Adriana Trigiani - Very Valentine

I go to the worktable to organize my day. I savor rainy days, and I especially love to work when there’s a storm. The rhythm of the drone of the rain as it hits the shop windows is a natural accompaniment to delicate handwork.

“Jesus, it’s a monsoon-a-roonie out there,” June Lawton bellows from the entry. She shakes out her black umbrella and props it open by the door. Then she unbuttons her khaki trench coat and hangs it on a hook over the radiator in the hall. “Too bad it’s not raining men, or we’d be in the chips, sister.”

June, Gram’s oldest and dearest friend, is now in her early seventies. She’s an Irish beauty, with sky blue eyes and a swan neck, which she accentuates with plunging V-shaped necklines, elaborate ropes of beads, and long, loopy chains. June is the original West Village bohemian, and proud of it. Sometimes on a summer afternoon she joins me on the roof when I water the tomatoes. She doesn’t come up just for the sun; from time to time she likes to smoke pot on her coffee breaks. June would hold up the hand-rolled cigarette and say, “Occupational hazard,” referring to her days when she sang with a small jazz combo called Whiskey Jam. Gram used to go and catch her shows at Village clubs in the ’50s and ’60s.

June has the fiery ginger hair of her youth and the smooth skin of someone half her age. I once asked June her beauty secret (it’s not the pot) and she told me that, since she was eighteen years old, she would lather her face and neck with soap and water and then gently buff her skin with a wet pumice stone. Then she’d rinse and apply a thin layer of Crisco vegetable shortening. So much for expensive face creams!

Greenwich Village is filled with women like June who moved to the city when they were young to work in the arts, had some success, and squeezed out a living. Now retired, living in rent stabilized apartments that provide a low overhead, they’re looking for something interesting to fill their time. June loves to work with her hands and she has great taste, so Gram convinced her to come and work in the shoe shop. My grandfather trained June fifteen years ago, and in that time, she’s become an excellent pattern cutter.

“Where’s Teodora?” June asks.

“She’s not up yet,” I tell her.

“Hmm.” June opens a cabinet, pulls out a red corduroy work smock and puts it on. “You think she’s okay?”

“Yeah, sure.” I look at June. “Why do you ask?”

“I don’t know. She seems tired lately.”

“We’ve been staying up late watching the Clark Gable DVD boxed set.”

“That’d do it.”

“Last night it was The Call of the Wild.”

June whistles low. “Gable was sex on a stick in that one.”

“Loretta Young was pretty great, too.”

“Oh, she was a true beauty. And it was all real. Those were her lips and her bones. She fell in love with Gable when they were making that picture, you know. She got pregnant, kept it a secret, had the baby, and gave her up for adoption. Then guess what she did? She adopted her own baby back, named her Judy, and pretended for years that the girl wasn’t biologically hers.”

“Seriously?”

“Back then you couldn’t have a child out of wedlock. It would have ruined her. These stars today? Even bad acting can’t ruin them.” June pours herself a cup of coffee. “This is when I miss smoking. When I get myself worked up.” June drops a teaspoon of sugar into her cup. “How are you?”

“I need six million dollars.”

“I think I can float you.”

We laugh, then June’s expression turns serious. “What do you want with that kind of money?”

I haven’t told a soul that I’ve been going online to research real estate comparables in the neighborhood. Since Gram gave permission to Alfred to call brokers, I decided I needed my own set of numbers so I could figure out some strategy outside my brother’s. The results of my search are staggering. I can trust June, so I confide, “I’d like to buy the shop. The building with the business.”

June sits down on one of the stools with roller feet. “How are you going to do that?”

“I have no idea.”

June smiles. “Oh, what fun.”

“Are you kidding?”

“Valentine, that’s what’s delicious about being young. Try everything. Reach. Really reach . Six mil, or six bucks, what’s the difference when you’re young and you just might get it? I love the salad days, hell, the salad years! You can’t know this now, but the struggle is thrilling.”

“I can’t sleep at night.”

“Good. That’s the best time to figure out a strategy.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not finding any answers.”

“You will.” June puts down her coffee and stands. She pulls pattern paper off the reel and places it over the duchess satin on her table. She pins the paper to the fabric. “What does your grandmother think?”

“She doesn’t say.”

“Why don’t you ask her?”

“June, this is all so touchy. You’ve known her a long time. What do you think she’s thinking?”

“Your grandmother is my best friend, but she is an enigma to me in many ways. I’m very open about what I want, but she never has been. She’s a brilliant woman, you know. But she holds a lot in.”

“She’s the only person in our family who does.”

June smooths the pattern paper with one hand. “I think she’s been better since you’ve worked here.”

“You do?”

“You’re a good team. She gets a kick out of you, too. That helps.”

“Has she ever said anything about retirement?”

“Never,” June replies, which I take as a very good sign.

Gram pushes the door of the shop open. “Morning, ladies.”

“Coffee is fresh,” I tell her.

“You should have woken me up, Valentine.” Gram goes to the desk, picks up her notes, reads them, and sighs. Lately, Gram is like the shoemaker in the fairy tale. I think she half-expects that some morning, she’ll wake up, come down the stairs, and magically, elves will have done our work for us while we dreamed; splendid new handmade shoes will be assembled and ready to wear. “I could have used the early start.”

“We’ve got everything under control,” I tell her.

“Besides that, you were hardly wasting time up there. Weren’t you dreaming of Gable?” June says, smiling.

“How do you know?” Gram asks her.

“Who doesn’t dream of Gable?” June shrugs.

I pull the finished shoes off the shelf. Gram has wrapped them in clean, white cotton. I unwrap the shoes gently, like taking a blanket off a newborn baby.

I place the left shoe on my work pedestal, smoothing the satin carefully. I marvel at Gram’s needlework around the border of the vamp. The stitches are so tiny they are practically invisible.

There is a loud banging at the door. I look up at June, who is at a point in her cutting that can’t be interrupted. Gram is making notes on her list. “I’ll get it,” I tell them.

I open the entrance door. A young woman, around twenty, stands under a flimsy black umbrella. She is soaking wet and carries a clipboard. She wears a backpack and a headset around her neck, which leads to a walkie-talkie hooked to her belt.

“Do you guys fix shoes?” She pushes the wet hood of her zippered sweatshirt off her head. Her long red hair is secured with a navy-and-white bandanna tied in a bow. Her creamy skin has a sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of her nose, but not a single one elsewhere.

“Sorry. We don’t do repairs.”

“It’s an emergency.” The girl looks as though she might cry.

The girl props her umbrella in the corner of the vestibule and follows me into the shop.

“Who are you?” Gram asks politely.