Adriana Trigiani - Very Valentine

“You think?” he says, grinning.

“Look, I don’t know you. Maybe you’re just some weirdo who goes around charming old ladies, speaking crappy Italian…”

“Hey, that hurts.” He puts his hand on his heart.

This makes me laugh. “Okay, not so crappy. In fact, I think you speak Italian very well. And I know that because I don’t.”

“I could teach you.”

“Okay. Fine. If I ever decide to…” Where have my words gone? He’s reeling me in here, and I’m trying to resist. “…learn how to speak better Italian.” There. I said it. Why is he looking at me like that, with an almost squint? What’s he looking for?

“Listen,” he says. “I’d like to make you dinner.”

“Thank you, but I’m not hungry.”

“Not now, maybe. But, eventually, you’re gonna get hungry.” Roman stands. “And when you do, I’m your man.”

Roman fishes in his back pocket and takes out his wallet. He pulls a card from his wallet and places it on the table. “If you change your mind about that meal, give me a call.” Roman turns to go. “You really shouldn’t be ashamed of your body. It’s lovely.” I hear him whistle as he goes down the stairs. The front door snaps shut as he leaves. Curious about the tall stranger, I go to the table and pick up his business card. It says:

ROMAN FALCONI

Chef/Proprietor

Ca’ d’Oro

18 MOTT STREET

Here’s the thing about a business card with a man’s phone number on it. It moves through life with you if you let it. First, I put Roman’s card on the fridge, as if we’d actually order in from the place one night. Then, I moved it to my wallet, where it sat for a couple of days next to the Bloomie’s coupons I’d saved from a mailer. Now, it’s in my pocket, on my way to my room, where I’ll leave it in the crook of the mirror over my dresser, joining the school pictures of my nieces and nephews and a discount coupon for a deep-conditioning treatment at the Eva Scrivo Hair Salon.

Gram convinced me that we needed to bring Alfred into the know about our precarious financial situation. She’s invited him over this afternoon to turn over our records and books. And because we are first and foremost Italian women, we are making his favorite dish, tomato-and-basil foccacia, to soften him up and appeal to his sense of duty to family while attempting to swing things our way.

Alfred peels an orange as he sits in Grandpop’s chair at the head of the table. He places the peels neatly on a cloth napkin. Gram’s handwritten ledgers, her business checkbook, his laptop computer, and a calculator are spread out in front of him. He wears a suit and tie; his oxblood Berluti wingtips are buffed to a glassy burgundy finish. He studies the figures on the computer screen as he absentmindedly drums his fingers.

Gram and I have cleared the granite counter and are using it for a cutting board. I have made a well of flour into which I crack an egg. Gram adds another. I add yeast to the mixture and commence kneading the flour and eggs into dough. Gram sprinkles flour on the counter as I fold and refold the mixture until it’s a smooth ball. Gram takes the ball, and with her hands places it on a greased cookie sheet and with her thumbs makes small indentations in the dough. She pulls the edges of the dough into a rectangle, which eventually fills the pan. I scoop fresh-sliced tomatoes out of a bowl and layer them in the folds of the dough. Gram shreds fresh basil onto the tomatoes, then she drizzles the pans with gold olive oil. I hoist the foccacia into the hot oven.

“Okay, Gram, Valentine, sit down.”

Gram and I take our seats at either side of the table, across from each other. We turn our chairs to face him. Gram twists a striped moppeen around her hand and rests it in her lap.

“Gram,” Alfred begins, “you’ve done a good job of keeping the shop running. What you haven’t done is make money.”

“How can we-,” I begin, but Alfred holds up his hand to stop me.

“First we have to look at the debt.” He goes on, “When Grandpop died, instead of going out and getting a partner to help finance the operation, which would have been wise at the time, you borrowed against the building to keep your shop up and running. Now Grandpop had loans of about three hundred thousand dollars on the business. You kept his loan, but unfortunately, you’ve only paid the interest, so ten years later, you still owe the bank three hundred thousand dollars.”

“Even though she’s been paying all this time?”

“Even though she’s been paying. Banks know how to make money, and that’s how they do it. Now, Gram, here’s where you got into trouble,” he says. “You used the only equity you had to borrow more money. You mortgaged the building. The real problem is that they gave you a balloon mortgage-cheap to pay up front, but then, just as the name implies, it balloons. And now the marker has come due. Your payments double in the new year. Again, the banks were smart. They know your property value only increased in this area, and they’re making money on the fact that you will when you sell the building.”

“She doesn’t want to sell,” I interject.

“I know. But Gram used the building as her leverage. Once Grandpop was gone, Gram couldn’t pay off any new debt. She was saddled with the old debt. The business can only produce what it can produce in any given year.”

“I tried to turn out more product,” Gram sighs.

“But you can’t. It’s not in the nature of a handcrafted product. They’re supposed to be unique, right?” Alfred looks at me.

“That’s what we’re selling. Exquisite shoes. Handcrafted. One of a kind.” My voice breaks.

Alfred looks at me with all the compassion he is capable of. “Okay, here’s what I recommend. It’s highly unlikely, with the cost of goods in the shop, and your ability to meet your orders, that you will make money. So, basically, the shoe shop is a financial wash.”

“But couldn’t we figure out a way to produce more shoes?” I ask him.

“It’s impossible, Valentine. You’d have to make ten times what you’re producing now.”

“We can’t do that,” Gram says quietly.

“There is one way to solve all your problems. You could sell the building and relocate to a cheaper location. Or not. Maybe it’s time to close the company entirely.”

My stomach turns. And here it is, in plain language, the scenario that will end my partnership with Gram and destroy any hopes I have of taking our shoe company into the future. Gram knows this, and so she says, “Alfred, I’m not ready to sell the building.”

“Okay, but you understand that this building is your greatest asset. It can set you free from the debt, and give you plenty to live on for the rest of your life. At least let me bring brokers through so we can assess what it’s worth-”

“I’m not ready to sell it, Alfred,” she repeats.

“I understand. But we need to know what the building is worth so that at the very least, I can go to the bank and refinance your mortgage and restructure your debt.”

I look over at Gram, who is weary from the discussion. Usually, she looks youthful to me, but today, having to own up to her past mistakes by the harsh light of the balance sheet on Alfred’s computer, she looks exhausted. The scent of pungent basil fills the air. I jump out of my seat. “The foccacia!” I run to the oven, look in the window, grab the oven mitts, and rescue the golden dough, its edges turning deep brown from the heat; I lift the pan out and onto the counter. “Just in time,” I say, fanning it with my oven mitt.

“Don’t worry, Gram,” I hear Alfred say. “I’ll take care of everything.”

Alfred’s quiet promise to Gram sends a chill through me. Someday, I will look back on this and remember it as the moment Alfred made his play to control the Angelini Shoe Company. What he will never know is that as determined as he is to sell, I am equally determined to stay and fight. My brother has no idea what I’m made of, but he’s going to find out.