude with shoes instead of flowers. Friend to friend.”

“I’ve had a great time working with you and your family.” Kathleen smiles.

I never noticed how pretty she was, or maybe now I see her as a beauty because she just promised me enough money to make the Bella Rosa.

I place my copy of the contract in my tote bag. I feel very guilty when I pass through the waiting room loaded with people who, just like me, need a loan to survive, and hopefully grow.

I text Bret:

Me: LOAN APPROVED!

Bret: Congrats!

Me: Thanks to you.

Bret: Now we find a factory.

Me: In the U.S.?

Bret: Arguing with your brother about China.

Me: I knew he’d be a problem.

Bret: That’s why I’m here. I fight. You make your beautiful shoes.

Me: What would I do without you? I know: I’d be in proper therapy!

Bret: You’re my therapy. Nobody makes me laugh like you.

Me: Or you!

Bret: xo

Me: xo

Tess, Jaclyn, and I sit in the rotunda waiting area of Sloan Kettering Hospital. Dad is here for his checkup, and Mom seemed nervous about coming alone, so we all came to give them our support. You would think, after the diagnosis and months of treatment, that we would be used to the grind that comes with a diagnosis of stage-two prostate cancer, but we’re not. We live in fear, but we don’t talk about it. We put on big smiles, joke and laugh to keep our parents’ spirits up. But all the while we grip the rosaries in our pockets, holding on to the beads, praying for good news every time Dad has to walk through those doors.

We love the word remission, and we throw the word cure around as our deepest wish (because it is). But cancer is now an official member of the Roncalli family. We don’t like it, we didn’t ask for it to be born, but it’s here, and we have to accept all of it: its cranky moods and unpredictable behavior, its sudden retreat when the doctors try a new drug and tell us to go home and wait for the results. In the meantime, we cope with the toll it takes on our father, who goes from normal to exhausted to sick as the doctors try to make him better.

But today, I’m feeling unusually lucky. With the loan approval, maybe we’re on a roll, and things in general will begin to go well for my family. I’m superstitious, though, because I’ve seen momentum go in the other direction, so I keep my optimism to myself.

“Do you think Dad will get a good report?” Jaclyn asks.

“He looks good. You know, physically.”

“Val, he always looks good. The people in our family can be at death’s door and they never look sick. They die in the picture of health. You can’t count on visuals,” Tess says.

“I hope I age like Dad. He’s looked the same since he was forty.”

“It’s the nose,” Jaclyn says. “A nose is important as you get older. It holds everything up. Like a tent pole.” Jaclyn scrolls through her BlackBerry. “Look. Gram sent a picture of Dominic and her. Check it out.”

Gram and Dominic embrace on the deck of a cruise ship. There are foamy white caps on the Black Sea. They are bundled up like sherpas, in down coats, knit caps, dark sunglasses, and thick gloves.

“Are they on their honeymoon, or did they join the Russian mob?”

“It must have been cold over there,” Tess says. “Freezing. Hey, here’s one with Gianluca.” Jaclyn hands it to me.

I look down at the picture. He’s standing by the hood of his car with a peevish expression on his face. Gram and Dominic must have been late to go somewhere. Annoyed or not, he looks gorgeous in the picture.

“Have you heard from him? I mean, any word since I caught him in the bathroom?”

“Yes, I’ve heard from him.”

My sisters lean in.

“Are you Skyping?” Tess asks, trying not to pry, but desperate to know every detail.

“No. We write letters.”

“With stamps?”

“Yes, Tess. With ink, stamps, envelopes. The old post office routine.”

“Wow. How romantic.” Tess says the word without meaning it. Her idea of romance is cards that play songs when you open them, huge floral arrangements, and a diamond heart suspended on a thick gold chain. A handwritten letter is the poor man’s way to a woman’s heart, and Tess, like my mother, prefers the glitz. “An old-fashioned letter.”

“But why?” Jaclyn, not yet thirty, does not remember life before cell phones and e-mail. “How long does the mail take from Italy? Isn’t it years? Mom sent us a postcard from Italy, and she’d been home three weeks when the card arrived. Why would you bother with all that when you can text him?”

“He’s not a technical guy,” I tell them.

“He’s old.” Jaclyn shrugs, satisfied that she’s cracked the Vechiarelli code.

“Yeah, he’s older…ish, but it’s not that. He really pays attention to the people around him. It matters to him how he spends his time. I don’t know him that well yet, but everything he does, everything he says, has meaning. He thinks things through. I’ve never met anyone like him.”

“Do you think it’s serious?”

“Don’t buy your bridesmaid dresses.”

“But Bendel’s is having a sale,” Jaclyn whines. “I got my eye on a Rodarte sample.”

Tess turns to me. “Don’t let her push you. There will always be perfect dresses and weddings to wear them to. You make sure he’s right for you. Take your time. Eventually, you’ll know for sure if Gianluca is The One.”

“I hate to disappoint you, but I don’t know if I believe in that anymore.”

“Of course you do! Look at us!” Jaclyn says. “One Charlie! One Tom!”

“Well, it’s worked out well for you guys. I’m different.”

“You always say that, but you’re really not that different from us,” Tess says.

“Believe me, I wish I was exactly like you. You get an idea in your heads, and you see it through. Some people go for the brass ring, and you went for the diamond version. It worked out for you. But I never fall in love with men who do what I want to do. There’s always a conflict.”

“Maybe this is it. Maybe Gianluca will compromise,” Tess reasons.

“When is he coming over to visit?” Jaclyn asks, hoping that gown she likes will still be on sale when Gianluca convinces me to take the next step.

“He’s running the tannery alone now. I don’t think he can take time off.”

“So you have one of these Jane Austen romances where there are letters but no actual sex.” Tess sounds disappointed. “No action. Just words.”

“Poetry,” I correct her.

“What does he say in the letters?” Tess asks.

“None of your business.”

I will not make the mistake of showing my sisters the letters from Gianluca. Gabriel’s dissection of Gianluca’s letter left me stone cold. June’s assessment helped because she put her opinion in the context of her extensive life (and love) experience. The last place I’m going to look for validation is my immediate family. I’m long past the days when I have to run everything I’m feeling by my family.

As the last single person in a family of married people, I have become their final frontier, their project. They will not rest until I’m taken. I would prefer they use their energy to help Mom install her dream lily pond on Austin Street instead of meddling in my love life.

Mom pushes through the swinging doors that lead to the interior of the hospital. She is dressed head to toe in yellow. Sunshine gold. Mike Roncalli has brought a splash of color therapy into Manhattan’s palace of healing.

“Oh, girls! All clear!” Mom embraces the three of us and begins to cry. “Every time I set foot in here and we get a decent report, I realize how completely out of my mind with worry I am every single day. Ordinary life can drain you.”

“Yes, it can,” I agree.

“It’s not the big things, you know-it’s the maintenance. But thank God and Saint Teresa, who never fails me, Dutch is all clear for now.”

“I’ll text Alfred,” Jaclyn says.

“Thanks,” Mom says, tightening the belt on her yellow princess coat. Something bothers her still. “You know,” she says, “your dad notices that Alfred never comes on these appointments.”

“He’s back at the shop, Mom,” I tell her. “He’s researching-”

“Don’t make excuses for him. You make the damn shoes, Val, and you find the time to come here and be with your father and me. No, your brother doesn’t get it. And you know what? He never will! He will hold a grudge against your father until the day he dies.”

“Let’s hope not,” Tess says diplomatically.

“What is it?” Mom throws her hands up. “Why can’t children forgive their parents? We don’t set out to disappoint you. We really don’t. And when we do, we are the first to know it-and as far as I can tell, your father has made reparations. Not that he would use that word-”

“Or pronounce it.” I nod.

“But honestly,” Mom continues, “the man has made all matters of restitution to me, to his family, to his God. Furthermore, he has tried time and time again to open up the channels of communication with your brother, on Alfred’s terms, and he’s been rebuffed. Every single time! Daddy isn’t selling himself as some perfect parent. He’s well aware of his failings, as I am of mine. But for God help me, it’s been twenty years. It’s almost a non-memory for me at this point. But, for your brother? It’s a fresh gash.”

“That’s just Alfred,” Tess says. “You’re not going to change him, Ma, don’t let it bug you.”

Mom considers this. The sadness and anger leave her face as quickly as if she were wiping them off with one of her premoistened makeup sponges. “You’re absolutely right. Alfred will get it when he gets it. But, please, my trio of angels, don’t let my peevishness ruin your day. You are the best! Each of you have so much on your plates, with children and work and husbands and…” Mom looks at me. “Overseas enchantments. Yet with all you have to do, your father and I must have done something right, because you always show up for us.”

“Where are we gonna go, Ma? We’re family,” Jaclyn says.

We sit and wait for Dad to dress and join us, and I think about my brother, and how somebody is always angry with him. That can’t be good for Alfred. It’s sad that he’s missing out on this great moment with us. Relief is an instant balm, but it has to be earned. Alfred ignores the agony, and then he misses the joy. He doesn’t make any emotional investment in us. Maybe he saves it all for Pamela and his sons.

Or maybe they, like us, know the truth: none of us are good enough for Alfred, whether we were born after him, gave birth to him, fathered him, or married him. Alfred’s standards are so high no one can reach them. I have to remember to tell Bret to keep this in mind. I can’t have Alfred derail my relationships at the Angelini Shoe Company because he has unrealistic standards-or because he doesn’t want to see the sister who never measured up succeed despite herself.

“I know this is against your religion…,” I say into my cell phone. I stand on the corner of 14th Street and 8th Avenue, with one hand over my ear and the other clutching my phone. “…but I had to do the modern thing and call you.”

“Valentina?” Gianluca could not be happier to hear from me.

“I have good news. Dad got a great report at the doctors.”

“Va bene!” Gianluca is thrilled by the news, and just as happy to hear from me.

“I wanted to tell you.” A bus pulls up at the stop and decompresses with a loud blast as the steps are lowered closer to the sidewalk. “Sorry about the noise. I’m outside. On my way back to the shop.”

“The noise is not a problem,” he assures me. “I am happy to hear your voice.”

“Gianluca?”

“Yes?”

“Be patient with me.”

“Valentina.”

The soothing sound of his voice, the way he says my name, blankets me. I want to let him know what he means to me, that I couldn’t wait to get home and write it on the onionskin paper. Suddenly, it felt urgent. It only takes a trip to Sloan Kettering to remind me how short life is, and that there’s nothing wrong with a little prioritizing. “I’m not as good at this as you are, at expressing myself. I…” I pause and think.

He waits patiently until I speak. He doesn’t interrupt me. He lets me find my point, and then gives me the time to share it. “I am trying to say that I love your letters. They are very descriptive and honest…and I feel so much when I read them.”

“Grazie,” he says, then amends. “ Mille grazie.”

“I guess, what I’d like to tell you is to…keep them coming. And if you do, I will read them with as much care as you take when you write them.”

“Valentina, I must see you.”

“When?” I ask him.

“I wish today.”

“Me too,” I tell him, and I mean it.

“Now, in the shop here, it is difficult. My father is a new man with a new life. The old life holds very little interest to him now. So, I work twice as long each day.”

“The same at my shop.”

“We’re in, how do you say it?”

“The same boat!”

“Right. Correct. That makes us closer still? No?” he asks.

“Yes,” I tell him.

When I return to the shop, Gabriel and June are laughing at the cutting table. There is something so natural about the two of them working side by side.

Gabriel wasn’t around as much when he lived in Chelsea, but now that he is about to move in, there isn’t any aspect of life on 166 Perry Street that he isn’t a part of-and that includes the shoes.

“What’s going on?” I hang up my coat and look over at Alfred, whose head is buried in a file.

“June is teaching me how to cut patterns,” Gabriel says. “I’ve decided to make the drapes for the living room myself.”

“Do you think you can?”

“You should know better than to ask that question. I can do anything I set my mind to.”

“He’s very good, this guy. Very quick,” June says. “He has a real eye for dimension-which is the one attribute every pattern cutter needs.”

“And when I choose to learn something new, I insist I learn from the master,” Gabriel says.

“Well, that’s me, kiddo.” June cackles. “Thirty-plus years with these pinking shears. I’d say that makes me the master.”

“You feel like a coffee break?” Gabriel asks her.

“Sure,” June says.

“I made blondies with walnuts.” Gabriel looks at me and Alfred.

“I’m okay,” Alfred says without looking up.

“Me too. Late lunch. You go.”

June and Gabriel head up the stairs.

“Dad got an all-clear.”

“Great,” Alfred says.

“You couldn’t be more thrilled.”

He puts the file down. “What do you want me to do? Dance a jig?”

“No. I’d like you to show up,” I tell him. “You’ve never been to the hospital-not when Dad had the surgery, or the chemo, or the radiation-you just leave it to us. And it’s not fair.”

“If you remember, I got him into Sloan, and I paid for the extras. I’ve done my bit.”

“You’re his only son.”

“Yeah, well, that’s its own reward, isn’t it?” he snaps. “I don’t want to fight with you, Valentine,” he says wearily.

“No. You’re fighting the whole world, and then I’m forced to live in it.”

“What does that mean?”

“You don’t get along with people. You take a defensive position. Or you issue an order and expect me to fall in line. You decide we’re going to make the Bella Rosa in China, and that’s how it’s going to be. You steamroller me, you make Bret unhappy…”

“Oh, now I’m responsible for Bret’s happiness?”

“When you’re working with him, you are. Because he matters to me, I value his opinions, and he’s stepped up for this company.”

“He’ll get his commission.”

“That’s not the point. He didn’t have to take us on. But he did. And if we succeed, and that’s still a big if, Bret will have been a major part of that. So act a little more appreciative and a little less imperious-if you don’t mind.”

“You got it, boss,” he says.

“If only that were true. But I got the deal with the devil here.”

Alfred looks at me. “Now I’m the devil.”

“You can be cruel. I don’t like the way you treat our dad.”

“It always comes back to that.” He turns away from me and goes to sit down at the desk.

“If you’d only make an effort.”

“It’s not gonna happen.” Alfred sits down and props his face on his hand and opens a file. He actually ignores me and goes back to work. So I haul out the big gun, the torpedo of the Roncalli arsenal: guilt.

“Dad isn’t going to be around forever.”

“That’ll be a relief,” he snaps.

“Take that back!” I shout.

A rage wells inside me. My brother’s deliberate absences make it so much harder for our family to cope with my father’s illness. It’s almost as if Alfred gets joy in separating from us, from our problems-because as long as he does so, they are not his own. He is not this way with his in-laws. He’s dutiful toward them. He’s there when Pamela’s family is in crisis. He’s most comfortable in the role of family member once removed. But with the Roncallis, he cut the tie long ago, and left us hanging.

“If you don’t want to make it right with Dad for your mother, or your sisters, consider your sons. Because I guarantee you, if you don’t get past whatever it is you have against Dad, it will visit you and your children.”

“My sons are different.” Alfred turns back to his work.

Alfred’s tone tells me he’s done talking about this. If I could throw him out of the shop, I would. I don’t know how long I can handle having him around. We try to get along, or rather, I try to get along with him, but I find myself either tiptoeing around the land mines or stepping on them, then dealing with the aftermath of the explosion. We have spats over nothing, and then I have to bring the mood of the shop back to normal. On top of my real job, I have another-trying to please Alfred. I have been doing this all of my life, and I’m tired of him.

I’m also furious. So I’m going to talk to Bret about a time line. On days like these, when the tension is as deep as the ten layers of leather on the cutting table, I can hardly do my work. And then, exhausted from the dance, I lie in bed at night and dream of what it would be like to own this business outright. I imagine the shop, debt-free, all markers paid in full. I’m the boss and answer to no one. Someday I will buy my brother out, and then I’ll be free of him once and for all.

It took two days to move Gabriel Biondi out of his cousin’s illegal sublet in Chelsea and into 166 Perry Street. There’s that much stuff.

The eight floors of the ABC Carpet and Home warehouse store on Broadway have less furniture than Gabriel Biondi. We could easily fill an additional building (if we had it) with his possessions. Boxed and crated, or wrapped in batting, each item is revered.

There are gilt Rococo mirrors, Art Deco hat stands, demi love seats in matching zebra print, a set of six straight-backed chairs shellacked off-white with rattan seats, turn-of-the-last-century steamer trunks that made it off of the Titanic and into Gabriel’s collection, Tiffany floor lamps with bronze tree-trunk bases, and lamps composed of mosaics of turquoise and rose glass, and framed posters of Broadway shows since On the Twentieth Century and She Loves Me were running long on the Great White Way.

Gabriel stands with his hands on his hips. “I know, it looks like a gay tag sale. But trust me, I plan to weed out a lot.”

“Like what?”

“A set of Minton china with soup tureens.”

“You should keep that.”

“Why?” Gabriel asks nervously.

“Because it goes with the English riding saddle you want to mount on the wall.”

Gabriel looks around at the skyscrapers of brown paper boxes in my living room and is about to ask, “What saddle?” when he realizes that I’m joking. “Oh, ha, ha. You.”

“Really, you have more stuff than a holding cell at the Met. Every period in interior decoration is represented here.”

“Except early American. I loathe it. I like Abraham Lincoln as much as the next guy, but I can’t abide major furniture that looks like it was whittled.”

“Me neither.”

“I know I have a lot of stuff. But I dream of a summer home in Bucks County. I imagine it-in full. And everything you see here is a part of the backdrop of that dream. I see a four-story white clapboard farmhouse with black shutters on a green hill in Pennsylvania, surrounded by clear acreage. There’s a swimming pool, a patio with slate floors, a kitchen with copper pots and a butcher-block island, and sumptuous interiors.

“I imagine parties in my home with guests who fascinate-Doris Kearns Goodwin and Tina Fey in one corner, with the Coen brothers and Lady Gaga in another. Oh, look! It’s Tony Kushner arguing theater economics with Joe Mantello. Michael Patrick King zings with bons mots as Mike Nichols intercepts them. Imagine a tan and freckled au naturel Frances McDormand reading aloud pithy scenes from Arsenic and Old Lace, while Bartlett Sher looks on and then gives a Juilliard critique. Afterward, we have grappa and cigars by a roaring fire, and after Mary Testa sings a couple of numbers from The Rose Tattoo, we discuss the fate of our national theater-that is, of course, if there’s one left by the time I buy my dream house.

“Oh, Valentine, I have big, big plans for my enormous life! And when I’m able to afford it all, and yes, that means buying it all for cash, and installing full-grown trees just like Moss Hart did sixty years ago because I, like he, am not one to wait, I will fill that house with things that matter to me. Decor that inspires me. Furniture that moves me. Basically all the stuff you see right here.”

“So what do we do with it in the meantime?”

“We can use it here.”

“Okay, how about this. How about you redecorate the living room with your things-these prized possessions…”

“They are prizes, believe me.”

“I agree. But whatever doesn’t fit, or you don’t think works, you put in storage.”

“Fair enough. I definitely can afford storage because you gave me such a break on the rent.”

“I’ll offer Gram’s stuff to my family. Except the farm table. The table has to stay.” I run my hand across the edge of the table that has been the center of our family gatherings since before I was born. I can’t imagine this apartment without it. “That’s the only rule. This table, in this very spot.”

“No problem. I like the table,” Gabriel agrees. “But I may want to refinish it.”

“Permission granted.”

“And we’ll keep the chandelier. I’ve always loved that touch of Venice.”

Gabriel and I immediately fall back into our old college roommate dynamic. It’s an easy give-and-take-I let him do whatever he wants, and he rides roughshod over me like a cowboy on horseback galloping through a dry creek bed in the Great Plains during a cattle crossing.

“Is this a record player?”

“RCA Victor. Truthfully, though, I use it for an end table.”

“Does it work?”

“I don’t know. I never turned it on. We’ve got all of Gram’s old Sinatra albums upstairs.”

“Brilliant! I can redecorate to Old Blue Eyes. Francis Albert will be my muse.”

“I’m going to go down and lock up the shop,” I tell him. “June and Alfred went home hours ago.”

“How’s the shipment coming?”

“Our twelve-hour days are paying off. Harlene Levin at the Picardy Shoe Parlor in Milwaukee is going to get her order on time.”

“Need me?”

“Nope.” I go to the top of the stairs, think better of it, and poke my head back into the apartment. “What’s for dinner?”

“Chicken Florentine, a fresh tossed dandelion salad with steamed artichokes, and a crème brûlée for dessert.”

I place my hand on my heart. “I love you.”

“Why wouldn’t you?” he says.

I go down the stairs and push the door of the shop open. June left the work lights on over the iron. I move across the room to turn them off, grabbing the keys to lock the window gates as I go. Then I notice that June has already rolled them across the glass and locked them.

I go to flip off the work light. But then I stop, sensing I am not alone.

Someone is in the far shadows of the shop, where we organize the shipping. I freeze. I can’t believe the security alarm didn’t go off. My thoughts whirl, we’re being robbed, who is it, what do they want, what do I do? But the burglars don’t move. They don’t try to flee. I realize they don’t know I’m here.

I squint to see who it might be.

I gasp, letting go of the breath I held in fear. Kathleen Sweeney, who was here for a meeting, is in the arms of my brother. They are kissing passionately, and don’t hear me or see me until I step back toward the entrance door to escape and accidentally drop the keys. In the quiet they sound like steel hitting iron.

Kathleen scurries into the bathroom, while Alfred turns away.

“Alfred. What are you doing?” I barely get the words out.

He doesn’t answer me.

“What is going on here?” I put my hand to my head, knowing full well what I have seen, yet not wanting to believe it.

Alfred doesn’t answer.

I put the keys on the table and go out the shop door, closing it behind me. I climb the stairs-my legs are weak beneath me, but I take them two at a time, wanting to put what I’ve seen, and now know, behind me.