Adriana Trigiani - Very Valentine

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.”