Very Valentine

14. 58th and Fifth

TODAY IS THE DEADLINE FOR THE DELIVERY of the shoes for the competition for the Bergdorf windows. I get off the subway at Columbus Circle, holding the shoe box containing the Bella Rosa in the crook of my arm, like a newborn baby. Let’s face it, this is my version of precious cargo. Some people give birth to babies, I give birth to shoes.

In my backpack is the sketch of the Rag & Bone gown. For fun, I photographed the shoes, reduced them to scale, and put them on the feet of the model in the sketch of the wedding gown Rhedd Lewis sent to us. I also included my original ink-and-watercolor sketch of the shoes, the photograph of my inspiration-Gram at her wedding-and a photograph of Costanzo and me under the Capri sun, giving him credit as the cobbler who built my design.

I push my way through the revolving door at the side entrance and walk past the specialty handbag section to the elevator. I look around at the customers, wanting to shout, Pray for me, but I imagine the only soul connection these ladies experience is the Zen that comes during a microdermabrasion facial. I don’t believe they light candles to Saint Crispin for spiritual guidance.

When I get off the elevator on the eighth floor, it’s not the serene waiting area I remember from our appointment months ago. It’s packed, full of people and loud, like the subway platform at Forty-second Street, except no one’s waiting for a train. They wait for Rhedd Lewis. It seems that all the major shoe labels are represented in flashy, attention-getting ways. Donald Pliner has wedding shoes dangling off a tabletop palm tree; a delivery boy from Christian Louboutin carries a tray of cookies, upon which is a wedding shoe filled with candy; an actual six-foot-tall Amazon model, dressed as a bride, wears what look like Prada shoes. A publicist carries an enormous blow-up of a Giuseppe Zanotti wedding shoe with a phrase in French staggered across the poster. Alicia Flynn Cotter’s signature patent leather pumps are hanging artfully in a small-scale hot-dog stand turned wedding wagon. It’s a madhouse. I work my way through my competitors to the receptionist.

“Rhedd Lewis please,” I tell her.

“You here with a shoe?” she asks as she types.

“May I speak with her assistant please?”

Without taking her eyes off the screen, she says, “She’s on her way out for Craig Fisse. And I’m just a temp. You can leave your submission on the pile.”

My heart sinks as I look at a pile of submissions: shoe boxes, some FedExed, others hand-delivered, dropped in the corner like rejects on their way to the garbage. I cannot leave the Bella Rosa there, I won’t.

Rhedd’s assistant appears in the doorway. She smiles tensely and looks over the crowd. I push to the front. Suddenly, I feel like the kid at Holy Agony who will never get chosen for Red Rover during recess. But I’ve come too far to be shy now.

“Remember me?” I say to her.

She doesn’t.

“I’m Valentine Roncalli of the Angelini Shoe Company. This is our submission.” I place the box in front of her. I don’t move until she instinctively reaches for it. She tucks the shoe box and the envelope of extras under her arm like yesterday’s newspaper.

“Great. Thanks,” she says, looking past me to the model with the gown.

“Well, thank you for the opportunity…,” I begin, but the din escalates in the room when the deliverymen and the sideshow attractions realize that the woman I am speaking with is Rhedd’s assistant. This, clearly, is the moment they’ve been waiting for, and they press forward in a heap and commence shouting to get her attention. I push through them and back to the elevator.

Once I’m outside on Fifty-seventh Street, I lean against the building. I imagined this moment so differently. I thought I would give the shoes to Rhedd herself, and she’d open the box and swoon; or I imagined her staff in a conference room where some lowly but gifted assistant stands up and says, “We have to give the underdog a chance,” bringing Rhedd Lewis to tears, and finally her senses, when she chooses Angelini Shoes over the fancy-pants designers. I played so many scenes through my mind, and now, I imagine our shoes in a heap on the floor among all the other submissions. I imagine them getting lost. I imagine them losing. Us. Losing.

I walk at a rapid clip back to the subway. My face burns hot with embarrassment. Let me tell you, you cannot feel smaller than you do when dwarfed by the skyscrapers of Midtown Manhattan after you’ve just been dismissed like an old shoe at Bergdorf Goodman. What will they think of Gram’s photograph in the fussy wedding gown or that silly snap of Costanzo and me in front of the shoe shop? I didn’t dramatize fine Italian craftsmanship in my presentation, I went homey and heartfelt, and above Fourteenth Street in Manhattan, that means hokey. Why would they care that I am part of a tradition that extends back a hundred years? So do Nathan’s hot dogs and Durcon zippers. I deserve to lose.

But the shoes? They deserve a chance. For a moment, I consider running back to the store, going up in the elevator, bypassing the crowd, the receptionist, and the assistant, and marching right into Rhedd Lewis’s office and telling her exactly, in a rousing speech, why the little guy should win. Instead, I fish my MetroCard out of my backpack and go down the stairs to home, to the Angelini Shoe Company.

June attempts to cheer me up about the Bergdorf competition by telling us a long story about her uncle who used to buy lottery tickets, convinced he’d win. Week after week, he’d buy them, and when he was dying, he sent his son out to buy a ticket. He died, and the ticket brought in five thousand bucks. The moral of her story: I must die in order for our shoes to be in Bergdorf’s windows, though I don’t believe that was June’s intention when she told it.

“Here it is.” I hold up a black flat embellished with a silver-pavé angel wing. This is my first pair of everyday shoes for the everywoman, the first sample for the secondary-line launch from the Angelini Shoe Company. I’m calling the line Angel Shoes, inspired by our sign, and by the wings I drew on Capri. Also, in any new venture, particularly one as precarious as this, it doesn’t hurt to call on all the powers of heaven to tilt things our way. I have no problem relying on angels or calling upon my saints, on this plane or elsewhere.

I place the finished shoe on the worktable. Gram and June examine it. June whistles. Gram picks it up. “It’s whimsical.”

“Functional,” June adds.

“Now I just have to figure out how to mass-produce it.”

“You will,” Gram says gaily.

Since we returned from Italy, it’s as though Gram has been on a high. She flits around the apartment, does her work cheerfully, and has even tackled some projects that she swore she’d never do-like clean out the closet in my mother’s old bedroom. We even visited Dr. Sculco, who will give Gram new knees on December first, with plenty of time to rehab before the new year.

While she’s been busy reorganizing, I’ve been busy researching how to get my new line of shoes made. I am determined to manufacture the shoes in America so that I might oversee the production. Of course, I have to keep an open mind because, after all, this is a new arena for me, and there’s no master to show me the ropes. All I bought in my business agreement with Alfred was time. He’s my full partner, and he has a say, to the tune of 50 percent. I have a year to establish a profit margin in the shop, which would prevent him from selling the building out from under me. I try not to think of the six million dollars that would free me from this partnership forever, but rather, take this venture one shoe at a time. We hear the buzzer sound in the vestibule.

“I’m ready for the unveiling,” Bret says from the entrance. Then he pushes through the workshop door. “How are we doing?” he asks.

“Say hello to the first pair of Angel Shoes.” I hold up the sample. While Bret examines it, I place my business plan on the table. “Here’s the breakdown of costs for the shoes. I found some innovative materials in Italy. This is actually a fabric that mimics leather. We’ll market it as a fabric, not a leather look, which should appeal to the customer and keep the cost down. In leather, the same shoe goes up in base price by thirty-three cents on the dollar. I found the new materials in Milan. What do you think?”

“Val, you really pulled this off. I’ll be happy to take your plan to the investors. Any news on the Bergdorf windows?”

“I just dropped off the prototype. I wouldn’t count on winning that contest, Bret. The competition is fierce and French, two elements that are unbeatable in the world of fashion.”

“I’m going to tell the investors that you were handpicked by Rhedd Lewis to compete, and hopefully, I’ll have them sign on the dotted line before Rhedd makes her announcement.”

“Sounds like a great plan.” I smile gratefully at Bret as my cell phone rings. I pick it up.

“Val, it’s Mom. Meet us at New York Hospital. Jaclyn is having the baby! Bring Mom!” My mother hangs up on me in an obvious panic.

“Jaclyn is having the baby at New York Hospital.”

“Get my purse,” Gram says calmly.

The entry to New York Hospital is a lot like an old-time bank; there’s a lot of glass, an enormous atrium, multiple swinging doors, and people, lots of them, waiting in lines. I have Mom on the cell, which she is using as a tracking device in order to describe every twist and turn that will lead us up to the maternity floor. “Yeah, yeah, I know-no cell phones. I’ll be off in a minute. I just gotta get my people up here,” I hear her say to a muffled voice in the background. Gram and I manage to find the maternity ward on the sixth floor, where Mom is waiting for us when the elevator doors open.

“How is she?” I ask her.

“The baby will be here soon. That’s all we know. I told everyone the doctor miscalculated! Jaclyn got so big so fast. Somebody didn’t do the math.”

We follow Mom back to the waiting area. Dad is reading a beat-up copy of Forbes, while Tess corrals Charisma and Chiara away from people in the room we are not related to. Gram sits down on the couch, while I take the chair next to my father.

“We came too soon,” Gram whispers to me after an hour passes. “This could take hours.”

“Remember when Jaclyn was born?” Tess says, sitting down next to me.

“You named her after your favorite Charlie’s Angel, Jaclyn Smith. I still can’t believe Mom went for that.” I put my arm around Tess.

Mrs. McAdoo shows up with her sister; they wait patiently for an hour and then go. To be fair, this is Mrs. McAdoo’s fourteenth grandchild, so the thrill is essentially gone.

Finally, Tess, too, gives up and takes Charisma and Chiara home. Dad falls asleep on the couch and snores so loudly, the nurse asks us to have him removed. And then, after six hours, two rounds of Starbucks coffee and an hour and a half of Anderson Cooper on mute on the TV in the waiting area, finally, at ten minutes after midnight on June 15, 2008, Tom comes out of the labor room.

“It’s a girl,” he says. “Teodora Angelini McAdoo.”

My mother cries, Gram clasps her hands together, honored and stunned. My father embraces Tom, slapping him on the back. Mom gets on the cell and calls Tess, and then Alfred, to tell them of the arrival of the newest member of our family. Gram, Mom, and I go into the recovery room to see Jaclyn. She lies back in the bed holding her daughter. She’s exhausted and puffy, her usually large and limpid eyes buried in her face like raisins in the top of a bran muffin. She looks up at us. “Isn’t she beautiful?” Jaclyn whispers.

We gather around her and coo.

“Never again.” Her expression changes from bliss to resolve. “Never again.”

In the cab ride home, I check my phone. I listen to the messages. There are three from Roman, the last one downright terse. I call him. He picks up. I don’t even say hello. “Honey, I’m so sorry. Jaclyn had the baby. We’ve been at the hospital all night.”

“That’s great news,” he says. “Why didn’t you call?”

“I just told you, I was at the hospital.”

“I left you messages everywhere.”

“Roman, I don’t know what to say. I was all caught up in it. I had my phone off. I’m sorry. Do you want me to come over now?”

“You know what? Let’s rain-check. We can do this another night,” he says, sounding exhausted, and truthfully, more annoyed than tired.

I snap the phone shut. Gram looks out the window pretending not to have heard the conversation.

“You’d think I left him stranded for a week alone on Capri. It was only dinner,” I tell her. “Men.”

Gram and I are weary the next morning after our long day at the hospital. Gram has called all of her friends to tell them that her new great-granddaughter is also her namesake. Never let it be said that it doesn’t matter who a baby is named for, in my family, it’s the highest honor. I’ve never seen Gram so happy.

I bring the mail into the workshop, sorting through it until I find an envelope from Italy. I hand it to Gram. “You got something from Dominic.”

She puts down the pattern she is working on and takes the letter from me. She opens it carefully with the blade of her work scissors. I pick up a brush and polish the kid leather on the Ines. When she’s done reading the letter, Gram hands me some pictures that came with the letter.

“Orsola got married,” she says.

In a vivid color photograph, Orsola is a stunning bride in a simple, square-necked white silk slip dress, with ornate trim made of white silk roses along the bottom. The hem of her dress stands away from her feet, like the edge of a bell. She carries a small bouquet of white edelweiss.

On Orsola’s other side is her groom, a match for her beauty, his blond hair slicked back for the big day. Next to the groom are his parents, a nice-looking couple. Holding Orsola’s hand on her other side is a woman I’ve never seen before, she must be Gianluca’s ex-wife, and Orsola’s mother. She is the same height as her daughter, with short hair, and the same delicate features. I can see that she’s tough, and she’s definitely got the number elevens going between the eyes. Gianluca described her well.

My heart races when I see Gianluca in the photograph next to his ex-wife. Maybe I’m embarrassed about kissing him, or maybe seeing his ex-wife, a woman around his own age, reminds me of our age difference. Gianluca wears a stately gray morning coat. He looks handsome and refined, not like the working-class tanner he is in life. His smile is full of joy for his daughter. Dominic, the Duke of Arezzo, wears a gray morning coat and a black-and-white-striped ascot, and stands proudly next to his son.

“Dominic writes that Gianluca asked about you.”

“That’s nice.” I change the subject quickly. “How’s Dominic?”

“He misses me,” she says. “You know, he’s in love with me.”

Gram says this as casually as she might when she places a lunch order. I put down my work brush. “Are you in love with him?”

She places the letter off to the side carefully. “I think so.”

“Don’t worry, Gram, soon a year will go by and we’ll need more leather and you’ll be with him again.”

She looks at me. “I don’t think I can wait a year.”

“You can visit anytime you want.”

“I don’t think a visit is enough anymore.”

I’m stunned. My grandmother is eighty years old; would she actually uproot her life to go and live in Italy? It doesn’t seem possible, and it certainly doesn’t seem like her.

She continues, “I’ve had a struggle within myself all my life. I’m always torn between doing what I want to do and what I should do.”

“Gram, when you’re eighty, I think you get a pass. I think it’s time to do what you want to do.”

“You would think so, wouldn’t you?” She looks off and then continues, “But it’s not easy to change what is fundamental and basic about yourself, even if you wish you could. I’ve been working in this shop for over fifty years, and I imagine that I always will.”

“But you fell in love…,” I remind her. “That’s a game changer,” I say aloud, as though it’s something I actually know to be true.

“Love only works when two lives come together without sacrifice. No one should give up who they are for someone else. People do it, but it doesn’t make them happy, not in the long run.”

The phone rings, interrupting our conversation. “Angelini Shoe Company,” I say into the phone.

“Rhedd Lewis calling for Teodora Angelini,” the assistant says.

I cover the receiver. “Gram, it’s Rhedd Lewis.”

Gram takes the phone from me. It seems like it takes twenty years for her to say, “Hello?” She listens carefully, then says, “Rhedd, if you don’t mind, I’d like Valentine to take the call. It’s her design. One moment please.” Gram hands the phone back to me.

“Valentine, I’ve sifted through every shoe submitted for the windows. I was wowed, disappointed, shocked, and appalled. There was real junk, and genuine genius…”

Why is she telling me this? I don’t need a critique on top of a rejection. Get to the point, lady.

Rhedd continues, “But nowhere in all the submissions was there such élan, such energy, such a new view but with a respect for the past. You rose to the occasion splendidly, and in creating the Bella Rosa, you married tradition with the pulse of the moment in an artful and seamless way. In fact, I’m in awe. We are going to feature Angelini Shoes in the Christmas windows at Bergdorf’s. Congratulations.”

I hang up the phone and scream so loudly, the pigeons on Charles Street take flight. “We won! We won!” Gram and I embrace. June comes in from lunch.

“What the hell is going on?” she says.

“We won, June! We’re doing the windows at Bergdorf’s!”

“Dear God, I thought somebody hit the lottery,” June says.

“We did!”

I put on one of my mom’s vintage Diane Von Furstenberg wrap dresses. This one is black and white, in a paint-splattered-style print. My hair is long and cascades down like DVF’s own mane back when these dresses were in style the first time around. I want to look good to celebrate our wonderful news with Roman. He doesn’t know it yet, as I’m going to surprise him at the restaurant. He has workmen fixing the electrical on this, his night off, so I’m going to whisk him off for a great celebration meal in Chinatown. I pull on my coat.

“Gram, what are you having for dinner?”

“I heated up the manicotti you made.”

“How is it?”

“Just as good the second time around.” Gram has her feet up, watching television in her easy chair.

“What are you gonna do tonight?” I ask her, as I always do.

“I’m going to watch the news and then I’m going to bed.”

“Don’t wait up.”

“I never do.” She winks.

The cab drops me on Mott Street. Before I push the security code to enter Ca’ d’Oro, I check my lipstick in a compact mirror. The balloon curtains are down in the front windows. I punch in the security code and enter the restaurant. I’m greeted by votive candles flickering on the ledge of the mural, as well as on the tables. Roman must already know my news. He probably called Gram and Gram told him and he prepared a celebration feast for me. God, life is good.

I hear Roman’s voice in the kitchen, so I tiptoe back to surprise him. I sneak up to the doorway. I look inside.

Roman is hovering over a skillet on the stove, while a woman, with long blond hair the color of flat champagne, and wearing a cook’s apron, sits on the island, her legs dangling as she sips a glass of wine. She takes her foot and taps him on the ass with her toes. He looks around and grins at her. Then he sees me. And then she turns and sees me.

“Hon, what are you doing here?” he asks.

I look away from him, and place my gaze on her. She’s ashamed. She looks away.

“We won the Bergdorf windows.” Then I turn and go back out into the restaurant. I’m not good at these kinds of scenes, they are way too dramatic for me. I head for the door at a rapid clip. I can’t say I’m upset. I’m numb. But of course, as Tess is eager to point out, if there’s ever a crisis, go and stand by Valentine, because she remains flatly in denial for a full twenty-four hours after something horrible happens. I put my hand on the door to go out. I push it open. Roman is right behind me.

“Wait,” he says.

I’m outside on the sidewalk. I am not waiting. “Good night, Roman.”

“Stop. You owe it to me.”

Now, I’m angry. Every word he utters is an excuse for me to be mean right back at him. “What exactly do I owe you?”

“Let me explain.”

The idea that he’d actually come up with an excuse for what I saw unnerves me. I’d like to scream at him, but I’m so furious, I can’t form the words.

“She’s a maître d’ I was going to hire, but now I won’t.”

“You know what, Roman? I’m not buying it.” I turn to go.

He stops me again. “Look, there’s nothing going on here. She had some wine, that’s why she was flirting.”

“I love a liquor defense.” I turn away, but this time, it’s because there are tears in my eyes. So much for Tess’s twenty-four-hour rule, I broke it tonight in thirty seconds flat. Let him see that I’m crying. I don’t care. “Roman, your idea of a relationship is seeing me when you can. I’m like spackle. You fit me in between the important stuff.”

“You’re just as busy as I am.” His expression softens. “I think you like the idea of being with me, but I don’t think I’m the one.”

If I were younger and he were a different person, I’d think this was some sort of a rap, designed to distract me from the sexy indiscretion in the kitchen. But it’s not a rap, he’s right. I like him to be there when I want him, but I’m not really present in this relationship either.

“I’m sorry.” It’s almost impossible for me to say I’m sorry, but I did. And then I say the one thing that is hardest of all, because I truly believe it. “I do love you.”

Roman looks at me. Then he shakes his head, as if he can’t take this in. “I think there’s someone else.”

“You’re kidding. I’m the one who just caught you in the kitchen with a woman.”

“You didn’t catch me. It was innocent. Since you came back from Italy, you’ve been distant, and I can’t get in. I’ve begged your forgiveness for missing our vacation. I’ve been trying to make it up to you. Other people have busy careers and make it work. I think our schedules are just excuses. We don’t have what it takes. We just don’t.”

“I think we do.” The thought of losing him makes me feel desperate. I feel a rush of panic, wanting to promise him anything just to have him give me another chance. I want an opportunity to get it right, to prove my feelings, to surrender, to commit, and to show him how much I love him. My mind fills with images of him, on the roof last Christmas roasting marshmallows with the kids, playing basketball with my nephews, taking Gram’s arm in the street for no reason. I’m not ready to say good-bye to this good man. But I don’t know how to help him understand who I am and what I’m capable of, because I haven’t given him one indication of the real person I am inside. I hold him at arm’s length, and most of the time, even farther, and I don’t know why.

“Valentine, if that’s true, then we should try.”

“I need to think about you, Roman. I don’t want to turn this into a big Band-Aid that ends up with us in bed and we smooth it over, and then everything’s fine for a few weeks, and then this…this happens again. There’s something wrong, and I need to figure out what. You deserve better.”

“Do you mean it?” There’s an expression on his face that I haven’t seen in a while: hope.

“Besides, I kissed a man in Capri. There. I’ve said it. It’s been bothering me and I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. The truth is, I have no right to march into Ca’ d’Oro and judge you with Blondie-blonde when I did a stupid thing.”

“Why?” he asks.

“I was mad at you. That’s all it was.”

“I’m relieved.”

“What?” I can’t believe this is his reaction. Where’s the rage? The jealousy.

“I knew something was wrong, and now you’ve told me.”

“I still want to be with you,” I tell him.

“And I want to make it work,” he admits.

“So, go in there and tell that maître d’ that the position is filled.”

He doesn’t let go of my hand. “You want to come with me?”

“I don’t think so.” I kiss him. “Come over tonight.”

“What about Teodora?”

“I’ll close her door and put on Cousin Brucie and she’ll never hear a thing.”

“I’ll see you later,” he says.

“Here.” I fish in my purse and give him the extra set of keys, the keys that I’ve been meaning to give him for months. They dangle from a Quisisana Hotel keychain.

Roman looks at the key chain. “You’re serious.”

“Yes I am.”

I turn and walk down the street, and when I get to the corner, I look back. He’s standing there, watching me. I wave to him. He does love me. That’s not something I’m ready to lose.

“Gram, I’m home!” I holler from the stairwell. I’m anxious to take off this dress and put on my pajamas and finish our discussion about Dominic. I want to get her tucked in and comfortable before Roman comes over. Tonight, I want to confide in her about Roman, and kissing Gianluca, and find out what she’d do if she were me. I think she’d choose Roman, just like me. “Gram, I’m home!” I shout again as I enter the kitchen. The TV is on, but she’s not in her chair. Strange, she usually turns off the set before she goes upstairs. I place my purse on the table and start to take off my coat, then I see Gram’s foot on the floor behind the counter. I run over to the counter. Gram is lying on the floor. I kneel next to her. She’s breathing, but she doesn’t respond when I call her name. I grab the phone and dial 911.

The ambulance took Gram to Saint Vincent’s hospital. She revived at home, but was confused, and wasn’t sure when she fell. My mother and father arrived at the hospital quickly, as there’s barely any traffic from Queens into the city this time of night. Tess, Jaclyn, and Alfred push through the doors, their faces full of dread. It’s almost ten o’clock, but Gram asked Mom to call her lawyer, her old friend Ray Rinaldi who lives on Charles Street. My mother did exactly as she was told, and Ray is inside the ICU with her now.

Roman pushes through the glass doors and runs to me. “How is she?”

“She’s weak. We don’t know what happened,” Mom says. Gram has never been sick, or sustained any kind of serious injury. Mom is not used to this, and she’s frightened. My father puts his arms around her. She cries. “I don’t want to lose her.”

“She’s in good hands. It’s going to be all right,” Roman reassures Mom. “Don’t worry.”

A nurse steps out of the ICU and surveys the crowd. “Is there a Clementine here?”

“Valentine,” I say and wave.

“Follow me,” she says.

The ICU is full, and Gram lies in the farthest corner with two flowing blue curtains separating her from an old man whose chest heaves as he sleeps. As I approach Gram’s bed, Ray Rinaldi closes a large paper folder. Ray’s a grandfather now, with a thick thatch of gray hair and a briefcase that has seen better days.

“I’ll see you outside,” he says to me. Then he gives me a pat on the back. “Teodora, everything will be done just as you wish.”

“Thank you, Ray,” Gram whispers and manages a smile. She closes her eyes.

I go to the side of the bed and hold her hand. Her eyes barely flutter open, looking like two black commas, certainly not the wide, almond-shaped Italian eyes she has when she’s in good health. Her glasses rest on her chest on a chain, just as they were when she fell. A blue-and-purple bruise has formed over her brow, where her face hit the counter. I place my hand gently on the bruise. It feels warm. She looks at me then closes her eyes. “I don’t know what happened.”

“They’ll figure it out.”

“I wasn’t feeling right. I got up for a glass of water, and that’s the last I remember until the ambulance came.” Gram looks off, as though she’s searching for a road sign in the distance.

“You’re not seeing the Blessed Lady, are you?” I joke. “Let’s not start having mystical visions.” I look in the direction of her gaze, and all I see is a wall with an eraser board filled with names of patients and numbers of medications written by the nurses.

“Is this it?” she says to me.

“What do you mean?”

“Is this how it ends?”

“No way! You’re not going anywhere. Buck up. You have a new great-granddaughter named after you. Mom wants to take you on a cruise. Scratch that. You’d hate it. Here, this is better: You still have to teach me how to cut embossed leather. I have lots more to learn and you’re the only person who can teach me. And Dominic. Dominic loves you!”

“All I want to do is make shoes and play cards.”

“And you will!”

“…and grow tomatoes.”

“Absolutely. Grow tomatoes.”

“…and I want to go home to Italy.”

Gram looks off, and in her way, she has defined the boundaries of her life for me. Could anything be simpler? All anyone needs to be happy is something to do, friends who gather to talk and play cards, a good meal made with the tomatoes from your own garden, and every once in a while, a trip to Italy, where she finds peace and comfort in the arms of an old friend.

I look around Saint Vincent’s ICU. It’s clean and functional. Not a frill in sight. What a place to contemplate getting well, never mind your salvation. The nurses no longer wear crisp white uniforms with little hats like they did in old movies. They wear Hawaiian shirts and green scrub pants. I have a hard time taking in a medical prognosis delivered by someone in a luau costume.

“I had your mother call Ray,” Gram says softly. “I put you and Alfred in charge of the Angelini Shoe Company and on the deed of the building. I trust the two of you to figure things out.”

I hear Gram’s words in my head, admonishing me for fighting with my brother: More than anything I want my family to get along. Alfred and I are an unlikely match under the best of circumstances. Running the business together will never work, I can only pray that Gram will get better quickly so she can have the life she dreams of, and while she’s living it, I might run her company, on my own terms. “Okay, Gram,” I say. “We’ll take care of everything, I promise. And you’ll be back on Perry Street with me in no time.”

“Valentine?” My mom wakes me gently. I am sleeping in the chair in Gram’s room at Saint Vincent’s hospital.

“Is she okay?” I sit up and look at the empty bed. Gram is gone.

“They just took her for tests.”

“What time is it?” I lift my sleeve and check my watch. It’s almost noon.

“She’s been out of the room since eight,” Mom says and I can hear the worry in her voice.

“Do they know what happened to her?”

Dad, Jaclyn, Tess, and Alfred come into the room.

“Did she have a stroke?” Tess asks.

“We don’t know yet,” Mom tells her.

Alfred takes a deep breath and clears his throat. “I don’t want to be right. But this time you have to listen to me. Gram can’t do what she used to.” He looks directly at me. “You have to stop pushing her,” he says quietly.

Armand Rigaux, Gram’s doctor, a slim, dashing man with salt-and-pepper hair, comes into the room carrying his clipboard. We gather around him in a circle.

“I have some good news,” Dr. Rigaux begins. “Teodora didn’t have a stroke, and her heart is not compromised in any way.”

“Thank God!” My mother puts her hand over her heart in relief.

“But she has severe arthritis in her knees. They lock and she falls. When she took the spill the other night, it was a doozy. She hit her head pretty badly, and we want to make certain there wasn’t any neurological damage. So we’re going to keep her here and run some more tests.”

“How about knee replacement?” I ask.

“We’re looking into that now. She looks to be a good candidate. And the recuperation period would be a snap with all of you pitching in.”

“I’d do anything for my mother,” Mom says.

“The truth is,” Dr. Rigaux says, looking at us, “surgery is the only way to ensure that this won’t happen again.”

Gram’s third day in the hospital is spent doing more tests, with Mom and my sisters and brother and I staying in shifts to keep her company. I left for a couple of hours to check in with June at the shop, take a shower, and change clothes. I changed the sheets in Gram’s room for Mom and Dad to stay over, as well as the ones in Mom’s room so Jaclyn can stay here if she wants to.

Gram is craving some decent food. She can’t face another day of pressed turkey with yellow gravy and a cup of Jell-O. I load a bag with Tupperware containers of penne, hot rolls, artichoke salad, and a wedge of pumpkin pie.

Back at Saint Vincent’s, I push through the doors and make my way up to the third floor. As I turn the corner down the hallway, I see a group gathered outside Gram’s room. I panic and break into a run.

When I get there, Tess, Jaclyn, and my mother are standing together outside Gram’s room. In the garish green hospital lights, the women in my family look like peasants in an Antonioni film with their bleak expressions, dark hair, black eyes, and the matching circles under them.

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s a little crowded in there,” Jaclyn says.

“Why?” She doesn’t answer, so I go in. Mom follows me.

Sitting on the bed, next to Gram, holding her hand, is Dominic Vechiarelli. I must look like I’ve seen a ghost, because I gasp and all eyes land on me. But it’s true, there’s proof, Dominic’s suitcases are propped next to the visitor’s chair.

My father stands at the foot of the bed. He motions for Mom to join him. Dad puts his arm around her. Roman stands next to him, wearing jeans and his work clogs. I only look down at them because as he sways from foot to foot, I hear the squish of the plastic.

As my eyes drink in the roster of visitors, I see Gianluca. I try not to have a reaction. He looks more handsome in America than I ever remember him in Italy, and younger, wearing a leather jacket, a sweater, and faded jeans. My throat closes at the sight of him, but for now, I will blame the dry hospital air. Pamela and Alfred stand away from the bed, by the window.

“What, what is going on?” I say softly. I grip the bag of food I’m holding because, in this room, it’s beginning to feel like the only thing that’s real.

Mom puts her arm around my shoulders. “Dominic flew over when he heard Mom was in the hospital. Evidently, Ray Rinaldi is instructed to call him anytime Gram is ill or in need of…something.” Mom looks at me, confused. She doesn’t know about Dominic, and now, suddenly, she finds out that Dominic Vechiarelli is the first name on Gram’s emergency contact list.

“And, um, you’re here…,” I stammer when I look at Gianluca.

“I flew with my father. I don’t think it’s wise for him to travel alone,” Gianluca says, keeping his eyes on Roman.

Roman’s eyes narrow as he looks back at Gianluca. He’s got a hunch this is the man I kissed. But he’s above his suspicions when he says, “And I brought Gram panna cotta, because she likes the way I make it.” He buries his hands in his pockets and looks at me.

“Now that Valentine is here, I can ask Teodora something I have longed to ask her since the summer. Please, everyone, come in,” Dominic announces.

“There’s no room,” Tess chirps from the doorway.

“Please, everyone, squeeze,” Mom says. “We’re a big Italian family, togetherness is our thing,” she announces, as if to apologize for the cubicle-size rooms in this city hospital. The group shifts to accommodate my sisters and their spouses.

Dominic takes Gram’s hands and looks into her eyes. “Will you marry me?”

The room is completely quiet save for the beep of Gram’s heart monitor.

Then, my mother blurts out, “Dear God, Ma, I didn’t even know you were dating.”

“For ten years. Since your father died,” Gram says softly.

“You mean I could have been happy for you for ten years and you didn’t tell me?” Mom wails. “Honestly, Ma!”

“Mike, for God’s sake, be happy for her now,” my father says. “Look at her. Her head was cracked open like a coconut and she can’t stop smiling. This is a good thing.”

“Let her answer,” I interrupt. I hold my breath. A yes from Gram means the life I cherish will be over. I’ll lose her to Dominic, the hills of Arezzo, and the isle of Capri faster than I can say Gianluca. But the truth is, I love her so much, I want her happiness more than my own. I cross my fingers for a yes.

“Yes, Dominic, I will marry you,” Gram says to him. Dominic kisses Gram tenderly.

My family, including my mother, sort of freeze upon hearing the word yes, as if they’re watching a pot of oil pretzels explode on the stove. It’s up to me to soften the shock of it all. After all, I knew.

“Congratulations!” I go to her and put my arms around Gram, careful to avoid the IVs in her arm. “I’m so happy for you.” Tears fill my eyes, but I am truly filled with joy for my brave Gram who is showing me, even in this moment, how to take a risk, how to live.

I feel my sisters and brother gather around me.

Jaclyn begins to cry. “I didn’t know you had a boyfriend either! I wish everyone would stop protecting me. I can handle it.”

Mom mouths postpartum to Gianluca as she takes Jaclyn in her arms. Tess embraces Alfred as Dad reaches out to Dominic to shake his hand. Dominic leaps to his feet and embraces Dad instead.

“Pop?” Dad says to Dominic, then looks at us and shrugs. “Everybody say hello to…Pop.” My sisters and I laugh. Soon, everyone is laughing. The whole family.

I believe it’s fair to say that when things fall apart in my life, they do so in every way, so fate is assured that I have learned my lesson. There is only one place I could go to collect my thoughts and make sense of what Gram’s new life will mean for all of us, and I’m here, high above the fray, on our roof.

I slipped out of the hospital, leaving Gram to celebrate her engagement with the family. I walked Roman out, who had to return to the restaurant, but was honored that he was present for Dominic’s proposal. He kissed me on the street, inspired by the love he’d seen in room 317.

There’s a traffic jam on the West Side Highway, a clutter of cars at the intersection, flashing lights, horns, some barely audible angry shouts, and instead of wishing the city noise would be quelled, I wish there was more to drown out the thoughts in my head.

The sight of my newly betrothed Gram in her hospital bed signaled the end of an era. Forget the fact that I’m now the only unmarried woman in my family, it appears I’m also the only sensible one, who knows what all this change means, for now and for the future. Here’s the truth of it all. Gram will marry and go. My sisters will raise their families. My mother will make certain that my father eats soy cheese on whole-wheat pasta because that’s her guarantee that he will live and avoid a recurrence of his prostate cancer. My brother, as soon as the champagne toast is cheered at Gram’s wedding, will put a for sale sign on 166 Perry Street, leaving the Angelini Shoe Company, and me, homeless. It would appear all will be well for everyone in my family, except of course, for me.

The sun sets deep into the haze over New Jersey, making a lilac stripe on the horizon. The wind snaps the roof door behind me. I don’t turn to see that it’s just the wind, rather, I keep my eyes on the Hudson River that has the smooth swirls and purple hues of carnival glass as the sun sets.

“Valentina?” a voice says from behind me.

“Unless you’re Salvatore Ferragamo with a job or Carl Icahn with a check to save this shoe company-go away.”

Soon there’s six foot plus of pure Italian man standing next to me. If I close my eyes, I would know for certain it was Gianluca Vechiarelli from the clean scent of cedar and lemon and leather. If I were my mother, or one of my sisters, I would throw myself into his arms. In despair, they like to lean on a man. But I don’t. I cross my arms over my chest and take a step away from him, leaving plenty of room for him to view the expanse of lower Manhattan from our roof. “You can stay in the purple bedroom. Your dad can stay in Gram’s. The bathroom is at the end of the hall, but you know that because you had to pass it to get to the steps to the roof.”

“Thank you. But we are staying at a hotel. The Maritime,” he says.

“That’s unnecessary. You’re family.”

“You’re not pleased about the engagement?” he asks quietly.

“For her. For Gram. Yes. And for Dominic. Sure I’m pleased.”

“Va bene.”

“And you? Are you va bene for them?”

Gianluca shrugs and, pursing his lips, his mouth is a straight line. These are his noncommittal lips. I remember this expression from the Prato silk mill when I held up a perfectly lovely but evidently lame selection of duchess satin. “Yeah, well, you’d better get on the love bus, Gianluca, because they’re going to be living with you.”

“I know.” He smiles.

“I guess love finds willing victims no matter where, no matter when. It’s like anything in life, really, including disease. We’re all fair game.”

“Why are you-”

“Sarcastic? It’s a hard shell covering another hard shell.”

“Why do you push love away, as if you can find it every day?”

“I thought we were talking about my grandmother.”

“Talk to me. You’re afraid of me. I’m not what you dreamed of.”

“How do you know what I dream of?”

“It’s very simple. You make no time for the cook even though you love him. Or perhaps you believed you loved him, so now you’re obligated. The woman you are, the woman of passion, comes through when you’re working. Then, you’re at peace. With men? No. With leather? Very much so.”

“You’re wrong. I would welcome a man who welcomes me as a woman and a shoemaker. But a man, at least the ones I know, might say it’s fine for a woman to be devoted to her career, but what they mean is: not so devoted as to take time away from him. I can have my big life, but it must fit into his big life, as the perfect handkerchief in the most tailored breast pocket. Sacrifice-to use a Catholic word, and to be exact-is what it takes. Men want total surrender. They need it.”

Gianluca laughs. “You know what men require?”

“Don’t make fun of me.”

“If you know what a man requires, why not give it to him in order to provide you with your own happiness?”

I look out at the river. And then, my moment of personal transformation comes toward me like the deck lights on the night run of the Hudson River Water Taxi. The illumination happens slowly and surely. First, in the far distance, the lights are dim and flicker in the murky waves, then, as it moves closer to shore on the Manhattan side, the beams turn into searchlights, guiding the boat into the harbor in bright, unrelenting light. The kind of light that cannot help but reveal the truth in all its detail. Suddenly, I see myself, clear and plain. “Dear, dear Gianluca…,” I begin.

He seems surprised that I address him tenderly.

“Roman Falconi needs a wife at the cash register of Ca’ d’Oro, just like his mother was there for his father in their restaurant. You need a friend. You need a woman who can drop everything and go sit by a lake…that one with the cranes…”

“Lago Argento.”

“Right, right. A woman who can sit with you at this stage of your life and be there. You want peace and quiet and nature. You want to coast.”

“Now, you analyze me.”

“Gianluca, it’s true. Listen to me. I am completely attracted to you. I was blindsided by that attraction. I had a boyfriend when I met you, and frankly, you are not my type. You are, however, handsome, and you have beautiful hands, and the sexiest thing of all, you’re a good father. But I’m not for you. I’m not for any man right now. In fact, in this moment, I choose art. I choose the bliss that comes from creating something from the labor of my own hands.”

“You don’t have to choose one or the other. You can have love and work together.”

“But I can’t! I tried. I spent the last year trying to be there for Roman. I can’t spend the next one trying to be there for you. Everybody winds up disappointed and sad and unfulfilled…”

“This is what you believe?” He shakes his head.

“This is what I know.”

Gianluca looks out across the Hudson River, as I’ve done so many times. He sees a dull gray waterway, whereas I see a river that connects to a wider ocean, a universe of possibility. He doesn’t like my river at all, I can tell.

After a while, he says, “Your city…is very noisy.” He goes to the door and I hear the door snap shut as he goes back down the stairs into the house. I turn to my river that has never let me down. It’s my constant, my muse. I lean over the railing and look up and down the West Side Highway, which in sunset looks like an unfurled bolt of violet Indian silk punctured with tiny mirrors. This is the river I love and the city that is my home. Yes, it’s noisy, but it’s mine-just how I like it.

Gram’s Thanksgiving table has a flock of construction-paper geese down the center, made by her great-grandchildren. I light bright orange candles in the candelabra underneath the chandelier. Gabriel helps my sisters bring the platters from the kitchen to the table. I give Gabriel a quick hug. “Thank you for coming.”

“My pleasure. I needed a reason to pound my own cranberries, and your invitation gave me the perfect excuse.”

“Is Roman coming?” Mom asks me.

“He sent a cobbler.” I always thought it was funny that he made his girlfriend, the shoemaker, a cobbler. “He had to work,” I lie. Instead of making this holiday about my breakup with Roman, I decide to be as vague about it as my mother has been about her age all these years. Roman and I tried to make time for each other after Gram got out of the hospital, but between filling orders in the shop and taking care of her, I didn’t take care of him. We decided to take a break.

“Nobody works harder than Roman,” Mom sighs.

Tess hands me a pitcher of ice water to fill the glasses on the table. She follows me with the gravy boats.

“You’re not going to tell Mom about Roman?” she asks quietly.

“Nope.”

“She was curious about Gianluca, you know.”

“There’s nothing to tell.” I avoid looking at Tess, who knows the whole story: the moon over Capri, the kisses, the grotto. In her mind, that’s a lot of nothing.

“There’s plenty to tell! You fell in love with Roman, and then you were hit by lightning again in Italy with Gianluca. Two fabulous men in one year! That’s a fairy tale. You’re Cinderella with two, count them, two princes.” Tess straightens the cloth napkins next to the plates.

“Oh yeah, except when I tried on the slippers they were sample-size six. And I’m a nine.”

“So cram,” Tess says.

“I tried! But let’s face it: this is one Cinderella who’s going to make her own slippers.”

We gather the family around the table. Dad sits down at the head of the table, and Gram at the other end. He raises his glass.

“Let us first give thanks for the good health of our family, especially Ma’s recovery from her spill. And then, while we’re at it, let’s thank God for the new Teodora, baby T.”

Jaclyn rocks her new baby in her arms.

He continues, “And as per usual, Lord, we give thanks for the surprises life holds. Ma’s engagement springs to mind, and why wouldn’t it? That was a shocker. Gabriel, it’s good to see you-”

As with most of my father’s prayers, they don’t have actual endings, so we look at one another and gamely make the sign of the cross around the table so we might serve the food.

“I just want everybody to see this.” Tess holds up In Style magazine. “I am so proud of you.” Tess passes around a glossy picture of Anna Christina, the star of Lucia, Lucia, wearing a pair of Angel Shoes, in coral calfskin with gold angel-wing embellishments. I sent Debra McGuire a pair in California and she asked for five additional pairs, one of which wound up on the feet of a rising movie star.

Mom looks at the photograph proudly. “I love them. They’re very Valentine.”

“The orders will pour in. I just know it,” Tess says supportively.

When the magazine reaches Alfred, he looks at it and passes it along to Pamela, who, for the first time since she met my brother, seems duly impressed with his family.

“Have you set the wedding date, Gram?” Jaclyn asks.

“Valentine’s Day in 2009 in Arezzo,” Gram says, smiling at me. “I adore that holiday and my granddaughter’s name, so there it is.”

As my family discusses their travel plans to the wedding, what airport, which rental car company, how many hotel rooms we’ll book at the Spolti Inn, my sisters imagine what they’ll wear, how their husbands will take time off from work, and my mother, perplexed, wonders how she’ll find a good caterer and wedding florist in the hilltop Tuscan town, we eat our Thanksgiving dinner.

Alfred hands the magazine to me. “A lucky reprieve,” he says quietly.

“As long as I make the payments on this place, you cannot close me down,” I say pleasantly and firmly. I don’t engage in the petty anger anymore. I don’t have the energy to fight with my brother and take over the operation of the shoe company. Alfred, of course, does not respond. He knows that the woman I was a year ago has been replaced by an eight-hundred-pound gorilla with a business plan. We’re not done wrangling, but at least he knows where I stand. For now.

My sisters help me do the dishes and clean up the kitchen while the men watch football. This is the last family Thanksgiving on Perry Street. This time next year, Gram will be living with her new husband in his home over the tannery.

I pack up leftovers for everyone to take home. Gabriel takes the last of Roman’s cobbler, knowing it’s the last time he’ll ever get it without ordering it at Ca’ d’Oro. I send Gram up to bed to talk with Dominic on the phone. I’m thrilled to be alone at the end of a long day. I hear the key in the lock downstairs. My mother must have forgotten something. Then I hear a voice call softly to me from the stairwell, “Valentine?”

Roman enters the living room. I stand by the kitchen counter and look at him.

“How was the cobbler?” he asks.

“Delicious. I have your pan.” I hold it up.

“That’s why I came over here. The pan.” He smiles.

I look at him, drinking in the details of him, from the layers of his long hair down to his Wigwam socks. I look down at his feet, even in the mood to embrace his yellow plastic clogs, but tonight, he’s wearing real shoes, and they are (at long last!) a pair of Tod’s fine suede loafers. From this vantage point and at this moment in our history, I can’t believe we broke up. Isn’t that weird, how I want what I can’t have, and when I have it, I don’t understand it. “Do you always check up on girlfriends when you break up with them?”

“Only you.”

He comes to me, takes me in his arms, and kisses me on the cheek and then the neck. “I’m not over you,” he says.

“Roman, heat was never our problem.”

“I know.” He’s been thinking about us, too. And evidently, he’s come to some of the same conclusions I did. “There’s a lot of passion, Valentine.”

“Maybe we’ll stay friends, and then when we’re old, we’ll reconnect like Gram and Dominic and rent a Silverstream and travel around the country.”

“What a terrible idea,” Roman says. The way he says it makes me laugh. “You know, I think about the first time I saw you on the roof. And how I shouldn’t have looked, but I couldn’t help it. I didn’t want to help it. Sometimes I think back to that night when I didn’t know you, and how I imagined what you would be like if I was ever lucky enough to get to know you. And then I got to know you and you were so much better than the woman I imagined you to be. That’s when I fell in love with you. You exceeded my expectations, and even still, you surprise me like no other woman ever has. It’s strange. I know it’s over, but it can’t be for me.”

I hold Roman close. “I’m not going anywhere, but right now, I can’t be with you because you don’t deserve to be second, you should be first. I don’t want you to wait for me, but if, down the line, when things settle down, and you think of me,” I say, taking his face in my hands, “use the key.”

“It’s a deal,” he says.

Roman knows and I know that he will probably never use the key, that it will wind up in the bottom of his drawer, and someday, when he’s looking for something, he’ll find the key and remember what we meant to each other. But for now, he’ll keep it in his pocket, and when he needs to believe that there’s a possibility, he’ll take it out, look at it, and consider the trip across town to the West Village.

I remember the cobbler pan, and I tuck it under his arm. I watch as he goes. Then, as his footsteps fall on the stairs, I remember that I never made him a pair of boots as I promised. So many things I meant to do, so many things that went undone.

The sun glows behind the skyscrapers, like a tiger’s eye on this early December morning. The sky holds the light like it’s buried inside a gray wool coat. Gram and I stand on the corner of Fifth Avenue and Fifty-eighth Street, holding our paper cups of hot coffee, hers black, mine with cream and no sugar. Her emerald-cut diamond engagement ring sparkles against the blue columns on the Greek-diner coffee cup. Nice color composition.

Like two architects in ancient Rome, we squint before our masterpiece with cold, clinical eyes and take in every detail. I shift my weight from foot to foot as I study it. Gram takes a few steps back and tilts her head, slightly adjusting her point of view. We haven’t built a duomo, a cathedral, or even garden statuary, we’ve made wedding shoes, and here they are in Bergdorf’s holiday windows. Our entire line is represented. To see one hundred years of our shoes in the windows takes our breath away.

Delivery trucks rumble by, but we don’t pay them any mind. Jackhammers punctuate the din, reminding us that no matter what time of day or night in New York City, somebody somewhere on this island is making something. We stand for what seems to be a long time. “So. What do you think?” I finally ask.

“You know, for the longest time, your grandfather and I would argue about which was the better movie, Dr. Zhivago or The Way We Were. I voted for The Way We Were because it was about my group…but now”-she sips her coffee and then continues-“now, that I see these windows, and the drama in the details of the Russian style, I have to say I’m going to go with Dr. Zhivago.”

“Me, too,” I say, putting my arm around her shoulder.

These holiday windows are for grown-ups. A few blocks south, you can stand in line behind a red velvet rope at Saks Fifth Avenue or Lord & Taylor to view miniatures of enchanting Christmas villages for children. You’ll see snow-covered mountains trimmed in glitter, ice skaters pirouetting on mirrored lakes, and toy trains carrying tiny foil presents chuffing through the scenes.

Here at Bergdorf’s, though, you get none of the kitsch, and all of the cream. Here’s a sophisticated holiday tale of true love Russian style as dramatized by glamorous American brides. Rhedd Lewis’s wedding feast for the eyes begins in the side windows of West Fifty-seventh Street, wraps around the front of the store on Fifth Avenue, and concludes in the side windows on West Fifty-eighth Street.

As our eyes follow the action from the first window, we see full-size, gilded wooden horses pulling magnificently costumed brides standing on enameled chariots and baroque sleds, festooned with jewels. Upon closer inspection, you see that the modes of transportation are decorated with actual jewelry-cabochon-laden earrings, gold necklaces that drip with chunky gemstones, gleaming cuff bracelets, and enormous dome rings, the effect of which makes a resplendent mosaic.

Fabergé eggs are cracked open in the foreground, spilling forth loose diamonds and pearls on a bed of wedding rice. Antique books are strewn on the ground, while loose pages float through the air. Window to window the pages and words change-there’s Dr. Zhivago (of course), Anna Karenina, The Three Sisters, The Brothers Karamazov, and War and Peace, appropriate for a wedding(!).

The backdrops are hand-painted murals of the Russian countryside, flat, squarish hills behind fields of white snow. These windows, sophisticated tableaux, actually tell a story, as the brides are surrounded by mannequins depicting working-class Russians-dressed in dull green factory jumpers, burlap aprons, and work boots over hand-knit woolen stockings. Dramatized as artists in service to the brides are seamstresses, orchid farmers, dressers, drivers, and yes, even a cobbler, who kneels and places a shoe (our Lola!) on a bride swathed in white velvet with an ermine headpiece.

The juxtaposition of the sophisticated brides portraying the very rich in love countered by the workers who facilitate their dreams is not lost on me. It takes many hands to create beauty. The brides wear elaborate gowns by great designers, including Rodarte, Marc Jacobs, Zac Posen, Marchesa, John Galliano, and Karl Lagerfeld. Their signatures appear in the corner of each window in gold.

The first bride, in a mélange of tulle over a satin sheath, wears the Ines, which peeks out from the hem of her skirt, lifted by the cobbler; the next window has a bride in white silk pants and a flowing blouse paired with the Gilda, whose mule shape and embroidered vamp are a sleek fit with the wide-leg pants.

She is followed by a bride with her back turned to the street. The bride wears a theatrical, fringed column gown with the Mimi ankle boot. Rhedd replaced our white satin laces with indigo-dyed hemp for a stunning contrast in texture.

The next window shows a bride in a minidress made of bugle beads and marabou feathers, standing en pointe in the Flora, with gold chains instead of ribbons crisscrossing up her calves. In the corner window, a bride wears a medieval gown with a square neckline and an elaborate bodice of enameled squares offset by long, sheer trumpet sleeves. The mannequin carries her shoes, the white linen Osmina with plain straps as she looks down at her bare feet in the snow.

But it’s the final window that means the most to me. The Bella Rosa is worn by a bride in a white wool traveling suit by Giorgio Armani. She holds a ticket in one hand, and a tiara in the other as she flees an unhappy romantic scenario on the streets of Saint Petersburg. The substantial shoe works fluidly with the tailored suit, as though it was made to anchor the ensemble.

I wish Costanzo Ruocco were here to see the Bella Rosa, but for now, I will hold this moment in my memory, and when I return to Capri, will relive it for him the best I can. In the corner of the final window, it says,

All Shoes Created by the Angelini Shoe Company

Greenwich Village

Since 1903

“Oh my God! Oh my God!” Gram and I turn to see my mother hanging out of a livery-cab window. She leaps out of the car before it comes to a complete stop and joins us on the sidewalk.

I wondered what my mother might wear to view the windows for the first time. She does not disappoint. Mom wears a gray wool pantsuit with a fake gray leopard shrug slung over her shoulders. Her high-heeled pumps are dull silver, with large square leather buckles on the toe. I don’t know how she does it, but my mother manages to match the weather. She also wears a pair of large, black, oval sunglasses, an homage to Breakfast at Bergdorf’s no doubt. She holds a sack of bagels from Eisenberg’s in one hand and peels off her sunglasses with the other. She hands the bag to me and then runs down the block to take in the windows.

Mom raises her arms high in the air in triumph as she surveys the windows. She looks for our shoes, and when she finds them in the tableaux, she shrieks with joy. I’ve never seen her this proud, including at the culmination of Alfred’s astonishing college career, when he graduated summa cum laude from Cornell. This is another big moment for her. She runs to Gram and throws her arms around her. “Daddy would be so proud!” Mom wipes away a tear.

“He would be.” Gram straightens Mom’s fur shrug on her shoulders, which shifted when she ran.

“And you!” Mom turns to me. “You made this happen! You picked up the mantle of the Angelini family and you wore it…do you wear a mantle or do you carry it? Anyway, it doesn’t matter-you kept up our tradition”-she makes a fist-“and you persisted and you apprenticed yourself to the master and now look-you took all that hard work and you brought our little family business into the new century in a very public way. Bergdorf freakin’ Goodman!” Mom can’t resist being a home girl from Queens, even for just a moment. Then she continues, “Angelini shoes, side by side with Prada and Verdura and Pucci! Viva Valentine! I marvel at you. And I’m so proud of you!”

Sometimes when my mother fawns, I taste metal in my mouth, but not this morning. She is genuinely moved and full of love. Every mother should have this moment of glory, when her hard work is brought to fruition and the investment she has made in her children on a daily basis comes full circle, the results on display for the whole world to see.

This moment isn’t about branding, or profits, or marketing. It’s about our family and the tradition of our craft. It’s about what we do. These windows are about our commitment to beauty and quality-every stitch, seam, lace, and binding made by hand and perfected with the skill that can only come from practice, technique, experience, and time. We have been recognized and rewarded in a world where the concept of built by hand is fading fast. Imagine that.

The sun, as white and pure as a full moon, pulls up and parts the gray clouds over the glass buildings on the east side of Fifth Avenue, creating a glare on the store windows that turns them into mirrors. In an instant, the images behind the glass are gone. We can’t see the brides in the snow, or the jewels and the eggs, or our shoes made of leather and suede and satin and silk. All that remains is our reflection, mother, daughter, and granddaughter, this morning an unbroken chain of the finest Italian gold. I wish I could hold on to this moment forever, the three of us, here on Fifth Avenue. But, I can’t. So I do the very best I can and take my grandmother’s hand in mine and slip my other arm around my mother, and wait for the pale winter sun to move so we might revel in our good fortune once more.