Adriana Trigiani - Very Valentine

Most cobblers have farming in their background. The Angelinis were farmers who became butchers. Butchers often got into the tanning business because it was more profitable to sell the prepared leather instead of selling the skins. My great-grandfather made the leap from butcher to shoemaker as a result of timing.

Early in the twentieth century, a movement occurred in Italy in which artisans (shoemakers, jewelers, tailors, potters, silver-and goldsmiths, glass makers) taught young men who desperately needed work the trade of their choice. The masters would go into small villages and teach classes in their area of expertise. The apprentice system is a mainstay in the working life of Italians, but this particular movement was as political as it was artistic, born of the need to lift the Italians out of poverty after the war. The movement spread, thus the proliferation of handcrafted Italian goods, some of which still exist today. For the families who trained together, and opened their own businesses, branding was born.

Gram buys the leather for our shoes in Arezzo, and the nails and binding from La Mondiale, the oldest cobbler supplier in Italy. For embellishments, she goes down to Naples, where she works with a young, creative team, Carolina and Elisabetta D’Amico, who create handmade jeweled ornaments for shoes. Gram often provides a rough sketch of what she wants, as well as choosing from their extensive stock. The D’Amicos make buckles and ornaments inlaid with gleaming crystals-white-hot rhinestones; dazzling faux emeralds, rubies, and cabochons. Their costume-jewel embellishments are so opulent, we call them Verdura for the feet, as they could easily be mistaken for the real thing.

We also carry a wide selection of handmade fabric ornaments, including velvet bows so delicate we position them on the thin leather straps with tweezers before sewing them on. We carry silk-flower embellishments, bold calla lilies made of raw silk, innocent daisies of organza and tulle, and silk rosettes in every color combination, from ruby red to deep purple spiked with moss green velvet leaves. We have a selection of tiny numbers and letters, cut out of metallic gold, silver, and copper leather, which we often sew into the shaft of the shoe. We often place the bride and groom’s initials or the date of the wedding inside the shoe for an heirloom touch.

Rosaria looks with wonder at the clear plastic trays of rosettes. First she picks up the cornflower blue roses, because that’s the color her bridesmaids are wearing. She is intrigued by the strips of round-cut clear crystals on satin streamers, but decides they are too disco for her taste. After much deliberation, she settles on the antique cream rosettes. Then she calls her mother for her approval.

I give the sketches of Rosaria’s feet to June, who places the patterns in her bin. I pull an index card from the desk drawer and make notes. I put all of the dimensions of Rosaria’s feet on the card, then staple the fabric swatch and bin number of the rosettes. I staple the envelope with the string measurements to the card as Rosaria, giddy with delight, tells her mom every detail. She is as excited about the shoes as she is about her gown. Rosaria hangs up with her mother and turns to Gram. “I feel so proud that I’m carrying on my mom’s tradition.”

“When is your final fitting?” I ask.

“May tenth, at Frances Spencer’s, in the Bronx.”

“I know it well. Best knock-off seamstress in the five boroughs. I’ll be there with your shoes so they can do the final hem with the heel you’ll be wearing.”

“Thank you.” Rosaria gives me a hug, takes her purse, and goes.

I jot down Rosaria’s fitting date on the card and then open the file case on the desk.

“I’m giving Rosaria the shoes as my gift,” Gram says, not looking up from her work. “No charge.”

“Okay.” I mark the receipt. This is a bad time to be giving away shoes. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.” Gram takes the shoes she has been working on and wraps them in cotton.

“You know, with Alfred checking our numbers…”

“I know. But Alfred isn’t running this business. I am.”

June looks at me and raises her eyebrow as if to say, Don’t argue with her.

I tack up the order. On the bulletin board, I see a note in Gram’s handwriting. It says: “Meeting with Rhedd Lewis at Bergdorf’s, on December 5, 10 A.M. Bring V.”

“Gram, what’s this?”

“You remember that costume lady from the movie? Debra McGuire? Well, she may have been prickly, but she liked us. So she recommended us to Rhedd Lewis at Bergdorf’s, who asked to meet with us.”

“Did she say why?” I can hardly contain my excitement.

“She didn’t. Maybe she’s getting married and needs shoes.”

“Or maybe she wants to put our shoes in the store!” My mind reels with the possibilities of supplying the most elegant department store in New York City with our shoes. This is exactly the kind of break Bret was hoping we would get. We need the big guns to recognize and support our brand. “Can you imagine? Our shoes in Bergdorf’s?”

“I hope not.” June puts her hands on her hips and turns to Gram. “Remember when your husband put the shoes in Bonwit Teller’s? It was a disaster. We hardly sold any stock. The word came back that brides didn’t want to spend on their shoes when they had spent a pretty penny on their gowns.”

“That turned us off to department stores,” Gram admits. “That was our first and last foray into big business.”

“Maybe it will be different this time. Look in any fashion magazine. Upscale shoppers are spending two grand on a purse without batting an eye. That makes our shoes look like a bargain. Maybe there’s an opportunity here.”

“Or maybe you just go to the meeting, see what she says, and then go to the Bergdorf café and have the deviled eggs,” June says practically as she takes her shears and cuts a pair of size-eight soles from the pattern paper. June looks at me and smiles supportively, but she’s been around this company long enough to know that it is highly unlikely Gram will change a thing about the way she conducts her business, even if it means she could lose the entire operation.

“Gram, I think we should go to the meeting with an open mind. Right?”

She doesn’t answer me as a long, black limousine pulls up in front of the shop. It seems to stretch from the corner to the lobby door of the Richard Meier building. As it parallel-parks, I see BUILDBIZ on the license plate.

A man in a crisp navy blue suit with a red tie hops out the back door followed by my brother. The wind kicks up their silk ties like kite tails as they head for our entrance.

“What’s Alfred doing here?” I ask.

“He called while you were out with Roman. He’s bringing a broker by to see the building.”

I look at June. Our eyes meet but she looks away quickly.

“Hello, ladies,” Alfred says as he comes into the shop. He goes to Gram and kisses her on the cheek. Gram beams with pride as Alfred turns to the man and introduces her. “This is my grandmother Teodora Angelini. Gram, this is the broker I told you about, Scott Hatcher. We went to Cornell together.”

Gram shakes his hand. Alfred puts his hands on his hips and looks around the shop as though June and I aren’t there. It’s a wonder to me how gregarious my brother is when he is around his peers. With family, he’s morose. But at work, when he’s on his game and personality plus is required, he’s a pistol.

The broker is about six feet tall, a better-looking version of Prince Albert of Monaco, with a full head of hair. His eyes are wide and green, and he has the warm, fixed smile of a salesman.

“We’re going to take a look around, Gram.” Alfred flashes her the fake businessman smile.