Adriana Trigiani - Brava, Valentine

“I bet you wish you were still in Italy.” He kisses me on the cheek and pushes past me into the shop.

“You have no idea.”

“I got your text. I can’t believe Gram hired Alfred.”

“He starts today. Mr. CFO.”

“Where?”

“Right there.” I point to the desk, which I have cleared to make room for Alfred. It’s the first time since I was a kid that the desk has not been cluttered with stacks of paper. “This new partnership might kill me.”

“It won’t kill you. In fact, if you work it and stay cool, Alfred can actually make your life easier.”

“Do you think so?”

“Absolutely. You’re going to put him to work for you, and he won’t even realize it. First of all, I will deal with your brother on the manufacturing plan. He will do the research, draw up the budgets, make the projections, and reach out to factories that can make your shoes. In the meantime, I’m out raising the money to launch the Angel Shoes brand. With that money, we will put the Bella Rosa into production. Once we have the shoes in production, I will help you place them in the market. Don’t worry. I got your back.”

“You always have.”

“I’m all over it.” Bret opens his briefcase.

His light brown hair is ruffled by the wind. I resist the urge to smooth it, as I did for the ten years we dated, one of them-the last year-actually betrothed before we broke up. There might be a million reasons why it didn’t work out with us, but it only took one to end it. I wanted to be a shoemaker, and he needed a stay-at-home wife. Neither of us wanted to deprive the other of our dreams, so we decided not to marry. No one was more surprised than I. My childhood friendship with Bret had blossomed into a romance, and when it came time to make the difficult decision to move on, the foundation of mutual respect and love carried us through. We have always had a natural, easy relationship-which is why we could be honest with one another when our lives went in different directions.

He looks at me. “What the heck are you thinking about?”

“I was remembering when we went into business selling industrial cleaner door-to-door in the seventh grade.”

“You needed a lot of breaks.” Bret laughs.

“I still do. You were such a natural salesman. You talked those housewives into buying that cleaner like nobody else could.”

“I believed in the product. Just like I believe in you.”

“I’m just a struggling cobbler.”

“Not for long, Val. This is so much fun for me. It’s going to be something to watch this company grow. And you’re different from most of the companies out there. This economic collapse might actually work in your favor.”

“I’d like to know how.”

“The federal government has really stepped up. There’s an incentive program for small business in New York State-they’re taking applications for loans right now.” Bret hands me a folder filled with forms. “The city will reassess your property taxes and adjust them according to deflation in the real estate market, and they’ll give you some breaks on utilities, as long as you keep a minimum of four employees on the payroll. Right now, you’ve got three-you, Alfred, and June. You need a fourth to qualify-but you have time to hire that person. And then, there’s the new development fund. I think you might be able to swing a very low-interest loan to launch the Bella Rosa .”

“I haven’t been able to get any traction with the banks,” I admit.

“No one can at this point. The small business rep in New York is a woman named Kathleen Sweeney. I hear she’s tough.”

“Nice Irish girl.”

“Exactly. Here’s her information. Call her and schedule an appointment. And it would be smart for you to include Alfred, so he’s invested in this.”

“Good point. So what can I do for you? How can I ever repay you for all you’ve done for me?”

“You can come to Maeve’s birthday party. She’s turning five.” Bret gives me an envelope covered with pink balloons made of felt.

“Already?”

“Already. I can’t believe it. Piper is going to be two.”

“It seems like yesterday that you told me that Mackenzie was expecting.” I can’t believe all that Bret has accomplished in the past six years. He’s built a family with Mackenzie, broken into the financial world, bought a home, and moved out to the suburbs. When I look back on the same period of time, I think about how I mastered sewing kidskin by hand. We are leading two very different lives. “Are you going to have more children?”

“Mackenzie says the shop is closed. I would love more.”

“I think you defer to the lady on those matters.”

“Of course. Always.”

“I’ll definitely be at the party.” I give Bret a hug.

“Bring Gabriel.”

“The black cloud? No way. He hates kids.”

“Yeah, but he gives our suburban New Jersey parties some edge. And when he has a couple glasses of wine, he sings the Rodgers and Hammerstein song book like nobody’s business.”

“I’ll bring him.”

I walk Bret to the door. “I don’t know how to thank you.”

“You don’t have to. It’s fun for me.”

“Yeah, but you’re busy, and this is small potatoes. Of course, I say potatoes because you’re Irish.”

Bret laughs. “I have a feeling when you get these shoes off the ground, it’s going to mean some big changes for you.”

“Wouldn’t that be something? I’d pay off the mortgage and the loans and remove the ax of impending doom that hangs over my head.”

“The good news: the ax is imaginary. You’ll get Alfred where you want him. And Val, if anybody can do it, it’s you.” Bret pushes the door open and turns to me. “You’re on to something big here.”

Sometimes when I look at Bret, I see all the years we’ve known each other unspool like a long, endless ribbon without a beginning or an end. We’ve known each other most of our lives, and there is a trust that is so deep, I wonder if I could ever have it with any other man. “You always come through for me.”

“It’s easy.” He smiles and goes.

I open the invitation to Maeve’s birthday party. The invitation has been written in calligraphy and assembled by hand, with glitter and lace. The section with the date, time, and place pops up out of the crease with a bunch of balloons. Maeve’s round face appears inside the balloons.

How does Mackenzie do it? Would I ever be the sort of mother who could assemble birthday party invitations with sequins and glue? Would I even be the kind of parent who would enjoy doing it?

What a beautiful face Maeve Fitzpatrick has, with her father’s serene countenance and her mother’s blond hair. I pin the invitation up on the bulletin board. I’ll endure anything for Bret-including screaming five-year-olds, a pirate who does magic tricks, and a train ride to New Jersey.

A letter from Gianluca arrives in the mail from Italy, along with a sleeve of leather samples from his shop. Business and pleasure tucked into one envelope.

I open the letter first. His handwriting is artful, that glorious Italian script with the curlicue edges. He wrote it with a fountain pen in midnight blue ink. A fountain pen in 2010! Miraculous!

14 febbraio 2010

Cara Valentina,

Even my name looks prettier when written by an Italian. The letter is dated the night of Gram’s wedding, the night we almost spent together. Here’s a fundamental difference between us: that night, Gianluca went home and wrote down his thoughts, while I slammed the door of my room at the Spolti Inn and stewed.

Please accept my apologies for tonight at the inn. I was carried away with emotions that I have been feeling for quite some time. You could not know of these feelings, for I had not admitted them to myself. But when I saw you at the church, down the long aisle before the altar, I was filled with, and there is no other word to use, a great longing.