Adriana Trigiani - Very Valentine

“Okay.” Gram thinks. “Cut velvet, boots, calfskin, fleece.”

“Maybe. I’m looking for a one-of-a kind fantasy shoe, something that would be shown exclusively in my windows.”

“Interesting,” Gram says, but I can hear the skepticism in her voice. “But you should know that we work from our company designs-”

“Gram, every pair of shoes we make is custom,” I interrupt and look at Rhedd. “We’ve done fantasy styles for weddings. We did a pair of riding boots in white calfskin and black patent leather for a bride and groom who were married on a horse farm in Virginia.”

“That’s true,” Gram admits. “And we did a pair of mules in fire engine red satinet for a bride who was married to a fireman on the Lower East Side.”

“And there was the bride who married a Frenchman and we did a Madame Pompadour pump with oversize silk bows.”

“To be perfectly honest,” Rhedd says, “I haven’t had much luck with small shops like yours. Small companies, exclusive custom shoemakers, stay small for a reason. Usually, they know what they know and they’re uncomfortable in a bigger venue. They lack a worldview, a vision.”

“We have a vision,” I assure her. I don’t look at Gram as I make my point. The salesman in me comes out. “We know we have to grow our brand, and we are taking a hard look at how we can do that in today’s marketplace. We approach every customer as an opportunity to reinvent our designs. However, and you should know this, we are proud of our legacy. Our shoes are the finest made in the world. We believe that.”

Rhedd looks off toward the closed door behind us as though she’s expecting some big idea to walk into the room, but lucky for me, I think she heard it already. “That’s why I want to give you a chance.”

“And we appreciate it,” I tell her.

“A chance for you and for other shoe designers to give me what I need.”

“There are others?” Gram leans back in her chair.

“It’s a competition. I’m meeting with several other designers, a custom shop from France, and a few well-known names who manufacture on a grand scale.”

“We’re up against the big guys?” I take a sip of my water.

“The biggest. But if you’re as good as you say”-her eyes narrow-“you’ll prove you have the talent and execution to pull this off.

“My creative director is going to come up with some sketches for the backdrop of the windows, the settings, if you will. I will select the wedding gowns for the tableaux, and from that group, we will choose one gown to send to you and the other designers. You will each design and build a pair of shoes for that gown. And then I will choose my favorite, and that designer will be brought on to do the shoes for all the gowns in the windows.”

My heart sinks a little. I was hoping that whatever she was going to offer us would be real, and timely. She’s not an idiot, and she senses my disappointment.

“Look, I know this feels like a long shot, but if you do what you say you can do, you have as good a chance as anyone to get the job.”

“That’s all we need, Ms. Lewis.” I stand and extend my hand to her. Gram rises and does the same. “A chance. We’ll show you how it’s done.”

After our meeting with Rhedd Lewis, I sent Gram home to Perry Street in a cab, while I took the crosstown bus over to Sloan-Kettering to meet Mom. I BlackBerried my sisters with a cc to Alfred about the Rhedd Lewis meeting, telling them of the competition. Tess is good for a novena (we really need the prayers now), Jaclyn will be supportive, and the cc to Alfred was to show him that I do have a vision about the future of the company. I included a snapshot of Gram in front of the store for Mom, who likes a visual with her news.

The sliding doors of the hospital open as I approach. Once inside, I see my mother sitting on a couch by the windows facing a sunlit sculpture garden, typing on her BlackBerry like a wild game of Where Is Thumpkin. Her sunglasses are perched on her head like a tiara, and she is dressed from head to foot in baby blue, with a wide swath of beige cashmere thrown across her chest like a flag.

“I’m here, Mom.”

“Valentine!” She stands and embraces me. “I’m so happy when it’s your shift.” Mom has decided, that instead of all of us showing up for every single one of Dad’s appointments, she would put her children on rotation so we wouldn’t burn out. Of course, she is in attendance at every poke, prod, and MRI.

My mother has never suffered from burnout, nor does she shy away from a project before it’s completed. I never saw her energy flag when it came to her family; she was and is eternally peppy, whether it was French-braiding three little girls’ hair before school, negotiating through the mayhem of the holidays, or pouring concrete to form a new front walkway, she is up for anything. These days, it’s getting my father well.

“I loved the picture. How did it go at Bergdorf’s?”

“We’re entering a competition to design a pair of shoes to win the holiday windows for Christmas 2008.”

“Fabulous! What a coup!”

“It’s a long way to winning, Ma. We’ll see what happens.” It doesn’t even dawn on my mother that we might not win. Another reason to love her. “So, how’s Dad?”

“Oh, it’s just boring test day. They’re going to put the seeds in after Gram’s birthday.”

Mom and I sit down. Instinctively, I put my head on her shoulder. Her skin has the scent of white roses and white chocolate. Her hoop earrings rest against my cheek as she talks. “He’s going to be fine.”

“I know,” I tell her. But I really don’t know.

“We stay positive and we pray. That’ll do the trick.”

I love that Mom thinks cancer is a trick that can be turned at will with a smile and a Hail Mary. When I lie in bed and think about my father and the future, I think of his grandchildren, and how, at the rate I’m going, he’ll never meet my children. Sometimes I swear Mom can read my thoughts, and she asks, “How’s it going with the fella you’re seeing?”

I lift my head off her shoulder. “He’s tall.”

“Excellent.” My mother nods her head slowly. In the pantheon of male attributes, my mother admires tall above full pockets or a full head of hair. “Handsome?”

“I’d say so.”

“That’s wonderful. Dad said he’s a chef. I love that name, Roman Falconi. Sexy.”

“He owns his own restaurant down in Little Italy.”

“Oh, I’d love a chef in the family. Maybe he could teach me how to make those fancy foams they’re doing at Per Se. I read about them in Food and Wine. Imagine the infusion of new ideas!”

“He’s got a lot of those.”

“When is the unveiling?” Mom asks.

“I’m bringing him to Gram’s birthday party at the Carlyle.”

“Perfect. Neutral ground. Well, my only advice in general is to take it easy. Don’t force it.” My mother bites her lip.

“I won’t.”

“I only hope you find the abiding happiness I have with my Dutch. Your father and I are nuts about each other, you know.”

“I know.”

“We’ve had our troubles, God knows, all kinds of storms and rough waters on high seas. But somehow, we rode through it all and made it back to shore. Sometimes we even crawled, but we made it back.”

“Yes, you did.”

“I can say that we prevailed.”

“You did.”

“And, you know? That’s what it’s all about. A great philosopher said, something like, you know I can never remember jokes or the exact words of philosophers, but basically, he said that love is what you’ve been through together.”

“It was James Thurber. The American humorist and author.” Sometimes my BA in English comes in handy.