Very Valentine

10. Arezzo

I PULL OVER ON THE SIDE of the road on the hilltop above Arezzo and park the rental car. After the hullabaloo at the Rome airport, with customs, the bags, and figuring out the directions on the Italian map, I am happy to actually set foot on Tuscan ground.

We have arrived, and now, our work begins. We must buy supplies to meet our orders, and find distinctive and fresh elements to make the shoes from my sketch for the Bergdorf windows. It’s not going to be easy to win over Rhedd Lewis, but I have a greater goal in mind: to distinguish the Angelini Shoe Company as the face of the future in the custom-shoe business. That may sound lofty, but we have to succeed in new ways if we’re going to save the old company and reinvent our business.

Gram and I spent most of the flight working on the fine details of the sketch for the competition. There’s a problem with the heel I designed. Gram says that I need to refine it, while I feel it needs to be bold and architectural. Her idea of modern and mine are about a half century apart. But that’s okay-Gram is encouraging me to use my imagination, and while she likes what I’ve drawn, she also knows her experience counts when it comes to actually building the dream shoe.

Gram gets out of the car and joins me. The cool April breeze washes over us as the sun, the color of an egg yolk, begins to sink behind the hills of Tuscany. It drenches the sky in gold as it goes, throwing its last bit of light on Arezzo. The houses of the village are built so closely together, the effect is of one enormous stone castle surrounded by fields of emerald green silk. The winding cobbled streets of the town look like thin pink ribbons and I wonder for a moment how we will get the car through them.

All around us, the hills of Tuscany are parceled into contour farms. Sloping dales of dry earth are planted with rows of spindly olive trees next to square beds of bright sunflowers. It creates the effect of a patchwork quilt, bursts of color separated by straight seams. Soft spring colors, chalk blue and cornmeal yellow, spike the fresh green leaves while stalks of wild lavender grow on the side of the road, filling the air with the powdery scent of the new buds.

“This is it.” Gram smiles, exhaling a breath that she seems to have held since we landed in Rome. “My favorite place on earth.”

Arezzo looks different to me now. I came to Italy during my college years, but I stuck to the touristy stuff. We took a day trip through Arezzo, during which I snapped some pictures for my family and promptly got back on the bus. Maybe I was just too young to appreciate it. I couldn’t have cared less about architectural or family history back then, as I had more important matters on my mind, like the hotness of the Notre Dame rugby team, who’d joined our tour group down in Rome.

The Angelini side of my family is originally from Arezzo. However, we didn’t have this magnificent view from the mountaintop because we lived in the valley below. We were farmers, descendants of the old Mezzadri system. The padrone, or boss, lived on the highest peak, where, from his palazzo, he would oversee the harvest of the olive trees and the yield of the grapes. The farmers exchanged their labor for food and lodging on the padrone’s land, and even the children helped pick the crops. From the looks of this valley, I would have been very happy to be a serf, walking through these deep green fields under a bright blue Tuscan sky.

“Let’s go,” Gram says and climbs back into the rental car. “Are you hungry?”

“Starving.” I slip behind the wheel. I’m driving a stick shift for the first time in twelve years. The last stick I drove was Bret Fitzpatrick’s, on his 1978 Camaro. “I’m going to have biceps of steel when this trip is over.”

I drive carefully into town as there are no sidewalks, folks just cross the streets willy-nilly, anywhere they please. Arezzo is a haven for poets. The baroque architecture with its ornate details is the perfect backdrop for artists to gather. Tonight, young writers type on their laptops on the steps of the public square and on tables under the portico of an old Roman bath that now houses offices and small shops. There is a feeling of community here, one I wouldn’t mind being a part of.

The incline up to the hotel is steep, so I gun it. As I reach the curve of the road behind the square, Gram asks me to stop.

She points to a small peach-colored stucco storefront with dark-wood-beam accents. “That’s the original Angelini Shoe Company.” The old workshop is now a pasticceria that sells coffee and sweets.

“It was also the homestead. They lived upstairs, just like us,” she adds.

The second story has glass doors that lead to a balcony filled with terra-cotta pots overflowing with red geraniums. “No tomatoes, Gram.”

She laughs and directs me up the street to park outside the Spolti Inn, a rambling hotel built of fieldstone. I help Gram out of the car and unload our bags. My grandparents stayed at this inn every time they traveled to Tuscany on their buying trips.

The staff of the hotel know Gram, as do the locals. Some even remember her great-aunts and -uncles, Gram tells me. Most custom shoemakers get their leather from Lucca, while Gram insists on Arezzo, where our family has used the same tanner for over 100 years.

As we climb the steep stone steps to the entrance of the hotel, Gram lets go of my arm, pulling in her stomach and straightening her spine. She takes the banister. With her brown hair and peasant skirt, black cotton blouse and sandals, she could be twenty years younger. It’s only when her knees give her trouble that you notice her age.

We pass through a small, open breezeway lined with an eclectic mix of marble planters spilling over with edelweiss, daisies, and bluebells.

“Signora Angelini!” the woman behind the desk cries.

“Signora Guarasci!”

The old friends greet each other with a warm embrace. I take in the lobby. The front desk is a long mahogany counter. There’s a slotted wooden box holding the room keys on the wall behind it. It could be 1900 except for the computer next to the sign-in book.

A deep sofa, covered in gold-and-white damask, is anchored by two ornate floor lamps and an overstuffed gold chenille ottoman that serves as a coffee table. The overhead chandelier is white wrought iron with cream-colored linen shades over the bulbs.

Signora Guarasci is a petite woman with small hands and thick white hair. She wears a blue cotton skirt with a pressed white smock over it, gray tights, and open black leather clogs, a more stylish version of the plastic ones that Roman wears in the kitchen of Ca’ d’Oro. The signora embraces me as Gram makes my introduction.

While Gram catches up with her old friend, I take our bags, climb the stairs, and find our rooms. I unlock the door to number 3, place my suitcase by the door, and look over my new surroundings. The spacious corner room is painted sunflower yellow with off-white trim. There’s a high, soft double bed with six fat feather pillows and a pressed black-and-white-checked coverlet. There’s an antique oak library table under the windows. An old gray rocking chair is positioned near a white marble fireplace, both looking like they have been here for a hundred years. I open the windows and a cool breeze blows through, turning the long white muslin draperies into billowing ball gowns. The walls of the open closet are lined in cedar, which gives the room a green, woodsy scent.

The bathroom that connects my room to Gram’s is simple, with black-and-white-checked tile, a deep ceramic tub with a shiny silver handheld nozzle, and a marble sink with an antique mirror over it. A large bay window on the far wall looks out over a garden. Privacy shades are pulled to the top. The signora has left the window open, letting in more of those fresh spring breezes.

I go back out into the hallway, pick up Gram’s luggage, and unlock the door to room number 2. Gram’s room is twice the size of mine, done in china blue and white, with windows the length of the room, and a full seating area with two low chairs and a sofa covered in white duck fabric.

“How are the rooms?” Gram asks as I skip back downstairs.

“Gorgeous. Now I see why you stay here.”

“Wait until you taste the signora’s cooking,” Gram says.

Signora Guarasci enters the lobby and claps her hands together. “Now, you eat.”

I help Gram up off the very soft sofa. She takes my arm as we go into the dining room.

“When we go home, I’m making an appointment with Dr. Sculco at the Hospital for Special Surgery. You’re getting your knees replaced.”

“I am not.”

“You are, too. Look at you. You’ve got mod hair, good skin, and a great figure. Why should you suffer with bad knees? They’re the only thing about you that’s eighty years old.”

“My brain is eighty.”

“But nobody can see that in a pencil skirt.”

“Good point.”

We take our seats at a table by the windows that overlook a small pond at the back of the house. Every table is set with cutlery, pressed napkins, and small vases of violets even though we are the only patrons in the dining room.

Signora Guarasci pushes through the kitchen door carrying a tray with two ceramic crocks of soup and a basket of crusty bread with a tin of butter. The signora pours us each a glass of homemade red wine from a decanter, then goes back into the kitchen.

“Perfetto! Grazie.” Gram raises her glass.

“I like having you with me, Val,” Gram says. “I think this is going to be a great trip for both of us.”

I taste the minestrone made of pork, root vegetables, and beans in a thick tomato broth. “This is de-lish.” I put the spoon down and break off a piece of the warm crusty bread. “I could stay here forever. Why would anyone ever leave?”

“Well, your grandfather had to. He was six years old when his mother died. Her name was Giuseppina Cavalline. Your great-grandfather called her Jojo.”

“What was she like?”

“She was the most beautiful girl in Arezzo. She was about nineteen when she walked into the Angelini Shoe Shop and asked to speak with the owner. Your great-grandfather, who was around twenty-two at the time, fell in love at first sight.”

“And what about Jojo? Was it mutual?”

“Eventually. See, she had come by to order custom shoes. My father-in-law, so eager to impress her, trotted out samples of the finest leather and showed her the best designs. But Jojo said that she didn’t care if the shoes were fashionable. Your great-grandfather thought this was very odd. What young woman doesn’t love the latest styles? Then she turned and walked across the room and your great-grandfather saw that she had a very pronounced limp. And she said, ‘Can you help me?’”

Gram looks out the window, as if to better remember this story that happened just a few streets away. She continues, “He worked six days and six nights without stopping, and created a beautiful pair of black leather ankle boots with a stacked heel. He created a hidden platform on the interior of the shoe that evened out her stride without being visible to anyone else.”

“Brilliant.” I wonder if I could ever build such an ingenious shoe.

“When Jojo came back to the shop and tried on the shoes, she stood up and skimmed across the room. For the first time in her life, her steps were uniform and her posture straight and tall. Jojo was so grateful, she threw her arms around your great-grandfather and thanked him.

“Then he said, ‘Someday, I’m going to marry you.’ And he did, a year later. And a few years after that, my husband, your grandfather, was born in the house I showed you.”

“What a romantic story.”

“They were happy for a long time. But when she died of pleurisy ten years later, my father-in-law was so grief-stricken, he took your grandfather and went to America. He couldn’t bear to be in Arezzo any longer, to walk in the streets where they lived, or stay in the bed where they slept, or pass the church where they married. That’s how deep his grief was.”

“Did he ever find love again?”

“No. And you know, a cobbler can be very appealing to women.”

“Give a woman a new pair of shoes and her life changes.”

“That’s right. Well, he was a wonderful man, very funny and bright. You remind me of him in many ways. Michel Angelini was a great designer, in my opinion, ahead of his time. He’d love that shoe you designed, believe me.”

“He would?” This compliment means the world to me. After all, my great-grandfather designed every shoe our company makes. A hundred years later, his work is still relevant.

“He would be happy to know that Angelini Shoes is still in operation. He’d also be thrilled that you are carrying on his legacy. He sacrificed so much for his work. Well, at least his personal life.”

The meaning of his sacrifice is not lost on me. I get it: a creative life is an all-consuming one. If we aren’t in the shop building shoes, we are sending them; and if we’re not shipping them, we’re creating new ones. It’s a cycle that never ends, especially when we do our jobs well. “It’s sad he never found another woman to share his life with.”

“My father-in-law was crazy about her. The truth is, no one could ever compare to her. He told me that many times. He missed her right up until the moment he died. And I know that for sure because I was with him.”

“Gram, I’ve always wondered about something. Why does the sign over our shop say ‘Since 1903’ when, in fact, it was 1920 when Grandpop and his father emigrated?”

Gram smiles. “He met Jojo in 1903. That was his way of honoring her.”

I think about Roman, and if our love will last. It seems the women in my family have to fight for love to sustain it. It doesn’t come easily to us, nor does it stay without a battle. We have to work at it. I look over at her. “Is something wrong?”

“The last trip I took with your grandfather was this time of year, the spring before he died.”

“We didn’t even know he was sick.”

“He did. I think he knew that it was the last time he would see Italy. He had a bad heart for years. We just never talked about it.”

Gram breaks a roll open and puts half of it on my plate. I remember Tess telling me about Grandpop having a friend. We’re far from Perry Street, and Gram is opening up in a way that she never allows herself at home. I’m usually as reticent to discuss these matters as she is, but the moment is here, and the wine is hearty, so I ask, “Gram, did Grandpop have a girlfriend?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Tess told me that he did.”

“Tess has a big mouth.” Gram frowns.

“Why wouldn’t you tell me?”

“What good would it do?”

“I don’t know. An honest family history is worth something.”

“To whom?”

“To me.” I reach out and put my hand on hers.

“Yes, he had a girlfriend,” Gram sighs.

“How was that even possible? When would he find the time?”

“Men can always find the time for that,” Gram says.

“How? You lived and worked in the same building.”

“This is a buying trip, not a Lenten retreat,” Gram says. “I save my secrets for the confessional.”

“Pretend I’m a version of Father O’Hara with better legs.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Did you confront him? Did you confront her?” I have a vision of my independent grandmother standing up for herself, like Norma Shearer when she takes on Joan Crawford in The Women.

She nods. “After my husband died, I saw her on the street. I told her I knew, and she denied it, which was nice of her. Then I asked her if she made him happy.”

“Did she answer you?”

“She said no, she couldn’t make him happy. He wished that he could make it work with me. Well, that got to me. With all our problems, the truth is, I loved your grandfather. We had tough times in our business and that really took a toll on us at home. I was hard on him when he’d try new things and fail, and he grew to resent me.”

“Being an artist is all about trying new things.”

“I know that now. I didn’t then. I also learned that when a man resents his wife, he acts on it.”

“You must have been furious.”

“Oh, of course I was. And I did what lots of women do with rage. We bury it. We withdraw. Stop talking. We go to bed angry and we wake up angry. We fulfill our obligations, we keep up the house and the children, but the very act of holding it all together is resentment in a different form. My way of hurting him was to act like I didn’t need him.”

Gram lifts off her glasses and brushes away a tear.

She continues, “I regret that deeply. Maybe, I think, on one of those days when he was taking a break and having a cigar on the roof, I should have climbed the stairs and gone outside and put my arms around him and told him that I loved him. Maybe we could’ve gotten it back. But I didn’t and we couldn’t and that was that.”

I’m jet-lagged and can’t sleep. I sit in the window of the Spolti Inn and wait for morning. The houses are dark, but the moon is bright, turning the main street into a glistening silver river. The rolling hills fall away in the darkness as the clouds pass in front of the moon like party balloons.

I throw back the coverlet and climb into bed. I pick up Goethe’s Italian Journey. My bookmark is a photograph of Roman standing in the door of Ca’ d’Oro. I close the book and pick up my cell phone. I dial. Roman’s phone goes to voice mail. So I text him:

Arrived safely. Bella Italia! Love you, V.

Then I dial home. Mom picks up the phone.

“Ma? We got here.”

“How was the trip?”

“Good. I’m driving a stick shift. Gram and I will need neck braces after a month in that rental. It bucks like Old Paint. How’s Dad?”

“Hungry. But the organic diet seems to be working.”

“Give the man a plate of spaghetti.”

“Don’t worry. He sneaks salami, so when he’s cured, we can’t say it’s the bean curd that did the trick. Hey, I put a surprise in your suitcase for Capri. It’s in the red Macy’s bag.”

“Great.” My mother’s idea of a surprise is a 75-percent-off demi-bra and matching tap pants made with a print of dancing coffee beans that have the word Peppy embroidered across the rear end.

“Something wonderful is going to happen for you on the Isle of Capri. I’m thinking engagement.”

“Ma, please.”

“I’m just saying, hurry up. I don’t want my first face-lift and the first dance at your wedding to coincide. I’m sinking like a soufflé over here.”

“You don’t need any work, Mom.”

“I caught a glimpse of myself looking down in the bathroom tile when I was scrubbing it and I said, ‘Dear God, Mike, you look like a sock puppet.’ I’d get the Botox but they aren’t saying good things about it, plus, what’s my face without any expression? Animation is my thing.”

My mom could talk twelve transatlantic hours in a row about cosmetic enhancement, so I cut her off. “Mom, how do you know if the guy is the guy?”

“You mean if he’ll be a good husband?” She pauses, then says, “The ticket is for the man to love the woman more than she loves him.”

“Shouldn’t it be equal?”

Mom cackles. “It can never be equal.”

“But what if the woman loves the man more?”

“A life of hell awaits her. As women, the deck is stacked against us because time is our enemy. We age, while men season. And trust me, there are plenty of women out there looking for a man, and they don’t mind staking a claim on somebody else’s husband, no matter how old, creaky, and deaf they are.”

She lowers her voice. “Even with the cancer, at sixty-eight, your father is a catch. I don’t need round two in the infidelity fight. I’m twenty years older and fifteen pounds heavier, and my nerves, let’s face it, are shot. Plus, I’ll let him make a mistake once, but twice? Never! So, I keep myself nice and smile, even if I’m crying on the inside. Maintenance! Do you think I wanted to go to the dentist and have all the silver pried out of my mouth and replaced with enough porcelain to build a shrine and fountain to the Blessed Lady? Of course not. But it had to be done! When I smiled with my old teeth it was like looking into a pickle barrel and that wouldn’t do. A woman must endure a lot to keep herself in shape and keep a man…intrigued. And don’t think I’m kidding about the face-lift. I’ve got the infomercial on Thermage Tivoed. I’ve watched it plenty; the only thing is, there are women on that commercial who look better in the before pictures and I’ve yet to figure that out. And show me one woman over sixty-”

Mom gags and coughs. Saying that number actually closes her throat. She goes on.

“-one woman over that fence who doesn’t know she’s got to fight like a tiger and I’ll show you a woman who has given up. The only difference between me and the women who let themselves go and wind up looking like Andy Rooney in a wig is my will. My fortitude. My determination not to quit.”

“Mom, you’re the Winston Churchill of antiaging. ‘Never, never, never, never, never give up your sit-ups.’ You make me want to jump out of this bed and do squats.”

“A nimble bride is a happy one, honey.”

Gram grips my arm as we climb the steep hill past the church to Vechiarelli & Son, our tanners for as long as the Angelinis have been shoemakers. The back streets of Arezzo burst with color, red cabbage roses on pink stucco walls, crisp white laundry hanging high against a blue sky, collections of small ceramic pots spilling over with green herbs in kitchen windows, and an occasional wall fountain, in the shape of a face, cascading sparkling water into an urn.

“It’s the first shop to the right,” Gram pants once we make it to a level street.

“Thank God.” My heart is racing. “I’d say we should have driven, but I don’t think the car could have made it up this hill. I don’t think there’s a shift on the stick for straight up.”

Gram stops, adjusts her skirt, smooths her hair, and secures her shoulder bag just so on her arm. “How do I look?”

“Great.” I’m surprised. Gram has never asked me to comment on her appearance.

“How’s my lipstick?”

“You’re in the pink, Gram. Coco Chanel pink.”

Gram throws back her shoulders. “Good. Let’s go.”

Vechiarelli & Son is a three-story stone house on the end of the street, with a similar setup to our shop at home. The main entrance, used for business, is a wide wooden door under the portico. On the upper floors, there are double doors that lead to small balconies on each level, the top one propped open with a plant, a throw rug hanging over the balcony, airing out in the breeze.

As we climb the steps to go into the shop, we hear a heated argument at full tilt, two men shouting at each other at the top of their lungs. The fight is punctuated with the sound of something being slammed on wood. They’re speaking Italian, and way too quickly for my level of fluency.

I turn to look at Gram, who stands behind me. My expression tells her we should run before the nut jobs inside figure out they’ve got company. “Maybe we should have called first.”

“They’re expecting us.”

“This is some welcome wagon.”

Gram pushes me aside, lifts the brass door knocker, and bangs it several times. The fight inside seems to escalate as the voices move toward us. I take a step back. We’ve kicked over a hornet’s nest, and the swarm sounds deadly. Suddenly, the door flies open from the inside. An old man with white hair, navy wool slacks, and a blue-striped button-down shirt has a look of pure aggravation on his face, but the anger falls away when he lays eyes on Gram.

“Teodora!”

“Dominic, come stai?”

Dominic embraces Gram and kisses her on both cheeks. I am standing behind her and I can see that the line of her spine changes as he kisses her. She grows about two inches taller, and her shoulders relax.

“Dominico, ti presento mio nipote, Valentine,” she says.

“Que bella!” Dominic approves of me. Better that than the alternative!

“Signor Vechiarelli, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” He kisses my hand. I get a good look at his face. It’s the same face as the man in the photograph buried in the velvet pouch in the bottom of Gram’s dresser drawer. I try not to show my surprise, but I can’t wait to get back to the hotel and text Tess to tell her.

“Venite, venite,” he says.

We follow Dominic into the shop. There’s a large farm table that takes up the center of the room. A series of deep shelves filled with sheets of leather line an entire wall, from floor to ceiling.

Old-fashioned tin lamps hang low over the table, illuminating the polished wood in spheres of white light. If I close my eyes, the fragrant beeswax, leather, and lemon take me home to Perry Street. A single door leads to a back room. Dominic calls through the open door.

“Gianluca! Vieni a salutare Teodora ed a conoscere sua nipote.” Dominic turns to me and raises his eyebrows. “Gianluca è mio figlio e anche mio socio.”

“Lovely.” I look at Gram, figuring a bull with flaming nostrils will come galloping through that very door, impale us on his horns, toss us into the air, trample and kill us. Gram motions that all is just fine, but I don’t believe her for a second.

“Gianluca!” Dominic bellows again. This time, it’s a command.

Gianluca Vechiarelli, Dominic’s son and partner (his description) stands in the doorway filling it with his height. He wears a brown apron over work pants and a denim shirt that has been washed so many times it’s practically white. It’s hard for me to see his face because the work lights are so bright, and he is taller than the lights.

“Piacere di conoscerla.” Gianluca extends his hand. I take it. My hand gets lost in his.

“Come è andato il viaggio?” Dominic asks Gram about our trip, but clearly he couldn’t care less, he’s more interested in her arrival here than her departure from America. He pulls rolling work stools out from under the table and invites us to sit. I remain standing while he sits down next to Gram, giving her his undivided attention. It seems he cannot get close enough to her. He doesn’t seem even slightly embarrassed that his legs are touching hers, and that his hands have made their way to her knees.

While Gram fills in the details of our trip so far, Gianluca is busy pulling samples of leather off the shelves and arranging them on the table. He breathes deeply as he arranges the squares, squinting at them and then moving them into different positions. I take a peek at his face. He’s good-looking, but there’s more gray in his hair than black, so I figure he’s somewhere in his fifties.

Gianluca has the same nose as his father, straight and fine, with a high bridge. There are deep grooves on the sides of his mouth, which either come from smiling or screaming, and if I were betting, I’d go with the latter. He catches me looking at him. He smiles, so I smile back at him, but it’s slightly uncomfortable, as if I’ve been caught shoplifting.

Gianluca has a slight overbite and deep blue eyes, the exact color of the morning sky over Arezzo. It’s common knowledge that Italian men check out American women, but what you never hear is that we return the favor in kind. I study him with the same eye I use to look at the leather. I’m interested in quality, integrity, and texture; after all, fine Italian craftsmanship and the pursuit of it is the reason we climbed this hill, isn’t it?

Gram and Dominic have not stopped talking. He says something and she laughs her big laugh, which I hear only occasionally when we’re home. The truth is, I’ve never seen her like this. If I weren’t so enthralled by the exquisite leather Gianluca is laying out on the table, I’d be wondering what the hell is going on here.

“So, you make the shoes?” Gianluca says to me.

“Yes. I’m her apprentice.” I point to Gram. “I’ve been training for four years.”

“I’ve been working with Papa for twenty-three years.”

“Wow. So, is it working out?”

Gianluca laughs. “Some days good, some days not so good.”

“This morning?” I cover my ears.

“You heard us?”

“Are you kidding? They heard you in Puglia.”

“Papa? Teodora and Valentine heard us argue.”

Dominic makes a motion, like he’s brushing a fly off a slice of bread. Then he puts his hand on his thighs, scoots the stool even closer to Gram, and resumes his conversation with her. I almost lean across the table to say, “Why not sit in her lap, Dom?”

Soon the front door of the shop pushes open, and a gorgeous young woman enters, tossing her purse onto a table. She has long brown hair, and wears a tight, dark brown suede skirt and a sleek black tank top. She pushes her sunglasses up onto her head, anchoring her hair with them. She wears the most exquisite pair of sandals I have ever seen. They are flat, with thin T-straps covered in tiny chocolate brown jewels that lead to a center medallion shaped in a fleur-de-lis made of baguettes of black onyx. She heads straight for Gianluca and gives him a hug. Evidently, this Tuscan air is good for everybody’s love life but mine.

Gram turns and looks at her. “Orsola!”

“Teodora!” The young woman goes to Gram and gives her a hug.

“This is my granddaughter, Valentine.”

I extend my hand to the Tuscan hottie. “Nice to meet you. You must be Gianluca’s wife?”

Gianluca, Orsola, Dominic, and Gram laugh loud and long.

“Did I say something wrong?”

“Gianluca is my papa.” Orsola grins. “You just made his big ego even bigger.”

“An Italian man with a big ego? That’s impossible,” I tell them.

Gram gives me a look that says, Watch it. Your humor doesn’t play in Arezzo.

She’s right, so I quickly cover my tracks. “Orsola, I’ve got to know. Where did you get those sandals?”

“Our friend Costanzo Ruocco made them for me on Capri. Every summer we visit on holiday.”

“I’m going to Capri in a few weeks.”

“Oh, you must visit him. I will give you his number and address before you go.”

I was hoping to meet other shoemakers on this trip, as there are artistic questions I have that Gram cannot answer, and sometimes, I have ideas that Gram doesn’t like, and it would be nice to run them by a master who has no stake in the argument.

Orsola follows Gram and Dominic to the back of the shop. Gianluca pulls out a few more samples and places them on the worktable. I sit down and begin choosing some for Gram to approve. There’s a supple beige calfskin that would be an excellent choice for our Osmina design. My head swims with the possibilities as I look around the shop. Leathers in shades of cream and ebony, embossed with small gold Florentine symbols, others in patterned basket weaves, still more in colors I only dream about: ice blue patent leather, deep ruby red suede and faux leopard on shiny black horsehair.

Gianluca pulled a drawer from the supply closet and set it on the table. It is filled with leather laces in pastel shades of mint green, pink, and gold; white leather buckles; black leather trim; and patent leather bows with hand-cut fasteners. I dump the contents of the drawer on the table, as there doesn’t seem to be two of any particular style.

I push the mound around, separating the samples. A metallic glint catches my eye. I pull a braid of gold leather, white satin ribbon, and white calfskin out of the pile. It’s very Chanel, braiding you might see on an expensive purse or even as a trim on a leather jacket, but there’s an original touch to it, a fourth skein of twisted flat hemp that gives a straw-and-hay effect to the gold.

“Orsola braids the leather,” Gianluca says.

“This is magnificent.” I study the braid of gold under the light. “I just designed a shoe this would work on.”

“Orsola can make anything you need.”

“She’s very talented. And beautiful. Your wife must be a knockout because your daughter…” I whistle.

He smiles. “Orsola’s mother is beautiful. But I’m divorced from her.”

“I thought divorce was illegal in Italy.”

“Not anymore.” He turns and opens a cupboard filled with brightly colored suedes. He lifts a few samples out and places them on the table.

Gram appears in the doorway of the back of the shop and leans in. Her knees don’t seem to be bothering her now. “So, do you see anything you like?”

“We’re in trouble.” I hold up a sheet of soft calfskin. “I like everything.”

Dominic stands behind Gram, placing his hand on the small of her back. “I don’t have too much of that,” he says.

“How much do you need?” Gianluca asks.

“We can get about three pairs per sheet, right, Gram?”

Gram nods.

“Do you have four sheets?” I ask Gianluca.

“We do.”

“We’ll take them.” I look at Gram.

She nods her approval. “Val, why don’t you choose the rest?”

“Because I’m not sure what we need?” My voice breaks.

“Yes, you are.”

“Gram, it’s an entire year’s worth of inventory. You trust me with this?”

“Absolutely.”

Gram turns to face Dominic. “See my knees?” She lifts her skirt. “I need new ones.”

“New ones?”

“Titanium. I’m told they’ll give me the legs of a showgirl and then I can climb these hills like a goat. But, for now, I’ll just have to lean on you.”

Dominic extends his arm, Gram takes it, and they turn to go.

“Uh…where are you going?” I call after her pleasantly.

“Dominic’s going to show me a new technique he’s using to emboss leather.”

I’ll bet, I think to myself as they go. Gianluca has moved another large stack of leather from the shelves for me to go through.

I take my sketchbook out of my purse and flip through it to find my list of things we need.

Gianluca stands behind me as my sketchbook falls open to my design of the Bergdorf’s shoe.

“This is yours?” he asks.

I nod that it is.

“Bellissima.” His eyes narrow as he looks at it more closely. “Ambitious, no?”

“Well, it is complicated,” I say, “but-”

“Si, si,” he interrupts with a smile. “It’s for you to figure out. You imagined it and now you will bring it to life.”

I return my attention to one of the sheets of leather on the table in front of us. Gianluca watches me as I examine the leather under the lights, checking for patina, finish, and suppleness. I roll the corner of the sheet, as Gram taught me, checking for splits or creases in the leather, but the material is as smooth and luxurious in my hands as dough.

Sometimes tanners will add elements to the finishing solution to cover flaws in the leather. Since our shoes are handcrafted, you can’t hide inconsistencies in the materials, as you might with machine-made shoes. We often resew seams as we custom-fit the shoes, so it takes strong, uncompromised leather to sew and resew. I run my hands over the expanse of the buttery suede. No wonder my family has used this company for years. These are first-class goods. I look up at Gianluca and smile in approval.

He smiles back at me.

I lift several sheets of leather off the stack and put them to the side. I return the bulk of them to the shelf behind me.

Gianluca stays in the doorway for what seems like a long time. What’s he looking at? I look up at him. He looks amused, which is odd, because I’m not saying anything. Is there something about me that’s funny, even when I’m not trying to be? Funnyone translates, I guess. That’s good to know, but enough already. “That’s okay, I got it.” I wave the braid at him so he is free to go.

“Va bene.” He grins and goes. But I think he’d rather stay.