Brava, Valentine

7. Love Lies

GABRIEL OPENS THE OVEN AND pulls out a rack of fresh scones. The apartment fills with the sweet scent of butter, eggs, and vanilla, which makes me ravenous, and also reminds me of Gram, and the delicious cakes she would make from scratch whenever we had down time in the shop.

Gabriel and I don’t chat much in the morning, but we have fallen into a comfortable routine. I put on the coffee, while he retrieves the Times from the entry downstairs. He comes upstairs, hands me the paper, and goes into the kitchen. Gabriel is from the Land of the Proper Breakfast. There has to be something hot served, or it’s considered cheating. For example, Gabriel doesn’t eat a bagel out of the sack or pour himself a bowl of cereal. Breakfast is bigger than that.

A bagel must be oven toasted, then served on a platter with a dollop of cream cheese, a fan of smoked salmon, chives, and capers, with a side of fresh-squeezed orange juice. Eggs are on the menu three times a week, either poached or scrambled or whipped into a healthy scrapple of fresh onions, peppers, spinach, and egg whites in a skillet.

I believe my new roommate is adding years to my life span with his healthy eating habits (if I skip the desserts!). I never drank pomegranate juice until he moved in, and now every Sunday morning I have a glass.

Despite all Gabriel’s positive influences in the health department, I’ve been having trouble sleeping. The apartment, usually neat and tidy, is in disarray while Gabriel sorts through his boxes and figures out what to keep and what to store. Down in the shop, June and I do our best to keep the mood light, but it’s nearly impossible, since Alfred, who used to invoke my wrath, now drains the same well of emotion leaching my pity. Who would have thought after years of avoiding him, now I’d be worried about him.

I can’t mention Kathleen and The Kiss to him, and he certainly isn’t volunteering an explanation. We never communicated well, and now it’s worse. The jabs are gone, replaced with self-loathing silence. I long for the days when I could ignore him, and just do my work. But now he’s made that impossible. He has changed. Imperious Alfred has been replaced with a sullen version, practically depressed, and terribly sad.

We need to talk, but I don’t know how to broach the subject. It’s too painful, or maybe I just don’t know what to say. And once we get past the awkward acknowledgment that I know and he knows, what’s to be done? Even if we do talk about her, I hold no sway with Alfred, so any advice I might give him would be ignored. I have to do something, though, because it’s affecting our day-to-day lives in the shop. When we’re working, it’s obvious his mind wanders and is clearly not on the job at hand, while mine returns to the same subject over and over again: How could you do this to your family, Alfred? How could you?

Gabriel sets the table for breakfast while I open my e-mail on the laptop.

The first message that grabs my eye is from Roberta Angelini. The subject line reads:

I Believe We Are Family

I open the e-mail. Roberta Angelini of Buenos Aires knows of Michel Angelini. She writes that she has information that would be “of interest” to me.

What an odd phrase to use, as though she’s daring me to open doors that have been closed for generations. But I have more than a passing interest in understanding why there was a schism in my family a hundred years ago, and why the rupture has been buried for so long.

Going through Gram’s boxes, I have learned that our family history has been recorded in ledgers, legal contracts, and sentimental letters marking important passages and dates. They do not, however, tell the whole story. There is no record of the reasons behind the decisions made in the documents. There are gaps, and omissions. My great-grandfather wrote his own brother right out of the family story. But why?

You would think that estrangements that occurred a hundred years ago are irrelevant, until I walk into my own shop. I still can’t get along with my own brother, and there are times, when I fight with Alfred, that the wound seems ancient. Maybe the answer lies in the past.

After all, history is the energy that flows through our work in the shop. Everything I create is based on the designs my great-grandfather left behind; wouldn’t it also stand true that we also carry certain behaviors forward when dealing with one another?

I IM Roberta. “What do you do?” I click send.

A few moments pass. I wonder if she’ll give me the brush-off. Then, an instant message pops up from Roberta.

“I operate and own the family business,” she writes.

“What business?

“We manufacture men’s shoes. We’re the Caminito Shoe Company.”

Roberta types in the name of her company, just as I do my own. A chill goes through me. “Gabe, you won’t believe it. Roberta makes shoes.”

Gabriel sits down next to me and reads the e-mail exchange. “This is crazy.”

I type: “Would love to discuss everything with you. May I call, or do you prefer e-mail?”

Roberta types: “Send me your questions, and then we’ll talk. I have a new baby, and my hours are difficult.”

I exit out of e-mail and click into Google. I type in: “Shoe Manufacturing in Buenos Aires.” I type in “Caminito Shoe Company.” A series of articles about Argentinian shoe manufacturers pops up. My hands shake as I type.

“I can’t believe it. I have a cousin who makes shoes, too!”

“Everybody has a twin, you know. Maybe she’s yours. Northern hemisphere, southern hemisphere-separated by the equator. I wish we’d found your twin in Rio, though-I always wanted to go to Carnival.”

“Sorry, I wouldn’t care if she had a mill on the moon.”

Gabriel places a cup of coffee with a small scone next to the computer.

“For me?” I place the pressed linen napkin on my lap.

“If you’re going to dig up family secrets, you need to eat.”

“You’re better than a husband.”

“Or a wife. Deciding to keep the Minton china made me feel British. I just had to whip up some scones.” Gabriel places the jam in front of my plate.

I nibble the buttery fresh biscuit. “You should open a bakery.”

“I’ve thought about it.” Gabriel pours me a cup of coffee and then one for himself.

“Can we talk?”

Gabriel sits. “I’ll talk about anything-including NASCAR, which I know nothing about-I just don’t want to talk about Alfred.”

“I’m sorry. I’m obsessed. But it’s because I don’t know what to do.”

“Do nothing. You can’t be sure you saw what you saw.”

“Oh, I saw it.”

“Okay, for the thousandth time, let’s say it was what you thought. That they were kissing. What if it was the first time they kissed?”

“What difference would that make?”

“A lot. Nothing puts the brakes on a budding affair like getting caught in an illicit lip-lock. Put yourself in Alfred’s shoes. The only thing worse than your sister catching you fooling around is your wife. I can’t imagine that the Redhead and your brother didn’t talk later and say, ‘This was God telling us to stop.’”

“You watch too many Lifetime movies.”

“I know,” he says.

“The tension with Pamela makes sense now. She calls the shop all the time. She can never find him. He forgets to show up for stuff at the school. He’s late. And he hides behind the job here. He uses me and the shoes as an excuse.”

“So what?” Gabriel shrugs.

“I don’t like it.”

“Oh, I think you like it a lot. You finally have something on that brother of yours who never did right by you.”

“That’s not true. I didn’t want to find out that my brother was this kind of a guy. I’m very sad about it. And mostly sad about it because he tortured my father emotionally all these years for doing the exact same thing!”

“That’s their business.”

“Yeah, but the rest of us were dragged into it.”

“Okay, look, I’ve known your brother almost as long as I’ve known you. I’ve always thought he was a little stiff, and I never liked the way he treated you-but I never pegged him as a bad guy. A superior guy? Yes. He was always a snob. And he never failed at anything. Well, he didn’t until he left his job at the Bank of All Money.”

“He was let go.” I correct Gabriel.

“Got it. The only difference between a vice president and a receptionist is that when a vice president gets fired, he gets to spin it and say he left first-they do not extend the same courtesy to the working class. We are, simply put, shit-canned and shown the door.”

“Got it.”

“What you don’t get is that at the age of forty-this is the first time your brother has been shown the door. He has had an enchanted life up until now. And that’s worse than taking your lumps all the way through, like the rest of us. We are used to disappointment. We know failure. We not only expect the other shoe to drop, we’re there to catch it when it does. We know what it takes to come back from a blow. Alfred really hasn’t been tested. And guess what? Now, he’s been tested. And he’s scrambling.”

“I know. And I actually feel sorry for him.”

“You know what? I do too. The man is in a pickle. He looks at his life with the wife and the kids and the house in Jersey that costs a fortune-that he’s always been able to pay for, and now he can’t. Now everything will change. He’s looking at cleaning the pool himself, and mowing the lawn himself, and asking Skinny Minnie to go out and get a job to help out, which he never had to do before, and the guy feels like he’s been asked to put his balls in a shoe bag. Okay? Your brother is falling apart as he’s trying to hold it all together.”

“As smart as he is, he didn’t see it coming. The collapse. The banking disaster.”

“Oh, they all saw it, they just didn’t believe it. They didn’t want to believe it. And why would they? Who would want to believe that the money would ever stop! And you know, it killed him to have to come here and work with you.”

“I know, I know.”

“And I will guarantee you that Gram told him in the beginning, Just look out for Valentine, okay? She never proposed a partnership. Gram probably didn’t want to bother him, she probably said, Check in on Val at the shop once in a while, help out with the financials-and he said, Gram, it’s over at the bank. I need a job. You can’t just have me check the books-I need a stake in the thing, because I have no other options right now. I’m telling you as I’m standing here, I swear on my mother, father, and our standard poodle Brutus-all dead by the way-that your brother groveled for this gig.”

“You could be right about that. I mean, Gram never mentioned a partnership until we were all in Italy together for the wedding.”

“A little late to sit you two down, don’t you think?”

“Absolutely.”

“So almost on cue, when Alfred is feeling the most vulnerable on all fronts, and like a loser in general, then Missie the Redhead makes the scene.”

“Kathleen.”

“Yeah, her. Alfred couldn’t feel worse about himself; he’s watching June cut patterns and you making art, and he’s lived a life pushing around a bunch of fake numbers. He’s the lowest he’s ever been because he realizes that he’s spent his life not making anything. Missie the Redhead works for the government in a crap office downtown, and she’s ten years younger, therefore ten years dumber, and she looks up to your brother-who probably spun some tale to her like he’s gone back to his roots by choice to run this shoe company, and she looked at your brother, with his big life, and all his experience, and his full head of hair, and said, I want me some of that. And that’s what she’s having down there by the powder room. Some of that.”

“Dear God.”

“And everybody wins-at least in the short term. Your brother is nicer to his wife, the mistress has something to look forward to other than people like you filing loan applications-and Alfred gets his groove on. After the biggest disappointment of his life, he feels smart, scintillating, and desirable again, and then hot sex ensues. And the world goes round. Got it?”

“Oh, I got it.” I put my head in my hands.

Gram used to say if you are lucky enough to live a long life, you see everything come and go at least twice. If I had to predict the things in life that I would have seen twice, it would have included a lot of trends: the return of thick eyebrows, the resurgence of curly hair, and the reinvention of skorts. But I never thought I would have lived through Dad’s indiscretion twice, and I surely didn’t think it would be my own brother Alfred, so wounded by it so many years ago, who would repeat the mistake.

Gram’s absence, her move and new life, have never had such impact as they do right now. She was the calm center of our family, the glue. She would know what to say, and what to do-she’d knock some sense into Alfred, as she did my own father so many years ago. But family problems in a long lens aren’t nearly as potent as they are when they’re percolating in the next room. The distance between our shop on Perry Street and Dominic’s kitchen in Arezzo is so far, it might as well be a galaxy away.

No, we will have to sort this one out on our own. And whether I confront my brother or stay silent and stew, as he has done all these years in the shadow of my father’s mistake, will be my choice. I just wish my brother had made a better one.

I’ve dragged the last of the garden supplies onto the roof to plant the tomatoes. The potting soil, sticks, and planters are good to go. All I need are the plants, which my dad has promised to pick up in Queens, where they are sturdier and cheaper than the ones I would buy here in town.

I considered not planting them at all this year, but figured it had to be bad luck not to. I don’t want to be the first person in my family to cancel the family garden after decades of relying upon it for the August harvest. Even though Gram is gone, the tomatoes must go on.

I pull out my cell phone and sit down on the chaise. I dial Gram.

“Have any luck finding out about Rafael?” I ask.

“You were right. Michel and Rafael were brothers. I scanned the baptismal certificate and sent it to you. And they were about a year apart in age. Michel was the older of the two.”

“Unbelievable.” I can’t imagine what horrible transgression could possibly sever the relationship of two brothers forever. I know there is nothing that could come between my sisters and me. Alfred is different. And maybe part of the reason I want to understand the past in our family is to help me cope with my brother in the present. “What do you think happened between them?”

“I don’t know.” Gram is puzzled. “I was very close to my father-in-law-I can’t imagine why he wouldn’t have told me about this.”

“It must be something pretty awful.”

“Or maybe it’s just money,” Gram says. “My father-in-law watched every penny. And if anyone ever tried to take advantage of him, he cut them out.”

“Well, I’m about to find out what happened. I’m going down there.”

“You are?”

“I can’t tell enough about Roberta from e-mails. And I want to see her factory. Wouldn’t it be something if we could work together?”

“You’re doing so much more with the business than I ever could,” Gram says wistfully. This is the first time since her wedding that she sounds like she misses the Angelini Shoe Company.

“In the end, Gram, we’re still making shoes. It’s all about the shoes.”

She laughs. “I guess you’re right about that.”

“Gabriel moved in. I hope you don’t mind.”

“I think it’s great.”

“I do too. Now, here’s the big question. He wants to redecorate. Now, if you don’t want him to, I won’t let him.”

“How do you feel about it?” Gram asks.

My eyes sting with tears. “I guess I’m okay.” But I’m not. I’d do anything if Gram would say, “Don’t change a teacup. I’m on my way home.” But that’s never going to happen. Sometimes I think her move to Italy is God’s way of preparing me for our final parting, which I do not like to think about-ever.

“Valentine, I was apprehensive about moving over here. I was afraid to start all over again at my age. Yes, I had Dominic here to help me, but it’s still an enormous change. But I swear, once I got past the fear and threw myself into life in Arezzo, I feel twenty years younger. Just waking up to different walls-never mind a new husband, a new village-has given me a whole new perspective. I’ve got a new pep about me. Don’t be afraid of change.”

“Okay, okay,” I say.

“And don’t be afraid of color. I always meant to put more color into the rooms.”

“Gram, Gabriel is choosing the paint chips-I don’t think that’s going to be a problem.”

The Bus Stop Cafe is empty. The groggy waitress pours us the first cups of coffee from the pot; we’re her first patrons at the start of another long day. Greenwich Village is waking slowly, an occasional cab passes by on 8th Avenue, but the streets are empty, and the new morning sun throws very little light on my neighborhood.

Bret pours the cream into my coffee, extra light, no sugar, just like I like it. We used to hang out at the Bus Stop Cafe when we were teenagers, and felt so grown up. Everything has changed in the world, except this diner. The fry cook, the owner, and the waitress are still here twenty years on.

“We’re old,” he says.

“What makes you say that?”

“The staff.”

“Maybe they’re old, and we’re still young.”

“Keep dreaming. You don’t have children yet. Now, that reminds you the clock is ticking.”

“What’s it like?”

“Kids? They’re the best. They’re always happy to see me. They’re uncomplicated except when they want something, and then it’s hard ball. Mostly, though, they just want to play. What could be better than that?”

Bret hands me a file across the table. “Chan Inc. is the best manufacturer of shoes in Beijing. They build Kate Spade, Macy’s private line, and get this: Nike’s. They do all styles and materials, and the minimum order is only five thousand pairs.”

“Sounds promising.”

“Alfred contacted the reps. They need patterns when you can send them.”

“I’ll scan them and send them right away. I’m surprised he’s doing his job at all. His mind is elsewhere.”

“Well, you just stay focused. This is all going to work for you.”

“You know, good deal or not, I almost don’t want to give Alfred the satisfaction of going to China. You know he’s been pushing for it. But now I feel sorry for him, so I’m ready to sign on for whatever he wants to do.”

“Don’t worry about Alfred. If it’s a good business deal for you, it’s a good deal period. No matter where you do production.”

“What do you think of Buenos Aires?”

“I’ve heard it’s gorgeous.”

“Well, I have another option to present to you. It turns out that I have a cousin down there. Roberta Angelini. And she runs a factory that makes men’s shoes. I’m thinking about asking her to expand into women’s wear.”

“Argentina is known for its superior leather goods.”

“That’s what I was thinking. And you know I love the family business model. So then I was thinking, we could brand the Bella Rosa-you know, made by the Angelini family. We could do the cutting and assembly down there and the finishing here.”

“Now you’re thinking like a marketing person.”

“There’s something compelling about a family brand in tough times. It says something. You know, quality, attention to detail, tradition, that sort of thing.”

“So, how do we proceed? Do you want me to talk to Roberta?”

“Her e-mail is in the folder. She just had a baby, so she’s overwhelmed, but I told her about you-that you were putting together the financing package for us, and that you helped us secure the loan with the SBA, so that she understands that the money will be available once we’ve found the right factory. When I found out my great-grandfather had a brother, I Googled around and found Roberta. She told me she’d give me the whole story-Rafael’s side-when I get there.”

“Lot of intrigue in the Angelini family.”

“And even more now that my brother is running around,” I add.

“It’s hard to believe. Alfred is so pious.” Bret shakes his head.

“Those are the ones to watch,” I say.

“No, you have to keep an eye out on all men. We’re all vulnerable. You saved me from a big mistake last year.

“You knocked some sense into me. You reminded me of everything I’d lose if I had an affair with Chase. I was really tempted. She was cute and young, and a lot of fun. Available. And I was close to messing up my whole life for nothing. I see the guys at work who fool around-and eventually, it catches up with them. The wife doesn’t necessarily find out, but you see that they can’t handle the guilt. And then all sorts of bad stuff starts happening: drinking too much for one. No, you showed up at the right moment. As you always do.”

“I will always tell you the truth-just as you are always honest with me.”

“You know, at the time, I actually believed that Chase was attracted to me. I really did-and what I realized, thanks to the expression on your face when you saw us together…”

“What’d I do?”

“You gave me the old Sister Bernadette scowl from Holy Agony on the roof of the Gramercy that night. The old ‘I know what you’re thinking, buddy.’ Well, it made me think beyond what I wanted in that moment. We have a long history, Val, and you know me. I might see myself as a twenty-five-year-old-but I’m not-I’m careening towards forty, and I’m not complaining about it. Chase treated me like a peer, though, like I still had it.

“But she wasn’t interested in me, she was enamored of my power at the office and my position.”

“What happened?”

“When the fund downsized, her opinion of me downsized almost instantly. You could say the biggest recession since the 1980s helped me stay faithful in my marriage.”

“Funny how that works.”

“Anyhow, I’ve never thanked you. You saved my marriage.”

“Why were you tempted? Mackenzie is a beauty-and she’s so pulled together. Why would you even look at another woman?”

Bret looks away and out the window. When we used to go together, I remember that look. He really thinks about things, in a way that I can appreciate and understand. We were like-minded then, and we still are. “Things change when the babies come. And Mac and I didn’t have a lot of time together before we had the girls. It all happened very fast.”

“What changes when you have children?”

“Well, a woman’s attention goes elsewhere. As it should-she’s taking care of a whole family. But things become routine. You long for things to be easy again. Uncomplicated. But they’re not. It all seems so life-and-death with babies-you run to the doctor, you check for fevers, you’re up all night. Mac got impatient with me, and I felt helpless. Pretty soon, you start arguing about little things, and on top of the big things, you realize you’re fighting all the time.”

“How are things now?”

“With Mac? Better. But they’re not kidding when they say marriage is a lot of work.”

“Why is it work?” The unmarried one wants to know. I don’t understand the concept of that; why should love be hard when life is already impossible? Shouldn’t marriage be the easy part-after a long day, you look across the kitchen table and feel understood and safe and welcome? “Marriage sounds awful.”

Bret laughs, even though I’m not trying to be funny. “Let me explain it like this: Mac has an idea of what life should be, and I have an idea, and sometimes we’re in sync, and other times we’re not. This is the work part. I married a girl who always had everything she wanted, and she expects the same from me. The way you and I grew up in Queens was different. We appreciate the house and the car and the nice restaurant meals. Mackenzie expects them. It doesn’t make her a bad person-it is what it is. She doesn’t know any differently.”

“How is she dealing with the changes in your work?”

“She’s scared. You know, I’m lucky, because I’ve always worked to establish new companies and businesses. But when Mac goes to the park, or to the girls’ play dates, and she talks to the wives whose husbands went from getting million-dollar bonuses to being unemployed overnight, she hears how tough things are out there. And I think that helps her appreciate what she has. It was a long road to gratitude, I guess.”

I take a sip of the coffee and look out the window; the corner of Hudson Street that curls into Bleecker is now bathed in full morning sunlight. The pedestrians move quickly on their way to their jobs, the bus stop is already crowded with folks waiting for the M10. A woman checks her watch, steps out onto Hudson Street, and squints to see the bus approach in the distance.

I come from a family of women who work. My stay-at-home mother occasionally threatened to get a job, but only out of her desire to be relevant in the outside world, not because of financial necessity. My parents lived within their means, in a house they could afford, in a neighborhood of like-minded working-class people, like the Fitzpatricks, who lived just down the block.

My parents took care of everything they had. A car was never purchased new, but used and in good condition. I don’t remember a painter or a plumber visiting our home; my father repaired everything himself. My mother even helped my father pour a concrete walkway in the backyard when it was her dream to have one.

My mother aspired, and still does, to possess the finer things of life, but even those markers-a marble foyer, a Jacuzzi in the bathroom, a state-of-the-art kitchen, all the features of fine living and upward mobility-were provided by my father through the labor of his own hands. He did the work wealthy people hire other people to do. My mother didn’t sit around while he made things, she became his eager assistant. It may seem that Mom has airs, but she never lived in a rarefied atmosphere.

I remember my parents working together on projects around our house. They made my mother’s obsession for a beautiful home a family project. I remember paint chips, and swatches, and Saturday afternoons at the lumberyard, where they’d scheme a new room, or improve an old one. Their marriage is one of true minds-they’re a team, and they like figuring things out together. My mother never had a career, but she always had an agenda. And my father dutifully went along with it. So my mother got her dream life, and my father, a purpose.

“There’s a real art to a good marriage, isn’t there?”

“I think so,” Bret says. “Making someone happy is a full-time job.”

“Mackenzie’s lucky,” I say. “But she’s also smart. She picked a good guy who gave her everything she ever wanted.”

“I hope so.” Bret smiles. “Thanks for noticing.”

But it’s me who is grateful to him-no matter what, Bret Fitzpatrick believes in me-and maybe it’s old loyalty carried into adulthood, but whatever it is, I can always count on him. We come from the same place.

The Fitzpatricks and the Roncallis are people who gather in kitchens around a tray of homemade manicotti, not in fancy living rooms where silver trays of canapés are passed. Where we come from, champagne is for toasting, good china is for holidays, and silver place settings are heirlooms while love is given freely, not something exchanged in hopes of material gain or social status. There is something to be treasured about people who know instinctively when enough is enough.

Across the way, the Bleecker Park playground, nestled under old elm trees, comes to life with toddlers on their early-morning play dates. A mother guides a stroller with one hand while pushing the wrought iron gate open with the other. A father, his hair wet from the shower, wears a business suit and holds his son’s hand as they walk quickly toward P.S. 41 in time for the bell.

The swings in the park, filled with children, begin to sway, and I watch a little girl, her legs pushing higher and higher as she leans back into the swing. Soon, it seems she might take flight.

18 aprile 2010

Cara Valentina,

I made a delivery of kidskin to the Prato mill and thought of you. I thought about your pink dress and how you looked very much like a peony the day I brought you here a year and a half ago. Signora inquired about you at the mill. I sent your regards. Prada is doing a boot made of velvet and leather for Spring 2011, and Signora cannot get enough Vechiarelli leather.

I have reread your last letter over and over again, knowing that you are very busy and cannot write as often as I do. Your words stay with me, as does the sound of your laughter. How I long to hear it again. I will call you. The sound of your voice must do, but please say you will come to Arezzo in the summer. The lavender will bloom in your honor-I promise.

Love,

Gianluca

The workshop is in pre-shipping mode, which means that every surface is covered with open red and white striped shoe boxes. It’s like falling into Aunt Feen’s pressed glass candy dish, which was filled year-round with peppermint wheels except at Christmastime, when she replaced the old Brach standbys and sprang for the chocolate and hazelnut Baci in the blue-and-silver foil wrappers.

I survey the box count against the shipping lists, propped on the table with instructions. I put down my coffee and flip on the work lights. The gates on the windows have been rolled back. Alfred is already at his desk. It’s six o’clock in the morning, and he usually arrives at nine.

“Hey,” I say softly so as not to startle him. “There’s coffee up in the kitchen.”

“I stopped at the deli.”

I make space for my coffee on the table. I open the finishing closet, filled with layers of pumps, by size, separated by thin sheets of muslin. The pale pumps, soft calfskin dyed in shell pink, mint green, buttercup yellow, and beige, are stacked by size. The scent of sweet wax and leather fills the air.

“I think we should talk,” Alfred says.

“Sure.” I sit down on the work stool. I have been dreading this moment, when Alfred actually admits he’s having an affair with Kathleen Sweeney and swears me to confidentiality. I’d really like to pretend that I didn’t see Alfred and Kathleen together, and life could go on as it has before. It was so much easier when I disliked my brother for the way he treated me. Now I have to dislike him for the way he treats his wife.

Alfred takes a deep breath and says, “I think I should go to Buenos Aires with you.”

The look on my face must be one of total surprise. Alfred agreed that I should go when we discussed this weeks ago.

He quickly adds, “I’d like to see the operation there.”

“I don’t know if Roberta even wants to bid on manufacturing the Bella Rosa. And since we may have to send you to China eventually, I think we should keep costs down and just one of us should go. And I think it should be me, because I need to figure out how to put the shoe in production on-site.”

“This isn’t about your ability. You absolutely know what you’re doing,” he says.

What’s going on here? Alfred has never been supportive of me. Something is up. His tone throws me off guard. “Okay, where’s the hammer?”

He looks at me, confused.

“Lower the hammer. You know, this is the moment when you say, ‘Just kidding. If I, Alfred, walked out of here, you’d fold in a week.’ So go on. Say it.”

“But that’s not true.”

“Alfred, now is not the moment for earnest. I need honest.”

“You work hard, and you produce. You’ve kept up production on the custom shoes while developing the new line. You’re committed. You’re careful about costs. You even took in a roommate who pays rent-and all that helps in running the building and bringing down the debt. I can’t be critical of you.”

“Well.” I think for a moment. “Thank you,” I say.

I’m a classic middle child. If someone is nice to me, I’m nice right back. If they’re mean, then I can be too. But when behavior crosses over into cruelty, I retreat entirely. So in light of Alfred’s lovely observations about my work ethic and product, I feel I should return the compliment. “Alfred, you’ve come up with good ideas-and I think we’re producing at a level we never did before because you’re doing our budget and the financials. I mean, I’ve never done a shipment this size, knowing exactly what it costs, and what we’ll make. We never thought about the profit margin. You’ve introduced real business standards to our company.”

“It’s nothing special.”

“It is to me. I’m grateful to you for all you’ve done.”

“But we still fight,” he says.

“We do, and I don’t like it. But it’s getting better. And I’m completely confident leaving you here to run the shop while I’m gone.”

He looks up at me, and the expression on his face is heartbreaking.

“Listen, Valentine. I know you don’t really need me in Argentina. I just need to get away.”

My brother is suffering. I’ve never seen him like this. No matter how I felt about him all of these years, and how he perceived me, he’s in pain, and he needs to talk.

“Alfred, what is going on in your life?”

My brother gets tears in his eyes. The last time I saw him get misty was at our grandfather’s funeral. They were a lot alike, and Alfred felt he was losing the most important man in his life when Grandpop died. Nothing we could say or do would cheer him up. He seems as sad in this moment as he was that day.

“I’m a jerk,” he says. “I never intended for anything like that to happen.”

“Are we talking about Kathleen?” I ask.

He nods. “I thought I’d go my whole life living in a way that I believed in.”

“So…it did happen.” Clearly, I didn’t catch a first kiss. I caught a hot in-the-middle-of-an-affair kiss that was about to become more. “What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know.”

His answer shocks me, because my brother always knows exactly what to do.

“What do you mean, you don’t know?” I say gently. “You have Pamela and the boys. Does she know?”

He shakes his head no. “I haven’t let her know anything lately. It took me two weeks to tell her when I was let go from the bank. I got dressed every morning and got on the train as usual. I’d come into the city and sit in Central Park and think. And then at five, I’d get back on the train and go home, having rehearsed a way to tell her what happened-and then I’d get home and I couldn’t tell her I’d… failed.”

The thought of my brother wandering around the city in a suit with no place to go brings tears to my eyes. He could have come here, to the shop. We could have had coffee at Gram’s table. He could have gone to the roof to be alone and think. But Alfred couldn’t admit defeat-not even to his own sister.

“Alfred, listen to me. The wolf has been at the door so many times over the years that we invite him in for manicotti. At least we have this business to hang on to, and this little shop might save all of us. Our great-grandfather built something for us, and long after his death, he continues to take care of our family-through these shoes. It’s a beautiful thing-not a failure-to work here. We own it. It’s ours.”

“I’m ashamed of myself,” he says quietly. “I judged our grandparents all these years. You know, I thought they were simple, and that was a lesser thing-to be simple-to work, plain and hard, till you were so tired your back ached so deeply, you couldn’t stand up. Grandpop would put in such long days, working so hard, he had to soak his fingers in ice water at night.”

“I remember. The calluses on his fingers never went away.”

“And now I’m here. Just like he was-they were. I went to a fancy school and got a big degree, and now I’m back here.”

“Is it so terrible?”

“No,” Alfred says softly.

“So why are you sad?”

“Because…it’s not enough.”

“Oh, boy.” I take a sip of my coffee. “So that’s why Kathleen.”

Alfred doesn’t answer.

We sit in silence until he says, “I’m sorry you walked in on us. I’m a hypocrite. Maybe you even like that I’m one.”

“Come on, Alfred.”

He looks up at me. “At least let me be ashamed of myself.”

“Too late. Self-flagellation is not going to help you now.”

“It’s over. With Kathleen, I mean.”

“That’s a start.”

“What else can I do? I can’t even face myself. I have to tell Pamela.”

“Oh God, no! You can’t tell her. This is one secret you need to keep until you’re dead.”

“But I’ve broken my vows! I have to ask forgiveness.”

“What good would it do? Pam’s already terrified about the future. She’s not a girl who can heavy-lift. She’s a good woman and a fine mother, and I’m sure a pretty wonderful wife, but she’s not one to stare into the fire and find the meaning. Keep this to yourself. Forever.”

“But how can I move forward if I don’t tell her?”

“You got dressed and went to an imaginary job for two weeks and never told her! You’ve proven that you can keep a secret. You’d only hurt her, and the truth of the matter is you’d end up feeling better and she’d end up feeling worse. As the guilty party, you have to bear the burden here, not Pamela. Love builds in a series of small realizations.” I quote Gianluca’s letter to my brother. As soon as it’s out of my mouth, I’m surprised I retained it, and even more surprised that I believe it. But in an instant, I see exactly what Gianluca meant.

“And then once it’s built?” Alfred asks. “Then what?”

“You hold on, I guess.” I take a deep breath.

Alfred nods. “That makes sense.”

“Try and remember why you chose Pamela in the first place. Go back to the beginning. Think of the things you couldn’t live without-and the things you couldn’t wait to live with-and then marry her all over again.”

“All right, Sis.” Alfred turns and goes back to his work.

I wipe my eyes on my sleeve. My brother hasn’t called me “Sis” since we were kids. He needs me, and in all my life, I never thought he would.

On top of everything else I’ve had to learn, I have to learn how to be a sister to my brother again. I imagined battling my brother in our version of the Hundred Years’ War for the rest of our lives. For what? For validation. And here it is, the moment when he needs mine.

Talk about shame. I have it. I thought if I ever had the chance to one-up Alfred, I would make him pay, and enjoy every second of his misery. But he’s my brother, and his unhappiness and broken heart are as real as my own.

I Skype Gram. Her face comes up on the computer screen.

“Take me through your pizelle recipe. I have a little competition going with Gabriel.”

“Got a pencil?”

I nod that I do.

“Okay, melt down a pound of butter and set it off to the side. Then take one dozen eggs, three cups of sugar. Beat those together. Then drop in two tablespoons of peach schnapps. Throw in four tablespoons of vanilla. Then take seven cups of flour and eight teaspoons of baking powder-add the dry to the wet. Then, preheat my press-it’s in the kitchen…”

“I got it.”

“…and take my shot glass-you know, the one with the Empire State Building on it?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s the one. You dip it into the bowl of batter. I don’t know why the shot is the exact amount of batter you need, but it is. Pour batter onto the hot griddle-but in the back, not in the center. And it will spread-and when it bubbles up, lower the top half of the iron down-and then it’s seconds before it bakes through.”

“Thanks, Gram.”

“How’s Alfred?”

“He’s all right.” I smile. “You might even say we’ve hit a new level of understanding. It turns out that Alfred Michael Roncalli is a human being.”

“You didn’t know?” She laughs.

“You’re the one who made him a saint.”

“I think your mother had something to do with that.”

“A little. But you’re the one who encouraged her.”

“True. What did he do that made him human?” Gram asks.

“He failed.”

“Even bankers make mistakes.” Gram shakes her head. “Was it a doozy?”

“It was. And he was sorry.”

“I’m happy you could forgive him.”

“I did better than that, Gram, I helped him figure out how to forgive himself.”

“I’m proud of you,” Gram says, then adds breezily, “Gianluca stopped in this afternoon.” Gram’s nonchalance is completely transparent. She leans into the screen and whispers, “Am I not supposed to know anything?”

“He writes me letters, Gram.”

“That’s lovely.”

“They are.”

“He asks me a lot of questions about you.” Gram lowers her voice.

“Really? And do you present me in a fabulous light?”

“Always.” Gram laughs. “I may have married a Vechiarelli, but I’ll always be an Angelini.”

The Angelini Shoe Company resembles Santa’s Workshop in the North Pole on Christmas Eve, except it’s May and we’re on a deadline of a different sort. Boxes lie open everywhere, ribbons with the gold seal are spooled out on the table, and the sounds of packing tape ripping, tissue paper rustling, and our laughter thread through shipping day like music.

I run a tally on the computer as I count the finished shoe boxes and load them into the shipping boxes like I’m stacking precious gold bricks. Gram taught me that shipping is like presentation on the plate when preparing food. You want the recipient to open the box and gasp at the beauty of the contents before they even open a box of shoes. So we use bubble wrap around the edges to hold the boxes, and then over the top, we secure the boxes with a square of red velvet with an embroidered A in the center. Harlene Levin at the Piccardy shoe parlor makes throw pillows out of our packing materials-that’s how luscious the boxes look when she opens them.

Jaclyn and Tess are wrapping the pumps in tissue paper, placing felt shoe bags over the paper, and closing the lids. My mother affixes the gold medallion dead center on the red and white striped boxes. She is never a millimeter off-she’s been doing this since she was a girl.

My father does the heavy lifting. He checks my math, counts the boxes, and then weighs, seals, and closes them. Alfred then places the shipping label on the outside of the boxes and stacks them in the entry, ready for pickup by Overnight Trucks, who we hire to cart our shipment cross-country.

“Dad! Make her stop!” Tess hollers from the back of the shop. “Jaclyn’s rumpling the tissue paper.”

“Jaclyn, cut it out. You are not my favorite angel,” Dad chides her.

We laugh. My dad hasn’t used that line from the television show Charlie’s Angels since Jaclyn was a girl.

“What self-respecting Italian Americans name one of their children after the pretty one on Charlie’s Angels?” June says.

“They were all pretty on that show,” Mom corrects her. “I will always love Farrah the most. May she rest in peace. She was in my group.” Mom considers any movie or television star within five years under or over her age one of “her group”-never mind that she’s never met them, she considers them her cultural equal. “We let the children name the baby.”

“We almost named you Wonder Woman,” Tess says.

“Yeah. That was our other favorite show,” I tell her.

“Don’t let us interrupt.” Pamela stands in the doorway with Rocco and Alfred Jr.

“Hey, buddies!” The boys run to their father.

“I need some help over here, boys,” Dad teases them.

“Can I help?” Pam asks.

I look at my sisters. Usually, we never take Pamela up on her offers to help, whether it’s yard work or the dishes. But now that Alfred works here, Angelini Shoes belongs to all of us. It may be time to treat her like one of the family and not an in-law.

“What do you like to do?” I ask Pamela.

“Anything.”

“I think you’re a medallion sort of girl. Right, Ma?”

“Come over here, Pamela, and I’ll teach you the fine craft of affixing the company logo to the company shoe box. This way, if I’m ever hit by a bus, God forbid, somebody will know exactly where the logo belongs.”

“Great.” Pamela smiles and puts down her purse. She goes to my mother, who shows her what to do.

Rocco and Alfred Jr. are being carried through the shop by Alfred, who laughs as he hauls them like sacks of flour slung over his shoulders. He catches my eye. My brother smiles at me with the same relief my father had on his face when he got the last “all-clear” report from the doctors at Sloan Kettering. They are more alike than they know.

“June, when are you taking vacation?” Mom asks.

“Right after we finish the shipment. I’m going to take off when Valentine goes to Buenos Aires.”

“Who’s going to Buenos Aires?” Tess asks.

“I am.”

“I’ve always wanted to go there!”

“Well, maybe next time. Although, if we’re going to be fair, it will be Alfred and Pamela on the next trip. My partner gets first dibs on international travel.”

“And we’ll take it!” Pamela smiles.

“Who would have thought it? Valentine and Alfred are true partners,” Mom says. My mother has replaced Saint Jude, the patron saint of impossible cases, with her son and daughter, the improbable partners.

“It’s a miracle,” Dad says. “You act like grown-ups. Well, you are, I guess. And I’m proud of youse guys.”

“Break time.” Gabriel enters the shop carrying a large tray of freshly baked chocolate-chip cookies. He places them on the desk. He checks the coffeepot. “Stone cold. How can we have cookies without coffee?”

Gabriel takes the pot back to the sink to wash it.

“This is like the old days,” Mom says.

“Yep, somebody always bitching about something,” Dad says.

“Now, Dutch,” Gabriel says. “Watch your language in front of the boys. And I mean…me.”

June spoons coffee grounds into the maker. “Let me make myself useful. I can’t teach my apprentice when the table is being used for shipping.”

“What apprentice?” Mom asks.

“Me,” Gabriel says. “That’s right, you Los Angelinis-you better look out. I’ve moved in, and I’m taking over. I started with the living room, and now, like a good Italian mold on veiny cheese, I’m seeping down into the workroom and into the shoe business. Soon you’ll all be wearing the Biondi.”

“He’s got a gift.” June breaks a cookie in half and tastes it. “And our lunches during the training sessions are to die for!”

The buzzer rings in the entrance. “It’s probably the truck.” I holler over the din of my family as they gather around the cookies, “Let them in, Dad.”

Dad goes to answer the door. He comes back into the shop, followed by Kathleen Sweeney. She wears a red trench coat. She stands out like a cardinal who lands on the roof in snow.

“Val, Alfred. Somebody here to see you.”

I look at Alfred. The color drains from his face. He doesn’t move. Luckily Pamela has her head down, concentrating on the medallions.

I spring into action. “Hi, Kathleen! Come on in. Everybody say hello to the patron saint of Angelini Shoes-Kathleen Sweeney, from the Small Business Administration.”

Kathleen stands next to the cutting table. She looks so small there, among the stacks of shipping boxes. She ignores the packing hoopla and focuses on the people, taking in my mother and father, sisters, Pamela, and the boys as if she’s parachuted into enemy territory and has to gather as much information as she can as quickly as she can before the searchlights come on and she is discovered. This can’t be easy for her. But as it is for all mistresses, exposure to the family of the lover is a learning opportunity, and she is taking it all in to better understand Alfred, or even to help her make a deeper connection to him.

Gabriel stares at Kathleen with a sense of wonder. No Italian comare that he has ever heard of would have the nerve to show up at the family place of business. But Kathleen is part of the Angelini Shoe Company-not directly, but she has helped us secure a loan we might not have gotten without her assistance. Whatever guilt I have about this, I’ll have to sort out down the line. I have enough to worry about when it comes to the welfare of the people in this room.

Without taking his eyes off Kathleen, Gabriel grabs a cookie off the platter, bites it, and chews. It’s as if the cast of General Hospital is doing a live scene in the shop. He’s riveted.

Rocco runs up to Kathleen. “You have hair like Raggedy Ann.”

“I know.” Kathleen smiles. “Who are you?” Kathleen kneels down to talk to Rocco. Gabriel shoots me a look. The melodramatic kneeling makes this scene something out of Jezebel.

“I’m Rocco.”

Alfred Jr. pushes Rocco to the side. “I’m Alfred Junior.”

“You are?” Kathleen acts impressed.

“Yeah. That’s my name.”

“That’s a cool name,” she says. Kathleen takes in Alfred’s children. She looks at them carefully, as though she wants to wed the conversations she had with my brother about his family to the reality. She might even be wondering what her children with Alfred might look like. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Suddenly Pamela looks up from her work. My mother and sisters look at one another.

I jump in to cover for Kathleen. Doesn’t she know all Italian mothers and sisters are on high alert for interlopers? Tess alone could blow this affair wide open with a couple of pointed questions. “Oh, I bore everybody on the planet with stories about my nephews and my nieces. I make them look at pictures. I’m a very pushy auntie.” I go in for the save.

Gabriel shoots me a look that says, Stop it. You’re overcompensating. If he could, he’d take the ruler and rap my hand and say, “Bad actress! Bad actress!”

“This is my wife…Pamela.” Alfred introduces her to Kathleen.

“Nice to meet you.” Pamela extends her hand.

From the look on Kathleen’s face, I don’t think she counted on The Wife being so attractive. Pamela’s long champagne blond hair hangs loose, with chalk-colored highlights around her face, and her cigarette-leg jeans show off her lean shape after two babies. Kathleen cannot blame the affair on Pamela with the old “the wife let herself go” excuse. Kathleen will have to invent some other reason for Alfred’s fall.

“Why don’t we go upstairs?” I offer. I turn to my family. “Back to work, people. Alfred and I have some business to attend to. I want this table cleared by the time I get back.”

Kathleen, Alfred, and I go up the stairs to the apartment. I show her to the table, offering her a seat. She sits and opens her briefcase. “I make it a habit to visit the establishments that we give our loans to. I’m sorry I interrupted family time downstairs.”

“No problem. I just put everybody to work on shipping days.”

Kathleen looks down at the paperwork. She shuffles through it. She pulls out a document and gives it to Alfred. “Here is the loan repayment plan.” She avoids eye contact.

“Thank you,” he says.

“And here’s the check.” Kathleen hands me an envelope containing enough money to produce and launch the Bella Rosa, the first design in our Angel Shoes line.

“Thank you. This is really going to help us.”

“I’m happy to have been a part of this venture.”

Kathleen Sweeney has tears in her eyes. I feel bad for her, even though I know she’s been involved with my married brother, and I believe that’s wrong down to my bones. But I’m afraid she may actually be in love with my brother. She looks at Alfred with sadness. “I’d also like to say…” Kathleen looks at me. “I’m sorry.”

I look over at my brother, whose eyes fill with tears.

“Everything is going to be all right,” I say-for the life of me, I can’t think of anything else that would be apt. If you’d asked me a month ago, I would have imagined yelling, “Get out of my house, you tramp!” at her. But the truth is, she isn’t a tramp, and I would never have the temerity to judge another woman anyway.

I stand to go. I don’t offer my hand in gratitude, nor do I embrace her. I am, after all, part of the family that her actions could have destroyed. I have to stick with my team, even when I understand the weakness of the opposition.

Kathleen stands up. I can tell that she would like a moment with my brother, alone. But this is my house, and it’s my shop, and my sister-in-law is down the stairs, innocent of their nonsense, so I say, “I’ll see you out.”

I show her to the stairs. Alfred stands by the table, not knowing what to do. Instead of following Kathleen and me, he stays behind. When I look back before leaving him, his expression is one of pure loss.

I follow her out into the street and pull the door shut behind me. “That was rough,” Kathleen says. She holds her shoulder bag tight to her body with one arm and runs her hand through her hair with the other. “I’m sorry,” she says with frustration. “I have to think about myself right now. I didn’t set out to cause any harm,” she goes on. “I wasn’t looking for…I wasn’t planning on a relationship…it just happened.”

It’s so hard for me to imagine a love affair just happening, unfolding like a strip of fine leather under the roller. Wouldn’t it be nice to be one of those people who wanders the world and runs into love like it’s a corner bodega? Kathleen is one of those people who is surprised when love arrives, as if it is made of whim and fancy, and not of choice. But that’s never been true for me. I have to choose. I’ve always had to look for trouble to find it, and the same goes for love.

“I have to go,” Kathleen says, looking up at the street sign, looking for the quickest route out of here.

“Kathleen, before you go, you need to understand something. Thank you for putting your feelings aside, for letting go of my brother-for whatever reason. You’ve saved us all a lot of heartache. But…I’m with them. My family. They come first. If you need to discuss business with me, I’ll come to your office day or night. I’m very grateful for all you’ve done for me. But I don’t expect to see you on Perry Street again. Understood?”

As she walks away, perhaps she is thinking about how she could have saved her own heart from breaking. But it’s too late for that now.

I watch as Kathleen crosses Perry Street, avoiding the pits and grooves of the cobblestone street. I wish my brother would have navigated his path as carefully.

Alfred should have known better, after all we had been through with Dad. Alfred always knew best until it came to his own life. Now he’ll have to figure out a new philosophy, because the one he chose walks away with every step she takes.

I fold my arms as Kathleen makes the turn onto Washington and disappears out of my view, and, I hope, out of my brother’s life, and the story of our family-for good.

My suitcases are lined up next to the door, and my outfit is laid out for the flight to Buenos Aires. My mind races. I think of a thousand things that I will need to do, should ask, and hope to accomplish in Argentina.

Roberta has been cagey about providing any family information. She wants to share it all in person, which is fine, but I hate to travel a few thousand miles to get upsetting news. On the other hand, I’m excited about seeing her factory, and about the potential business opportunity for her and the Bella Rosa.

I am grateful for the timing of this trip. Alfred and Kathleen’s secret affair took a toll on me, as did the shipment to Milwaukee. Gabriel has begun to implement his renovation and redecoration of the apartment, and it will be helpful for him to have the space to himself to get the job done. Alfred will take over the shop in my absence, June’s vacation is planned, and Gabriel will be on hand to help out when he’s needed. It would seem that all is in order. Until I open the most recent letter from Gianluca.

18 maggio 2010

Cara Valentina,

Enclosed is the leather sample you asked me to send. It’s a basket weave of suede and leather, which gives the look of double-sided satin. I think you will agree that it is exquisite. Thank you for your letter. All is well here. I know you are busy, so I will close.

Love,

Gianluca

I let his letter fall onto the floor next to my bed. Gianluca’s first dud, written and sent without poetry or passion, and on the eve of my big adventure. I would have liked a sexy opus to read over and over again on the plane, but I guess I’ll have to turn to the new Jackie Collins novel for that. Gianluca knows I’m nervous about this trip, and I’ve shared my reservations with him. You would think, wise old man that he is, that he’d come up with the exact right thing to say to make me feel more confident.

I hear a fire alarm in the distance, somewhere in Chelsea. I can’t sleep. I get a special brand of insomnia before I fly. I imagine turbulence, a horrible flight, the plane is struck by lightning, a belly landing because the wings have snapped off, and once I’m on the ground, having slid down the emergency chute, Roberta meets me and hates me on sight. I develop a rash over my entire body and cannot walk. I’m put in a bad local hospital where they pump me up with drugs and change my name. I develop amnesia and have to be airlifted out on a gurney to a small hospital on the Galapagos Islands where a voodoo doctor can cure the rash but cannot restore my memory. I join a nunnery because the rash has so disfigured me I can only live in a colony where they wear veils. But wait! I know what’s keeping me up this time. This letter was never intended as an endearing send-off. It’s a blow-off. He’s breaking up our imaginary relationship! We’re only together on paper, bound by good stationery and his Italian-to-English dictionary. We’re doomed. It’s over. God help me, but if the plane goes down, the last words I will have read from Gianluca will be about a leather sample. Well, it was literary and luscious while it lasted. I actually believed his words, and hoped he really saw the woman he described in letters to be just like me. But she’s gone. His pen ran out of ink. The compliments, the insights, the idolatry-they’ve dried up like an old inkwell.

Face it, Valentine, I say to myself. He’s probably found someone new. Probably some shoe designer from Russia with long legs, high cheekbones, and bangs that lie flat. Or maybe she’s Ukrainian. She’s a brunette with rosebud lips and real pearls in piles around her neck. Or French. Busty and makes a good pastry. Gianluca would be a catch anywhere in the European Union. And to think, for a while, he wanted me.

I turn over and fluff my pillow into a comfortable position. Even though it’s spring in New York City, it’s autumn in Buenos Aires. Fall is my favorite time of year. I blossom in the autumn. So I’m going to put the letter out of my mind (Gianluca will be lucky if he gets a postcard from Argentina) and focus on the Bella Rosa. At least I know what I’m doing when it comes to shoes. Love will have to wait.