Very Valentine

4. Gramercy Park

I SPRITZ SOME CLASSIC Burberry cologne (a gift from my mother during one of her Brit literary benders) on my neck then pump some into the air overhead where it settles on me in a fragrant peach-and-cedar mist. I lean into the mirror over the dresser and check my makeup. The gold-leafed mirror in my bedroom is so old the paint behind the glass has peeled into swirls of sepia, which gives my complexion an alabaster sheen. This magic mirror is my Restylane on the wall. Roman Falconi’s business card rests in the crook of the mirror, and for whatever reason, I tuck it in the pocket of my evening coat. Maybe I’ll get hungry enough to check out his restaurant sometime.

I grab my evening bag off the bed and open it, checking for my wallet, MetroCard and my emergency makeup trifecta: mauve lipstick, pale pink lip pencil, and concealer. I pass Gram, in her room, slipping out of her work clothes and into her housedress.

“Gabriel’s waiting for you,” she calls after me as I go down the stairs.

“Gram says you know Roman Falconi,” Gabriel says as I enter the living room. Gabriel is a compact version of Marcello Mastroianni with the coloring of Snow White. We met on the first day of college, waiting in a long line to sign up for theater-arts courses. The first thing he said after introducing himself was, “I’m gay.” And I said, “That won’t be a problem.” We’ve been best friends ever since. “How about a glass of wine before we go?”

“I need it,” he says.

I go into the kitchen and pull a bottle of Poggio al Lupo out of the wine rack. “So do you think you can get us into Ca’ d’Oro?” Gabriel sits down at the counter.

“You’ve heard of it?”

“You really don’t get out much, do you?”

“Only when you invite me.” I pour Gabriel a glass of wine, then one for myself.

“New York magazine called it the season’s hottest Italian debut. I’ve been trying to get a reservation since he opened. Will you please call him?”

“I’m not calling him.” I toast Gabriel. “Salute.”

Gabriel toasts me. “Why?”

“I came home from grocery shopping and he was sitting here at this table speaking Italian to Gram, who was completely besotted with him. Let her call him.”

“You can trust a man who reveres women of a certain age.”

“I don’t know about that. He wasn’t here to relive Gram’s memories of postwar Manhattan. He wanted to meet the woman he saw naked on the roof.”

Gabriel’s eyes widen. “He’s the guy who saw you?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. He probably thinks I’m an exhibitionist.”

“Well, he must have liked what he saw.”

“You will do anything to get a table at his restaurant.”

Gabriel puts his hands in the air. “I’m a foodie. It’s serious to me. Okay, so-what’s he like?”

“Attractive.”

“What a tepid word.”

“Okay. He’s tall and dark and straight on, he could even be considered handsome. But from a certain angle, his nose looks like he’s wearing Groucho Marx glasses, the ones with the plastic nose and the eyebrows.”

“The Italian profile. The occasional curse of our people.”

“How do I look?” I ask Gabriel, revealing my dress under my coat in a Suzy Parker pose.

“Appropriate,” he decides.

“And you thought attractive was a tepid word! Appropriate is worse!”

“That is to say, you look just right to see an ex-boyfriend whom you almost married who is now married to someone else. I like the ruching.”

“This is Gram’s dress.” I straighten the rosettes of silk ruffled across the hem.

“She looks better in it than I ever did,” Gram says as she comes in from the hallway. “What’s this fancy party you’re going to?”

“Bret Fitzpatrick’s company party on the roof of the Gramercy Park Hotel.”

Gabriel smooths his thick bangs off to one side. “It’s a private club now. I’m glad Bret figured out how to wheel and deal to become whatever it is that he is. What is he again?”

“Some fund-management thing.” I place a small canister of mints into my evening bag. I have two reasons for going to this party tonight. First, I’m still thin from Jaclyn’s wedding. Second, I need Bret’s help figuring out how to finance my future. I don’t trust my brother to have my best interests at heart as he restructures our debt. Bret could be a big help. “Bret is a vice president of something. To be honest, I don’t understand what he does.”

“Why would you? You’re a cobbler and me, I’m the maître d’ at the Café Carlyle. Let’s face it. We’re service people, while your ex-lover Bret…Sorry, Teodora.”

“Gabriel.” I stop him before he can dig himself in any deeper. I pour Gram a glass of wine and give it to her.

“I’m happy to hear that my granddaughter is a woman with a full life.”

“Do you need anything before I leave?” I ask.

“No, thank you, I’m going to heat up the penne, drink this wine, and watch Mario Batali on the food channel.”

“Did you know your boyfriend Roman Falconi has a hot restaurant?”

“He knew all about tomatoes,” Gram says proudly. “And he spoke beautiful Italian.” Grams folds her hands gratefully, as if in prayer. “I thought he was wonderful.”

“You’re a sucker for an accent,” I remind her.

“So am I,” Gabriel says longingly.

“I just wish you’d be careful about who you let into the house.”

“Valentine, relax. Roman is Barese. I knew his great-uncle Carm a hundred years ago. He was a regular at Ida De Carlo’s, on Hudson Street. And I’ll bet you weren’t nice to him, were you?”

“Nice enough to get a dinner invitation.” I give Gram a quick kiss. I follow Gabriel out the door and down the stairs.

The roof of the Gramercy Park Hotel is a posh indoor/outdoor living room, with glazed walls filled with immense, colorful paintings; thick Persian rugs; low, lacquered furniture; and a fireplace, blazing in the cool autumn night. A chandelier of green glass foliage and twinkling white lights hangs over the aerie like a canopy in a fairy forest. The cityscape seems to fall away in the distance, and from here, the skyscrapers look like black velvet jewelry boxes strewn with pearls.

This isn’t old New York, where club hopping included the Latin Quarter and El Morocco. This is brand-new New York, where hoteliers are impresarios, and their elegant salons compete for a wealthy, connected clientele to adorn their whimsical yet priceless settings. We’re in the thicket of new posh. My ex-boyfriend Bret Fitzpatrick holds court as the Chrysler Building looms behind him like a platinum sword. How appropriate, as this man was once my knight in shining armor.

“Valentine!” Bret excuses himself and comes right over to us. He kisses me on both cheeks. Then he gives Gabriel a big hug. “It’s a reunion!”

“Don’t use that word.” Gabriel gives Bret a good slap on the back before letting go of him. “We sound old when you use that word.”

“Well, I’m older than you, so I can call it whatever I want,” Bret says, smiling. “It’s great to see you guys. Thank you for coming.”

“Who are all these people?” Gabriel looks around.

Bret lowers his voice, “Clients and their friends. One of our partners in the hedge fund is a member here.” He looks at me. “I thought you’d get a kick out of this.”

“It’s something else,” I tell him.

“You look great, Valentine,” Bret says as Gabe heads to the bar to get us each a drink.

“So do you.” And he does. Bret looks like a successful Wall Street financier who has earned his place at the top. His custom-made suit shows off his height, while his Ferragamo dress shoes show his good taste. His light brown hair is thinning, but it doesn’t matter. He has eyes the color of gray flannel, the expression in them full of warmth. He has a face you can trust. His self-confidence is apparent, but not in any way arrogant. Bret is self-made, and he carries himself with the grace of a man who has earned it. The stoop of the shoulders of his youth is gone now, replaced with an upright military posture. He has acquired the thing that children born of privilege seem to possess at birth, and the rest of us must develop-it’s called polish.

When I first met Bret, he was a brilliant working-class kid from Floral Park, with a burning ambition to make it. He used to mow the lawn for a big Wall Street broker who promised Bret a job if he went to college and got a degree in finance. Bret did even better. He was valedictorian of his class at Saint John’s and then went to Harvard Business School. In ten years, Bret shed the old life and slipped into a new one, which fit him like a tailored shirt from Barneys. There’s a lot of history between us, but it’s never awkward. Bret excuses himself as he is pulled away by a distinguished-looking older man in a suit.

Gabriel returns with my drink. “It’s a hee-toe,” he says, giving me the glass.

“What’s that?”

“I don’t know. Mow, glow, flow, something-hee-toe. Everything you drink now is a hee-toe.” Gabriel takes a sip.

“Or a teeny. A Gabetini, Valentini. Brettini.” I try the drink. “This hotel is not as I remember it.” I look over the edge of the roof to the treetops of Gramercy Park, a deep green island filled with beams of gold light from the old-fashioned streetlamps. The park is enclosed by a wrought-iron fence, and is placed in the center of a square composed of traditional brownstones and grand prewar apartment buildings. “I remember when my friend Beáta Jachulski got married here. It was before the Europeans bought it. It used to be so cozy and the food was delicious. That was before the Age of Enlightenment. Did you see the paintings in the lobby?”

“If you think this hotel has changed, how about our Bret?” Gabriel whispers.

“He had to.” I lean against the wall enclosing the roof and look out over the crowd. “These are the people Bret has to impress. It can’t be easy.”

“You’re so forgiving.” Gabriel takes a sip of his drink. “It makes me sort of sick.”

“I’m really just proud of him,” I say. Gabriel looks at me with a mixture of understanding and suspicion. Five years have come and gone since Bret and I broke up. Tonight is proof that he would never have fit into the new life I cobbled together, like patches of leather from the workshop floor. He was destined for this.

“Well, maybe I’m just hurt because the three of us were always us, and now Bret is a them. He’s the only them I know.” Gabriel fishes a maraschino cherry out of his drink. Two more roll around the bottom of his glass.

“How’d you get three cherries?” I want to know.

“I asked.”

I watch as Bret moves from his clients over to the corner of the roof where three pretty girls in their early twenties sip cocktails and smoke. It’s chilly out, but they wear no stockings on their tanned legs, and their feet are stuffed into pumps revealing toe cleavage and a slight gap on the buttress that supports their four-inch heels. These girls buy shoes for fashion, not fit.

“I’m going to nab the sofa by the fireplace. This fancy outdoor living room is all well and good until winter sets in,” Gabriel says. “I’m so cold you could Zamboni my ass.”

“I’ll be over in a minute,” I tell him, but I keep my eyes on Bret and the girls.

Two of the young women peel away, leaving one shivering blonde with a drink in her hand. Bret leans in and says something to her. They laugh. Then she reaches forward and adjusts the flap on his tie. The intimate gesture forces Bret to take a slight step back.

A breeze kicks up on the roof, and the white lights of the chandelier dance, throwing small beams onto the floor. The girl tilts her head toward Bret. Their conversation has turned earnest. I watch them for a few moments, and then, with the cold night wind at my back, I move toward them.

I extend my hand to the girl, interrupting their conversation. “Hi, I’m Valentine, an old friend of Bret’s.”

“I’m Chase.” She looks up at him. “One of Bret’s many assistants.”

“He has many?”

“I exaggerate,” Chase says and smiles. She has the peridontically perfect teeth of a girl who grew up with all the dental advances of the 1990s, including whiteners, lasers, and invisible braces.

“Boy, you have gorgeous teeth,” I tell her.

She seems taken aback. Clearly, she’s used to compliments, but no one mentions her teeth as her first and best attribute. “Thanks,” she says.

I cross my arms and hold my drink in the crook of my elbow like a potted plant.

When she realizes I’m not going anywhere, she says, “Well, I guess I’ll go and get something to eat.” Her eyes linger on Bret. “Can I get you something?” She doesn’t ask this question like an assistant. Bret catches her tone, looks at me, then says in a very businesslike voice, “No, I’m fine. You go and enjoy the party.”

Chase turns and goes while Bret looks off over the roof, past the East River.

“You can see Floral Park from here.” I point toward the hinterlands, the borough of Queens, from whence we came.

“No, you can’t,” he says.

“It would be great if you could.” I hand him my drink and he takes a sip. “Maybe you’d remember where you came from.”

“Is that a dig?”

“No. Not at all. I think you’ve done amazing things with your life.” My sincerity is obvious, and Bret turns to face me. “So, what’s going on with that girl?” I ask him.

“You are so Italian,” he says.

“Don’t dodge the question.”

“Nothing. Nothing is going on.”

“She thinks so.”

“How do you know?’

“How long have we known each other?”

“Years and years.” Bret squints and looks over in the direction of Queens as if he can see us there, two teenagers sitting on the rectory fence on Austin Street as we talked until night came.

“Uh-huh. Since I had braces. Plus, I happen to be a woman, so I know that she’s interested in more than fetching you a lobster dumpling.”

Bret takes a deep breath. “Okay, so what do I do?”

“You’re going to tell her you’re married to a lovely woman and that you have two beautiful daughters named Grace and Ava. Of course she knows your family because she answers the phone at the office. Or is she the assistant that actually answers the phone? Anyhow, then you’re going to tell her that she deserves a nice guy of her own. She’ll argue with you, and when she does, you’re going to tell her she’s too young. That’s a turnoff when you’re actually young.”

Bret laughs. “Val, you’re funny. Are you done teaching me a lesson?” He turns to face me.

“All done. Now you can teach me one.”

In a shorthand only old friends with a history have, he asks, “What do you need?”

“Will you help me save our shoe company?”

“What’s the problem?”

I go into a rambling explanation about Alfred, the debt, Gram, and me. Bret is patient and listens carefully. “Let me look into it,” he says. Then he says the very thing that brings me peace of mind, always did and always will, “Don’t worry, Val. I’m on it.”

I huddle in the cold taxi next to Gabriel like he’s a radiator blowing hot steam. The cab cuts through the busy intersection at Union Square.

“I’m never going to another rooftop party after August. That fireplace was for show. It threw off no heat whatsoever. It was like warming myself on a Bic lighter.”

“It was cold up there but I’m glad we went.”

“What were you and Bret talking about? Is he dumping his wife and you two are getting back together?”

“If you’ll come and work as our nanny.”

“Forget it. I hate children.”

“My nonna Roncalli was right about men. No matter how old they are, you gotta watch ’em like a hawk. Like a hawk!”

Gabriel rolls his eyes. “Just a little. You’re mean. That poor girl didn’t dare go near Bret the rest of the night. It’s like you sprayed him with something. How long do you think that Swiss miss cried in the bathroom?”

“She cried?”

“She didn’t cry, but she would have liked to take one of those stone tiki-sculpture things and clock you with it.” Gabriel leans back. “Of course, she would have needed help lifting it. Those sinewy types have very little upper-body strength. And to be smoking in the new millennium. They’re morons.”

“They’re twenty-two years old. What do they know?” I remind him. “I liked the food.”

“A little too much fig. Everybody is using fig now, in everything. Fig paste on foccacia, fig slices in the arugula, mashed fig in the ravioli. You’d think figs were a major food group.” Gabriel sighs.

“Her name was Chase.”

“Who?”

“The girl interested in Bret.”

“Chase like the bank?” Gabriel shakes his head. “There’s a value system at work for you. Who’s her daddy? The Monopoly Man?”

“You never know. Her friend’s name is Milan.”

“Like the city?” Gabriel asks.

“Like the city and the cookie.”

“Whatever happened to going to the Bible or long-running soap operas for good names?” Gabriel clasps his hands together. “Give me a Ruth or a Laura any day. Now people name their children after places they’ve never been-it’s madness.”

“A Ruth or a Laura would never hit on her boss. A Chase would.”

“You know, I think Bret misses you.” Gabriel looks at me.

“I miss him, too. But when I was with him, I really didn’t think about my life very much. I sort of built what I was doing around him. When we broke up, I had to figure out what made me happy.”

“I don’t know, Valentine. Sometimes I think you traded taking care of Bret for taking care of Gram. You should fall in love again and have a life.” The cab pulls over to the curb on the far corner of Twenty-first Street, in Chelsea.

“I have a life!” I tell him.

“You know what I mean.” Gabriel gives me a kiss on the cheek. He stuffs a ten-dollar bill in my hand and jumps out.

I roll down the window and wave the ten. “It’s too much.”

“Keep it.” Then Gabriel waves. “Call the chef.”

I instruct the driver to take me to Perry and the West Side Highway. I lean back and watch as Chelsea blurs into Greenwich Village, the weekend carnival of the Meatpacking District in full tilt. A rambling gray warehouse is now a dance club, with strips of hot yellow and purple neon over the old loading dock, and a red-roped entrance for all the little pretty ones who await admittance. A rustic factory is now a hot restaurant, the interior decorated with red leather banquettes and floor-to-ceiling mirrors painted with the menus in cursive, while the exterior windows are covered in awnings that look like flouncing red capes in the wind.

Through my taxi window, young women like Chase walk in small packs through the pale blue beams of streetlight, like exotic birds behind glass. Rushes of color jolt the black night as they move; one wears a blouse of peacock blue, another a trench coat in Valentino red, and another a skirt of metallic lamé whose hem ruffles along her thighs as she walks. In full stride, their long legs resemble the reedy stilts of cranes. As they cross the street, they laugh as they hang on to one another for support, making sure the metal tips of their spike heels hit the center of the cobblestones, avoiding the mortar in between. These girls know how to walk on dangerous terrain.

I bury my hands in my pockets, slump down into the seat, and wonder how much of my youth is actually left. And how am I spending these precious days? Is this what my life is going to be, hard work, early to bed and up at the crack of dawn, day in and day out for the rest of my life? Is Gabriel right in assuming I’ve become a caretaker, burying myself in work and worry at the expense of my thirties? Is there even a chance he’s right?

At the bottom of my pocket, I feel the business card. I pull it out. The cab stops at the light. I study the card as though it’s a free pass to the rides at Coney Island and it’s my seventh birthday party. Ca’ d’Oro. Someplace new. Roman Falconi. Somebody new. I don’t meet men at work, I don’t even have a commute home to meet a nice guy on the train. I won’t do match.com because I look better in real life than I do in photographs, and how would I ever describe what I’m looking for when I’m not even sure what I want? Besides, there is very little risk involved in calling Roman Falconi. He gave me the card. He wants me to call him. I fish my cell phone out of my evening bag. I dial the number on the card. It rings three times and then-

“Hello,” Roman says into the phone. I hear background din. Voices. Clangs. The rush of water.

“This is Valentine.”

More noise.

“Valentine?” His vague manner says he doesn’t remember me at all. I picture him handing out business cards to strange women all over town with a wink and a smile and a promise of a hot plate of braciole. I’m about to snap the cell phone shut when I hear him say, “My Valentine? Teodora’s granddaughter?”

I put the open phone back up to my ear. “Yes.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m in a cab on Greenwich Street. You sound busy.”

“Not at all,” he says. “I’m about to close. Why don’t you come over?”

I hang up and lean into the partition to speak to the driver. “Change of plans. Can you take me to the corner of Mott and Hester, in Little Italy?”

The cabbie crosses lower Broadway and swings onto Grand Street. Little Italy sparkles in the night, like emerald and ruby chips on a diamond drop earring. No matter what time of year you come to this part of town, it’s Christmas. The white lights strung over the thoroughfare, anchored by medallions of red and green tinsel, form an Italian coat of arms across Grand Street. Like my mother, my people require year-round glitz, even in their street decorations.

We pass the open marts selling T-shirts that say, PRAY FOR ME! MY MOTHER-IN-LAW IS ITALIAN, and coffee mugs that proclaim, AMERICA, WE FOUND IT, WE NAMED IT, WE BUILT IT. Framed vintage black-and-white photographs of our icons are propped against storefronts, like statues in church: a determined Sylvester Stallone runs through Philadelphia as Rocky, a dreamy Dean Martin toasts the camera with a highball, and the incomparable Frank Sinatra wears a snap-brim fedora and sings into a microphone in a recording studio. A poster of a six-foot-tall Sophia Loren in black thigh-high hose and a bustier, from Marriage Italian-Style, hangs in the doorway of a shop. Bellissima. Jerry Vale belts “Mama Loves Mambo” from speakers rigged on the corner of Mulberry Street, while the drone of a hip-hop beat pulses from cars at the intersection. I pay the driver and jump out of the cab.

Well-dressed couples saunter through the intersection, the men in open-collared shirts with sport jackets, and the women, all versions of my own mother, in tight skirts with fluted hems and fitted peplum jackets. Their spangly high-heeled shoes have toes so pointy you could pound a chicken cutlet with them. Every now and again, a hint of a leopard or a zebra print flashes on a purse or a boot or a barrette. Italian girls love an animal print-clothes, furniture, accessories, it doesn’t matter, we answer to the call of the wild in every aspect of our lives. The wives grip the crooks of their husbands’ arms as they walk, tottering against them to shift the weight their stiletto heels can’t tolerate.

As I look around, any of these folks could be in my family. These are Italian Americans out for a night in the city, eating dinner in their familiar haunts. At the end of the meal, and after a stroll (the American version of la passeggiata) they’ll go to Ferrara’s for coffee and dessert. Once inside, the wives will take seats at the café tables with gleaming marble tops while sending their husbands to the glass cases to choose a pastry. When they’ve had their espresso and cookies, they’ll return to the cases and select a dozen or so pastries to take home: soft seashells of honey-drenched sfogliatelle, moist baba au rhums, and feather-light angel-wing cookies, all delicately placed in a cardboard box and tied with string.

Ferrara’s doesn’t change, its décor is just as it was when my grandparents were young lovers. We’ve changed though, the Young Italian Americans. As my generation marries outside our group, our children don’t look as Italian as we do, our Roman noses shorten, the Neapolitan jaws soften, the jet black hair fades to brown, and often directly to blond. We assimilate, thanks to the occasional Irish husband and Clairol. As the muse of southern Italian women, Donatella Versace, went platinum blond, so went the Brooklyn girls. But there are still a few of us left, the old-fashioned paisanas who wait for curly hair to come back in style, can our own tomatoes, and eat Sunday dinner together after church. We still find joy in the same things our grandparents did, a night out over a plate of homemade pasta, hot bread, and sweet wine, which ends with a conversation over cannolis at Ferrara’s. There’s nothing small about my Little Italy. It’s home.

I check the numbers as I walk along Mott Street. Ca’ d’Oro is tucked between the bustling ravioli factory, Felicia Ciotola & Co., and a candy store called Tuttoilmondo’s. There’s a bold black-and-white-striped awning over the entrance of the restaurant. The door has been faux marbleized with streaks of gold paint on a field of cream. CA’ D’ORO is carved simply in cursive on a small brass plaque on the door.

I enter the restaurant. It’s small in size, but beautifully appointed in the Venetian style by way of Dorothy Draper. A long bar topped with charcoal-colored slate runs the length of the right wall. Attached bar stools are covered in silver patent leather. The tables have been carefully arranged to maximize the space. The tops are black lacquer, while the chairs are done in a gold damask with black scrollwork. It’s difficult to pull off baroque in a small setting (or on a pair of shoes for that matter), as it requires an open field to repeat the lush patterns of the period. Mr. Falconi pulls it off.

Two couples remain, paying their checks. One pair holds hands across the table, their faces soft in the candlelight as they hover over their empty wineglasses; all that’s left of their meal is a hint of pink wine against the crystal.

The bartender, a beautiful girl in her twenties, cleans glasses behind the bar. She looks up at me. “We’re closed,” she says.

“I’m here to see Roman. I’m Valentine Roncalli.”

She nods and goes back to the kitchen.

A mural fills the back wall of the restaurant. It’s a scene of a Venetian palace at nightfall. Even though the palazzo looks like one of the wedding-cake samples in the window at Ferrara’s, with its ornate arches, open balconies, and crown of gold metallic crosses along the roofline, it is haunting rather than kitschy. Moonlight pours through the palace windows, lighting the canal in the foreground with ribbons of powder blue. It’s primitive in style, but there’s plenty of emotion in it.

“Hey, you made it.” Roman stands in the doorway that leads to the kitchen. His arms are folded in front of him and the expanse of his chest in the white chef’s jacket looks enormous, like the sail of a ship. He seems even taller this time; I don’t know what it is about him, but he seems to grow each time I see him. He has a navy blue bandanna tied around his head and, in this light, it gives him the cocky air of a pirate on a rum bottle.

“You like the mural?” He keeps his eyes on me.

“Very much. I like the way the moonlight shines through the palace and onto the water. The palazzo, I mean. Or home of the doge,” I correct myself. After all, if this guy can seduce Gram with his Italian, the least I can do is throw around the only official architectural terms I know.

“It’s the Ca’ d’Oro, on the Grand Canal in Venice. It was built in 1421 and took about fifteen years to complete. The architects were Giovanni and Bartolomeo Bon, a father-and-son team. They designed it to show the traders who came in from the Orient that the Venetians meant business. Glamorous business. Lots of big egos in Venice, center of world trade and all that. You know how that goes.”

“It’s impressive. Who painted it?”

“Me.”

Roman turns and goes into the kitchen, motioning for me to follow. I catch my reflection in the mirror behind the bar and instantly relax the number elevens between my eyes. As I follow Roman back to the kitchen, I make a mental note to ask my mother to pick up a box of Frownies for me, those stickers you moisten and place on wrinkles while you sleep. My mother used to go to bed with beige puzzle pieces adhered to the lines on her face, and she woke up with a complexion as smooth as Formica.

The kitchen is so tiny it makes the dining room seem grand. There’s a butcher block island (so small it should be called a sandbar) in the center. Overhead, about thirty pots of varying sizes hang on hooks on a large aluminum frame.

The far wall is covered with an aluminum backsplash for the wide, flat grill. Next to the grill are four gas burners in a row, not front and back like a stove in a home. The corner next to the gas burners is filled with a series of four ovens, stacked one over the other, looking like a mini-skyscraper with windows.

There’s a deep triple sink on the opposite wall. I stand next to three floor-to-ceiling refrigerators. A large dishwasher is tucked into an alcove by the back door, which is propped open, revealing a small terrace, fenced in with old painted lattices. The steam rises from the dishwasher, making fog in the cold night air.

“Are you hungry?” Roman asks.

“Yeah.”

“My favorite kind of woman. A hungry one.” He smiles. He helps me take off my coat, which I place on a rolling stool next to the door and anchor with my purse.

“There’s an apron on the hook.”

“I have to work for my supper?”

“That’s the rule.”

Behind me, sure enough, there’s a clean white apron. I pull it over my head; it has the scent of bleach and has been pressed with starch. Roman reaches around me and crosses the strings in the back then reaches around to the front of my waist, tying the ends in a tight bow. Then he pats my hips. I could have done without the hip patting, but it’s too late. I’m here and he’s patting. “Go with it,” I tell myself. Roman places a large wooden spoon in my hand.

“Stir.” He points to a large pot on a low flame. Inside, a mound of soft, golden risotto glistens, a fragrant mist of sweet butter, cream, and saffron rising from the pot. “And don’t stop.”

The soles of my sandals stick to the matting on the floor, a series of open rubber rectangular sheets placed around the work areas.

Roman drops to one knee and unties the ribbons on my evening sandals, silver calfskin in a gladiator style with flat white ribbons that lace up past my ankle. As he slips the sandal off my foot, the warmth of his hand sends a chill up my spine.

“Nice shoes.” He stands.

“Thanks. I made them.”

“Here.” He pulls a pair of red plastic clogs like his own from under the island. “Wear these. I didn’t make them.” Then he removes my left sandal and slips on the other clog, just like the prince in Cinderella.

I take a step in them. “I’m a delicate size nine. What are these? Fifteens?”

“Twelve and a half. But you don’t have to do a lot of walking in them. You’ll be stirring for the duration.” He takes my shoes and dangles them on the hook where the aprons go. “I’ll be right back,” he says and goes out into the restaurant.

As I stir, I look down at my feet, which now remind me of the feet of the kid on the Dutch Boy paint billboard in Sunnyside, Queens. They also remind me of my father’s big shoes, which I used to wear when I was a little girl. I’d stomp around in them, pretending to be all grown up.

Now that I’m alone, I give the kitchen a real once-over. My eyes travel up over the sink to a framed picture of a naked woman in profile, with huge hooters, leaning against a pile of dirty dishes. She winks at me. The caption reads: A WOMAN’S WORK IS NEVER DONE.

“That’s Bruna,” Roman says from behind me.

“That’s quite a stack of dishes.”

“She’s the patron saint of kitchens.”

“And chefs?” I’ll keep my eyes on the risotto from now on.

He takes the spoon from me. “So, why did you decide to call me?”

“You asked me, and I have excellent manners, so I did.”

“I don’t think that’s it.” He puts a tiny amount of salt in his hand and sprinkles it into the pot. “I think you might like me a little.”

“I’ll be able to tell you for sure after I taste your cooking.”

“Fair enough.” Roman shakes his head and grins.

The busboy enters from the restaurant with a large pan of dirty dishes. He places them in the sink. They converse in Spanish as Roman reaches into his pocket and gives him several twenty-dollar bills. The busboy thanks him, peels off his apron, and goes.

“Roberto has another job, at another restaurant,” Roman explains. “Someday he’ll have his own. I started out washing dishes, too.”

“How many employees do you have?”

“Three full-time, me, the sous-chef and the bartender. Three part-time, the busboy and two waiters. The restaurant seats only forty-five, but we’re booked up every night. You must know what it’s like, running a small business in New York City. You’re never off the clock. Even when I don’t have a room full of customers, there’s prep, or I’m up early going to the markets, or I’m here, working on additions to the menu.” As Roman stirs the risotto, I notice how clean his hands are and how neatly his nails are filed. “And it’s an expensive business. Some days, I feel like I’m just getting by.”

I move to the sink and turn my back on Bruna. “You must be doing a little better than getting by. You were looking at an apartment in the Richard Meier building.”

“The broker was showing me a potential restaurant space on the street level. Then she offered to show me an apartment.” He smiles. “I was curious. That’s when I saw you.” Roman takes the spoon from me and stirs the risotto. “That’s some building your grandmother owns.”

“We know.”

The bartender, wearing a coat and hat, leans in the doorway. “I’m leaving.”

“Thanks, Celeste. Say hello to Valentine.”

“Nice to meet you,” she says and goes.

“She’s lovely.”

“She’s married.”

“That’s nice.” Interesting. Roman makes a point that his pretty bartender is married.

“You’re a fan of marriage?”

“Good ones.” I slip up onto the clean work counter next to the sink. “How about you?”

“Not a fan,” he says.

“At least you’re honest.”

“Have you been married?” he asks.

“No. Have you?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have children?”

“No.” He smiles.

“I hope you don’t mind that I ask questions like a census taker.”

He laughs. “You have an unusual style.”

“I’m not going for style. If I were, I would have discounted you when I saw you in the Campari T-shirt and the striped shorts that looked like the pantaloons the security guards wear at the Vatican.”

“Oh, so you have something against bright colors.”

“Not really. I just like to see a man wearing something besides action wear.”

Roman grates a wedge of aged parmesan over the risotto. “And, if memory serves, your outfit that night was spectacular.”

I turn the color of Saint Bruna’s ruby red stilettos.

He laughs. “Now why should you be embarrassed?”

“If I saw you naked on a roof, I’d pretend I hadn’t. That’s just good manners.”

“Fair enough. But let’s say I met you on the street and you were wearing a lovely dress like the one you have on tonight. Don’t suppose I wouldn’t be imagining what you’d look like without it. So I’d say we’ve just skipped a step.”

“I don’t skip steps. In fact…,” I blurt out, “I don’t go out with Italians.”

He puts the spoon down and takes the bottom of his apron, and using it as hot pads, lifts the pot off the stove.

“May I ask why not?”

“The cheating.”

He throws his head back and laughs. “You’re kidding. You dismiss an entire group of men for something they haven’t done but you think they might do? That’s completely prejudiced.”

“I’m a believer in DNA. But let me explain this on a culinary level. About ten years ago, there were all these articles about soy. Eat soy, drink soy, and stop eating dairy foods because they’ll kill you. So I stopped eating regular cheese and milk and ate the soy stuff. Well, it made me sick but I persisted because everything I read said soy was good for me, even though my body was telling me it wasn’t. When I told Gram about it and she said, ‘At no point in our history did Italians ever consume soy. Cheese and tomatoes and cream and butter and pasta have been in our diet for centuries. We thrive on it. Get rid of the soy.’ And I did. When I started eating the food of my forefathers again, I felt like a million bucks.”

“What does that have to do with dating Italian men?”

“The same principle applies. Italian men have built thousands of years of romantic history on the notion of the Madonna and the whore. They marry the Madonna and they have fun with the whore. You’d have to go back to the Etruscans, with Dr. Phil in tow, to change the way Italian men think. And I say it is impossible to change the fundamental nature of our people, in particular the nature of our men. The risotto is done.”

“I’ve set a table for us.” He motions to the door. “Please.”

I follow him into the dining room, where the balloon shades in the front window have been lowered halfway. There must be fifty white candles of all different sizes and shapes placed around the restaurant, throwing sheer nets of pink light up the walls. Rows of flickering votive candles in etched crystal holders are placed in small stone alcoves under the mural, their tiny orange flames forming a choir.

I check my watch. It’s two o’clock in the morning. I rarely eat past seven. I haven’t been out this late since I moved to the Village. I can’t believe it. I’m actually having fun. I catch my reflection in the mirror, and this time, miraculously, no number elevens appear between my eyes. Either I’ve been transformed by the youth-enhancing steam facial from the risotto pot, or I like how this evening is going.

“Go ahead. Please. Sit down,” he says.

“This is beautiful.”

“It’s just a backdrop.” Roman places on the table a platter of delicate fried pumpkin blossoms that have been dipped in a light batter.

“For what?”

“For our first date. Lose the apron.”

I pull the apron over my head and drape it over the back of a chair at the next table. I unfold the napkin on my lap, and reach for a pumpkin blossom. I take a bite. The delicate leaf, dipped in this crispy batter, is as light as organza.

Roman goes back into the kitchen and comes out with a hot loaf of bread, wrapped in a bright white cloth, then returns to the kitchen.

While he’s gone, I notice the table setting, each detail proper and deliberate. I’ve never seen this china pattern, so I flip the bread plate over and check the seal. The plates are Umbrian, a bold design called Falco, which shows hand-painted white feathers on a vivid green field. The pattern provides a splash of color on the black lacquer tabletop.

Roman returns with a small tureen that he places on the table. He loosens the cork on a bottle of Tuscan Chianti and pours wine into my glass, then his own. He sits down at the table. He picks up his wineglass. “Good wine, good food, and a good woman…”

“Oh, yes. To Bruna!” I raise my glass.

As Roman ladles the risotto onto my plate, a buttery cloud floats up from the dish. Risotto is a tough dish to pull off. It’s labor intensive, you must stir the rice grains until they puff up or your arm falls off, whichever comes first. It’s all about timing, because if you stir too long, the rice will turn into a goop of wallpaper paste, and not long enough-you’ve got broth.

I take a taste. “You’re a genius,” I tell him. He almost blushes. “Where’d you learn how to cook?”

“My mother. We had a family restaurant in Chicago. Falconi’s, in Oak Lawn.”

“So why did you come to New York City?”

“I’m the youngest of six boys. We all worked in the family business, but my brothers never saw beyond the fact that I was the baby of the family. Even in my thirties, I couldn’t break that birth-order rap. You know what that’s like, don’t you?”

“Alfred is the boss, Tess is intelligent, Jaclyn is the beauty, and I’m the funny one.”

“So you get it. I’d been working for the family since I was a teenager. My mother taught me how to cook, and then I went to school and learned some more. Eventually, I wanted to take what I’d learned and make some changes in the restaurant. It soon became apparent that they liked the restaurant just the way it was. After a lot of wrangling, and nearly drowning in my mother’s tears, I left. I needed to make it on my own. And where better to make your name as an Italian chef than here in Little Italy.”

Roman refills our glasses. There’s a lot of common ground between us. Our backgrounds are similar, not just the Italian part, but the way we are treated in our families. Even though we’ve both made some bold choices and gotten real-life experience, our families haven’t changed their perceptions of us.

“So how did you decide to join the family business?” he asks. “Not too many shoemakers out there these days.”

“Well, I was teaching school, ninth grade English, in Queens. But on weekends, I’d go into the city and help Gram in the shop. Eventually, she began to teach me things about making shoes that went beyond packing and shipping. After a while, I was hooked.”

“There’s nothing like working with your hands, is there?”

“It takes everything I’ve got-mentally, physically. Sometimes I’m so bone tired at the end of the day I can hardly make it up the stairs. But the work itself is just part of it. I love to draw, to sketch the shoes and come up with new ideas, and then figure out how to build them. Someday, I want to design shoes.” This wine has put me in a cozy place. I just confided my dreams to a man I hardly know in a way I rarely ever admit, even to myself.

“How long have you worked with your grandmother?” he asks.

“Almost five years.”

Roman lifts another pumpkin blossom from the plate. “Five years. So that makes you about…?”

I don’t even blink. “Twenty-eight.”

Roman tilts his face and looks at mine from a different angle. “I would have guessed younger.”

“Really.” I’ve never lied about my age, but being almost thirty-four years old seems like a good time to start.

“I got married when I was twenty-eight,” he says. “Divorced at thirty-seven. I’m forty-one now.” He rattles off the numbers without the slightest hesitation.

“What was her name?”

“Aristea. She was Greek. To this day, I’ve never seen a woman more beautiful.”

When a man tells you that the most beautiful woman in the world is his ex-wife, and he’s been looking at your face for over an hour, it sets like a bad anchovy. “Greek girls are Italian girls with better tans.” I sip the wine. “What went wrong?”

“I worked too much.”

“Oh come on. A Greek would understand hard work.”

“And-I guess I didn’t work hard enough on the marriage.”

I look at Roman’s handiwork-the mural, the candles, the feast on the table-and then I look in his eyes, which I’m beginning to trust. I can talk to this man. It’s almost effortless. I feel badly that I lied about my age. This could be the first date of many; now what do I do?

“I’m glad you called me-,” he begins.

“There’s something I need to tell you,” I interrupt. “I’m thirty-three.” My face turns the color of the red pepper slices in the crudité dish. “I never lie, okay? I just did because, well, thirty-three seems almost thirty-four, and that seems like a number that’s getting up there. You should know the truth.”

“No worries. You don’t go out with Italians. Remember?” He smiles. Then he gets up from his chair and comes over to me. He takes my hands in his and pulls me up to stand. We look at each other in that way people do when they’re deciding whether or not to kiss. I feel guilty that I told Gabriel Roman’s nose was like the one with the Groucho Marx glasses. From this angle, his nose is lovely, straight and absolutely fine.

Roman takes my face in his hands. As our lips meet for the first time, his kiss is gentle and sensual, and very direct, like the man himself. I might as well be on the Piazza Medici on the isle of Venice, as his touch takes me far from where I stand and off to someplace wonderful, a place I haven’t been in a very long time. As Roman slides his arms around me, the silk of my dress makes a rustling sound, like the dip of an oar into the canal in the mural behind him.

The last man I kissed was Cal Rosenberg, the son of our button supplier from Manhasset. Let’s just say it didn’t leave me wanting more. But this kiss from Roman Falconi, right here in this sweet restaurant on Mott Street in Little Italy, with my feet in gunboat clogs, makes me feel the possibility of a real romance again. As he kisses me again, I slide my hands down his arms to his biceps. Chefs, evidently, do a lot of heavy lifting, whereas button suppliers and hedge fund managers don’t.

I bury my face in Roman’s neck, the scent of his clean skin, warmed by amber and cedar, is new, and yet familiar. “You smell amazing.” I look up at him.

“Your grandmother gave it to me.”

“Gave you what?”

“The cologne.”

I can’t believe my grandmother gave Roman the free men’s-cologne sample in the goody bag from Jaclyn’s wedding. I don’t know whether to be embarrassed that she gave it to him, or embarrassed for him that he decided to use it.

“She said either I had to take it, or she’d unload it on Vinnie the mailman. You don’t like it?”

“I love it.”

“That’s a strong word, love.”

“Well, that’s a strong cologne.”

The sound of laughter from the street breaks the quiet of the restaurant. Through the windows, I can see the feet of a group of Saturday-night party hounds on their way to the next stop. Their shoes, a mix of polished wingtips, suede ankle boots, and two pairs of high-heeled pumps, one ruby red leather and the other black mock croc, stop in front of Ca’ d’Oro. “Closed,” I hear a woman say in front of the entry door.

Not for me. Roman Falconi kisses me again. “Let’s eat,” he says.

For all the extensive construction going on here on the Manhattan side of the Hudson River, there is plenty happening across the water as well. Construction cranes, dangling with cords hoisting parcels of wood, pipes, and cement blocks play in the far distance like marionettes on a stage. The rhythmic chuff of the pile driver softens as it crosses the water, reminding me of the sound of a coffee percolator.

I lean over the railing on the pier outside our shop and wait for Bret to meet me on his lunch break. A painting class is in full swing under the permanent white tents on the pier. Twelve painters with their backs to me and their easels facing east are painting the landscape of the West Village riverfront on white canvases.

I watch the students as a teacher silently moves through the easels, stepping back to observe their work. She touches the shoulder of one painter. She points. The artist nods, leans back, squints at his canvas, and then takes a step forward, dips a small brush on his palette, and paints a slim white seam along the top of an old factory building he has painted in detail. In an instant, the gray sky in his painting, hovering over the rooftops like old cotton, is suffused with light, changing the entire mood of his cityscape. Gram taught me about the power of contrast, using a light trim to heighten the vamp of a shoe, or a dark one to define it, but I’ve never seen the concept come alive with such a subtle placement of color. I’ll remember it the next time I choose a trim.

Bret works at a brokerage house within walking distance of our shop. When we were together, he’d sometimes come and help on weekends when he needed a break from studying for his MBA. I admired that he never forgot his working-class roots and was able to roll up his sleeves and do good old-fashioned manual labor when it was called for. I think if we needed help with an order and we asked him to come over today, he would still pitch in for old times’ sake.

In the distance, I see him, walking briskly toward me in his suit, his beige Burberry trench flapping open in the breeze. Bret finishes the last bite of an apple and tosses the core into the Hudson River. I’m genuinely proud of him and all he’s accomplished; but I also worry. He’s the only man I know who has it all, but the man who has it all can top himself only one way: by getting more. I think of Chase and her dazzling smile. Is she more? When Bret reaches me, he gives me a kiss on the cheek. “So fill me in. Tell me everything about the business.”

“Gram has been borrowing against the building to keep the business afloat. Alfred looked at the books and said she needs to restructure her debt.”

“How can I help?”

“I think Alfred is using this as an excuse to have Gram retire and sell the building. He’d be cashing in on sky-high real estate, but it would mean the end of the Angelini Shoe Company. Which would leave me-”

“Without a place to work. Or a home.”

“Or a future,” I add bluntly.

“What does Gram want to do?”

“She told him she’s not ready to sell. But, between you and me, she’s scared.”

“Look, she’s sitting on prime real estate. We have guys who handle that.”

“I don’t want you to help her sell it. I want you to help me buy it.”

Bret’s eyes widen. “Are you serious?”

“You know how much this business means to me. It’s everything. But I don’t have much money saved, nowhere near what it would take. I have no collateral. And while I’m close to being a master, there are still things I’m learning from Gram.”

“Val, this is tough. Alfred has your grandmother’s ear.”

“I know! But I do, too. If I had an alternative plan, I think she’d consider it.”

“So you’re looking for investors who would keep you in business while you figure out a way to buy the business outright?”

“That sounds good. I mean, I don’t know anything about finance.”

“I know,” he says, smiling.

“But you do.”

“You know I’m here for you. Let me figure this out.” He takes my arm as he walks me back to Perry Street.

“Are you behaving yourself?” I ask.

“Like a conscientious altar boy. I know what I have at home, but thanks for reminding me.”

“Hey, that’s why I’m here. I’m a foghorn for fidelity.”

Tess twirls in the stylist’s chair to check the back of her brand-new haircut in the mirror. I lured my sister to Eva Scrivo’s, the chicest hair salon in the Meatpacking District, with the promise of hip, modern hair.

Black leather chairs are lined up in front of floor-to-ceiling mirrors, filled with customers in the various stages of cut and color. One woman wears a headdress of massive fronds of tinfoil painted with bleach; another woman, with short, swingy champagne-streaked strands is getting a blow out, her hair pulled tight on the end of a round brush; another customer has her roots saturated with a purplish brown mixture while the ends of her hair stand away from her scalp like bike spokes.

“You were right, Val. I needed this. I was a boring soccer mom with that blunt cut.” Tess smiles. “Not that there’s anything wrong with soccer moms, because I am one.”

Scott Peré, the master of curly hair, fluffs Tess’s chunky layers with one hand while looking at her reflection. “I’m only gonna say this once, so listen up. Layers after thirty, girls. Layers.”

“I can think of a lot of things a woman needs after thirty, and layers aren’t even in my top ten,” I tell him.

“Rule amendment,” he says. “With your gorgeous skin you’ve got until forty.” Scott takes his comb and moves on to his next customer, who sits under a drying contraption that throws heat on her pin curls as it slowly gyrates around her head like a swirling metal halo.

I poach some smoothing cream from Scott’s station and flip my head over and work it through. My cell phone rings in my purse. “Grab that for me, Tess. It’s Gram wondering where we are.”

“Hello.” Tess listens for a few moments. I put my hair in a topknot. “This isn’t Valentine. I’m her sister.” Tess hands me the phone. “It’s a man.”

“Hello?”

“I thought it was you. Sorry,” Roman says.

“Roman?”

“Sexy name!” Tess says approvingly as she takes her purse and goes to the counter to pay.

“I was calling to thank you for the other night,” Roman continues. “I got your note. I carry it in my pocket.”

“I’m dreaming of that risotto.”

“Is that all?” He actually sounds disappointed. “I was wondering when we could see each other again.”

“Do you need a haircut?” I ask him.

“No,” he laughs.

“Too bad. There’s an open chair here and I’m pretty good with scissors.”

“I’m going to pass on the haircut, but not on you. Okay? But here’s the hard part. I’m pretty much chained to this place.”

“It’s the same for me in the shop. How about I call you for coffee? After lunch sometime?”

“That’s good.”

I close the cell phone and slip it into my pocket. I meet Tess outside the salon. She motions to me as she talks to her husband. “No special night. Absolutely not. You tell Charisma to stay away from that canned frosting, and Chiara is not allowed to sleep in our bed. Okay, honey. I’m going back to Gram’s with Val. I’ll be home by bedtime. Love you.” She hangs up her phone. “Charlie has his hands full. Charisma was playing on his cell phone and called his boss by accident.” Tess looks at me. “Well?”

“I had a date.”

“And?”

“And he’s very interesting.”

“A Poindexter?”

“Not at all. He’s hip.”

“Complicated?”

“Aren’t they all?”

“Even my Charlie. Complicated even in his simple demands. He likes pasta every Tuesday, a movie on Fridays, and sex on Saturdays.”

Tess has never mentioned sex with her husband. Obviously, the haircut has freed her. I laugh. “That’s a doable schedule.”

“I’m not complaining. But you gotta watch out for the routine. You need to keep a man on his toes. Charlie’s getting close to forty, and you know what happens. New car, new wife, new life.”

“That will never happen to you,” I promise my sister.

“It happened to Mom.”

“Yeah, but that was the eighties. Back then, it happened to everyone’s mother.”

“History has a funny way of repeating itself.” Tess buries her hands in her pockets as we walk. “Even Gram had her problem with Grandpop.”

I stop and face my sister. “What?”

“Yeah, Mom told me that Grandpop had a…friend.”

“Are you serious?”

“I don’t know her name or anything, but Mom told me about it before I got married.”

“And you didn’t tell me?”

“As if tales of infidelity are some sort of heirloom we need to share like the family silver?”

“Still.” I feel bad that Gram hasn’t confided this to me. “Gram’s never mentioned it.”

“You idolized Grandpop. Why would she?”

I unlock the front door to our building. Tess and I go into the vestibule. The door to the shop is propped open, the worktables are bare, and the small desk lamp throws off the only light in the room. There’s a note on the desk in Gram’s handwriting. “Meet me on the roof-the chestnuts are in.”

We race up the stairs, out of breath as we reach the top. “In my next life,” I gasp, “I want to live in one of those fabulous lofts, all the space without the stairs.”

“The original assisted living,” Tess pants.

I push open the door to the roof. Gram has the grill going, with two large frying pans covered in tinfoil over the red charcoal flames. The smoke from the charcoal offsets the scent of sweet chestnuts as they roast, a delicious smell of honey and cream.

“They’re good this year. Meaty,” Gram says, shaking the pan, gripping the handle with an oven mitt. She wears a kerchief over her hair, and her winter coat is buttoned to the top. “Oh, Tess, I love your hair.”

“Thanks.” She tosses her head. “Scott is very good. You should go to him, Gram.”

“Maybe I will.” Gram lifts the spatula off the hook on the side of the grill. She lifts the foil off one pan with her oven mitt, then she whacks the chestnuts with the flat side of the spatula, cracking them open. She scoops them onto a stainless-steel cookie sheet. Tess and I sit down on the chaise longue and take the tray. We blow on them, and then take one apiece, pulling the sweet, translucent chestnut out of its burnished shell. We pop them in our mouths. Heavenly.

“My mother hated chestnuts,” says Gram. “When she was growing up in Italy, money was tight and they made everything with chestnuts-pasta, bread, cakes, fillings for ravioli. When her family emigrated, she vowed she’d never eat another chestnut. And she never did.”

“It just goes to show you, sometimes you can’t shake the things that happened to you in childhood.” Tess looks off toward New Jersey, where her husband is probably locked in a garage while Charisma and Chiara paint the automatic doors with frosting.

“I’d like to shake some of the things that happened to me in adulthood,” I say as I crack open another chestnut.

The door to the roof swings open. “Don’t be alarmed, it’s just me,” Alfred says as he places his briefcase by the door. He goes to Gram and gives her a kiss.

“This is a surprise,” says Tess as our brother kisses her on the cheek and then me.

“Gram called and said the chestnuts were in,” Alfred says stiffly.

“I’m glad you could make it.” Gram beams at her only grandson with enough love to fill the boat basin on Pier 46.

“I’ve been to the bank,” he says, drawing a deep breath. “They want some numbers, a new appraisal on your property.”

“Do you think we’re going to be okay?” I stand up.

“I don’t know yet, Valentine. There’s still a lot of information to gather. The more I dig, the more I believe you should think about selling the building.”

“Oh, so you didn’t come for the chestnuts, you came here to nail up a For Sale sign,” I tell him.

“Val, you’re not helping,” Alfred says.

“And you are?” I shoot back.

Gram moves the chestnuts around with her spatula. “Bring the brokers through, Alfred,” she says quietly.

“Gram…,” I protest but she cuts me off.

“We have to, Valentine. And we’re going to.” Her tone tells me the subject is closed. Alfred takes a chestnut from the tray Tess holds, cracks the shell, and eats it. I look at Tess, who looks at me. Then Tess says, “Just don’t forget Valentine, Gram. She’s the future of the shoe company.”

“I think of my grandchildren first.” She takes the tray from Tess. “All of you.”