Adriana Trigiani - Very Valentine

“Mom, you’re the Winston Churchill of antiaging. ‘Never, never, never, never, never give up your sit-ups.’ You make me want to jump out of this bed and do squats.”

“A nimble bride is a happy one, honey.”

Gram grips my arm as we climb the steep hill past the church to Vechiarelli & Son, our tanners for as long as the Angelinis have been shoemakers. The back streets of Arezzo burst with color, red cabbage roses on pink stucco walls, crisp white laundry hanging high against a blue sky, collections of small ceramic pots spilling over with green herbs in kitchen windows, and an occasional wall fountain, in the shape of a face, cascading sparkling water into an urn.

“It’s the first shop to the right,” Gram pants once we make it to a level street.

“Thank God.” My heart is racing. “I’d say we should have driven, but I don’t think the car could have made it up this hill. I don’t think there’s a shift on the stick for straight up.”

Gram stops, adjusts her skirt, smooths her hair, and secures her shoulder bag just so on her arm. “How do I look?”

“Great.” I’m surprised. Gram has never asked me to comment on her appearance.

“How’s my lipstick?”

“You’re in the pink, Gram. Coco Chanel pink.”

Gram throws back her shoulders. “Good. Let’s go.”

Vechiarelli & Son is a three-story stone house on the end of the street, with a similar setup to our shop at home. The main entrance, used for business, is a wide wooden door under the portico. On the upper floors, there are double doors that lead to small balconies on each level, the top one propped open with a plant, a throw rug hanging over the balcony, airing out in the breeze.

As we climb the steps to go into the shop, we hear a heated argument at full tilt, two men shouting at each other at the top of their lungs. The fight is punctuated with the sound of something being slammed on wood. They’re speaking Italian, and way too quickly for my level of fluency.

I turn to look at Gram, who stands behind me. My expression tells her we should run before the nut jobs inside figure out they’ve got company. “Maybe we should have called first.”

“They’re expecting us.”

“This is some welcome wagon.”

Gram pushes me aside, lifts the brass door knocker, and bangs it several times. The fight inside seems to escalate as the voices move toward us. I take a step back. We’ve kicked over a hornet’s nest, and the swarm sounds deadly. Suddenly, the door flies open from the inside. An old man with white hair, navy wool slacks, and a blue-striped button-down shirt has a look of pure aggravation on his face, but the anger falls away when he lays eyes on Gram.

“Teodora!”

“Dominic, come stai?”

Dominic embraces Gram and kisses her on both cheeks. I am standing behind her and I can see that the line of her spine changes as he kisses her. She grows about two inches taller, and her shoulders relax.

“Dominico, ti presento mio nipote, Valentine,” she says.

“Que bella!” Dominic approves of me. Better that than the alternative!

“Signor Vechiarelli, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” He kisses my hand. I get a good look at his face. It’s the same face as the man in the photograph buried in the velvet pouch in the bottom of Gram’s dresser drawer. I try not to show my surprise, but I can’t wait to get back to the hotel and text Tess to tell her.

“Venite, venite,” he says.

We follow Dominic into the shop. There’s a large farm table that takes up the center of the room. A series of deep shelves filled with sheets of leather line an entire wall, from floor to ceiling.

Old-fashioned tin lamps hang low over the table, illuminating the polished wood in spheres of white light. If I close my eyes, the fragrant beeswax, leather, and lemon take me home to Perry Street. A single door leads to a back room. Dominic calls through the open door.

“Gianluca! Vieni a salutare Teodora ed a conoscere sua nipote.” Dominic turns to me and raises his eyebrows. “Gianluca è mio figlio e anche mio socio.”

“Lovely.” I look at Gram, figuring a bull with flaming nostrils will come galloping through that very door, impale us on his horns, toss us into the air, trample and kill us. Gram motions that all is just fine, but I don’t believe her for a second.

“Gianluca!” Dominic bellows again. This time, it’s a command.

Gianluca Vechiarelli, Dominic’s son and partner (his description) stands in the doorway filling it with his height. He wears a brown apron over work pants and a denim shirt that has been washed so many times it’s practically white. It’s hard for me to see his face because the work lights are so bright, and he is taller than the lights.

“Piacere di conoscerla.” Gianluca extends his hand. I take it. My hand gets lost in his.

“Come è andato il viaggio?” Dominic asks Gram about our trip, but clearly he couldn’t care less, he’s more interested in her arrival here than her departure from America. He pulls rolling work stools out from under the table and invites us to sit. I remain standing while he sits down next to Gram, giving her his undivided attention. It seems he cannot get close enough to her. He doesn’t seem even slightly embarrassed that his legs are touching hers, and that his hands have made their way to her knees.

While Gram fills in the details of our trip so far, Gianluca is busy pulling samples of leather off the shelves and arranging them on the table. He breathes deeply as he arranges the squares, squinting at them and then moving them into different positions. I take a peek at his face. He’s good-looking, but there’s more gray in his hair than black, so I figure he’s somewhere in his fifties.

Gianluca has the same nose as his father, straight and fine, with a high bridge. There are deep grooves on the sides of his mouth, which either come from smiling or screaming, and if I were betting, I’d go with the latter. He catches me looking at him. He smiles, so I smile back at him, but it’s slightly uncomfortable, as if I’ve been caught shoplifting.

Gianluca has a slight overbite and deep blue eyes, the exact color of the morning sky over Arezzo. It’s common knowledge that Italian men check out American women, but what you never hear is that we return the favor in kind. I study him with the same eye I use to look at the leather. I’m interested in quality, integrity, and texture; after all, fine Italian craftsmanship and the pursuit of it is the reason we climbed this hill, isn’t it?

Gram and Dominic have not stopped talking. He says something and she laughs her big laugh, which I hear only occasionally when we’re home. The truth is, I’ve never seen her like this. If I weren’t so enthralled by the exquisite leather Gianluca is laying out on the table, I’d be wondering what the hell is going on here.

“So, you make the shoes?” Gianluca says to me.

“Yes. I’m her apprentice.” I point to Gram. “I’ve been training for four years.”

“I’ve been working with Papa for twenty-three years.”

“Wow. So, is it working out?”

Gianluca laughs. “Some days good, some days not so good.”

“This morning?” I cover my ears.

“You heard us?”

“Are you kidding? They heard you in Puglia.”

“Papa? Teodora and Valentine heard us argue.”

Dominic makes a motion, like he’s brushing a fly off a slice of bread. Then he puts his hand on his thighs, scoots the stool even closer to Gram, and resumes his conversation with her. I almost lean across the table to say, “Why not sit in her lap, Dom?”

Soon the front door of the shop pushes open, and a gorgeous young woman enters, tossing her purse onto a table. She has long brown hair, and wears a tight, dark brown suede skirt and a sleek black tank top. She pushes her sunglasses up onto her head, anchoring her hair with them. She wears the most exquisite pair of sandals I have ever seen. They are flat, with thin T-straps covered in tiny chocolate brown jewels that lead to a center medallion shaped in a fleur-de-lis made of baguettes of black onyx. She heads straight for Gianluca and gives him a hug. Evidently, this Tuscan air is good for everybody’s love life but mine.