Adriana Trigiani - Brava, Valentine

Gabriel continues, “Just enjoy the man. Why does everything have to be an emotional circus? Keep it simple. If you can. If you want to.”

“Okay, Doctor Love. I get it. So, how about you? Are you seeing anyone?” I ask.

“No. And it’s brutal out there. The competition is beyond fierce. Look at me. No one in his right mind would dare kick sand in my face on Far Rockaway beach, but have you noticed? Every guy that checks the ‘Yes, I’m gay’ box these days is in perfect physical condition. Our BMIs are probably close to our shoe sizes-and that’s a national average. Every single homosexual man in America is buff. When did this happen? And why? Now, all of a sudden, if you’re gay, you have to attract a mate with your personality . You have to be charming to find a boyfriend. Well read. Fascinating. The bod isn’t enough.”

“You’ve got a problem, then.”

“I know. It’s back to the New York Public Library for me. I might wind up having to read David Foster Wallace’s oeuvre just to be in the loop. By the way, I’m out of my apartment May first,” he says.

“What happened?”

“Well, I was never officially on the lease. It’s a sublet-you know my cousin Joey. It’s his place, and now that the rents have plummeted, everybody wants to move back into the city, including Joey. And since they’ve cut my hours at the Carlyle, I have to make some cuts of my own. I’d like to pay less rent, so this is a good time to move. Chelsea Boy may become Hoboken Hottie.”

“You can’t leave the city! All the glamour would go-sucked right off of the streets and into the Holland Tunnel, courtesy of your moving van.”

“Ain’t that the truth? But I have to stay open. Realistic is the new black. From now on, it’s beauty on a budget. And that might even mean the other B word: Brooklyn. I know, I know. Italian Americans spent a generation trying to move out of Brooklyn, and now we’re moving back in . It’s insane.”

“Are you open to any offer?” I ask. “You could come and live with me.”

“Are you serious?”

“I have all that space. Three bedrooms! Two empty. I miss Gram. I wander around the roof like an old pigeon looking for crumbs. I traipse from room to room with nothing but my memories to make me smile. Besides, my love life only exists on paper. The mail comes once a day, and Gianluca only has so much ink in his pen. I need you.”

“Living together might ruin our friendship.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.” Gabriel’s eyes widen at the possibilities of moving in to Perry Street. I watch him scheme.

“We’d see more of each other,” I offer.

“We did live together in college,” Gabriel reasons. “And I broke you of your worst habits then: wet towels on the floor…”

“I have a drying rack now.”

“Good. And how’s the coaster situation?”

“I never place a cup of coffee on a bare table. I’ve grown up. I respect wood grains. Always a coaster.”

“Wow. You’re playing hardball here. This is very tempting,” he says.

The waitress serves us our breakfast. Gabriel sprinkles Tabasco on his eggs. “Tabasco burns calories. I even brush my teeth with it.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. Another reason for you to move in-with tips like these, I’ll look like Kate Moss in six months.”

“A year,” he amends.

“Look, just think about it. I mean, if Prince Charming comes along and drives you and your personality away in his Bentley, that’s one thing. But if he doesn’t, why not come and live with me?”

“Soirées on the roof…under the stars…Jersey in the background. I love a roof.”

“You can grow roses up there.”

“The thought of a trellis on a rooftop is almost irresistible.” Gabriel butters his toast with the smallest smidge while I pour a quart of maple syrup on my French toast.

“Think about it?”

“Can I paint?” he asks. “I’m a man who loves to dimple his own stucco.”

“Do it. Paint, stencil, decoupage! Anything you want,” I promise him.

“Your ceilings are high, and I’m into wallpaper.”

“Wallpaper is great.”

He leans in. “How do you feel about a classic toile wallpaper with foil accents? You realize I’ve never had an entire house and roof garden to decorate.”

“Now you do, my friend.”

My brother Alfred, now a few days in as my partner, still seems surprised at how complex the business of making shoes can be. He responds to the challenges of the Angelini Shoe Company in the same way he rose to valedictorian of his college class. He sits at the desk with his back to June and me as he combs through ledgers in a concentration so deep, it’s as though he’s studying for a make-or-break final exam upon which his future depends. Occasionally he types into his laptop.

When he was a boy and wanted to learn something, he’d go to the library and immerse himself in research. He’d carry home stacks of books and plow through them. Never one to get by with general knowledge, Alfred’s goal was to burrow into a subject and come out the other side an expert. Our mother marveled at his intelligence, and used to say, “I don’t know where he came from.” Then of course, she’d take full credit and say, “I am his mother.”

There may be a potential upside to our partnership-he may challenge me to find better ways to do my work. I don’t know if I could work any harder at designing and building shoes, but maybe I could work smarter.

“We should call Mike to come in and help us with the shipment,” June says as she surveys the shipment for McDonald’s bridal boutique in Boston. “Your mother packs shoes like a pro.”

“She buys them like a pro, too,” Alfred says from his work, without looking up.

“Gee, Alfred. A joke.” I nod, impressed.

He turns and faces me. “I’m not the worst person in the world, you know.”

“Now, now, let’s not have any personal feelings in the workplace,” I remind him.

Alfred breaks a slight smile.

“Oh, you two are downright docile. There used to be real battles in this room. And I was the referee. Believe me. Your grandparents would go at it-and Big Mike would get so angry, he’d throw the iron against that wall. One afternoon, it almost hit the cat.”

“Buttons,” Alfred remembers.

“I never worried about that cat. He could take care of himself. They adopted him from the street, and truthfully he needed to be in the zoo. Feral. Used to sleep in the trashcan. But he definitely got his bad attitude from your grandfather.”

“Gram doesn’t remember the fights.” I hold down the pattern paper while June cuts the leather.

“Widows never do. Grief wipes out all bad memories. After your grandfather died, she wrote to the Vatican to have him canonized.”

“No way.” Alfred laughs.

“Nah, but she would’ve. She blamed herself for everything that went wrong between them after he died. I had to remind her that he was human and made mistakes just like the rest of us.”

“Like having a girlfriend on the side,” I say. “This is a particular weakness in our family.”

“Maybe, but that was the least of it to your grandmother. She didn’t care about that. She cared about stability. Home was on the second floor, and she never took her work problems up those stairs at night. And this is a rough business. You have to show up every single day and produce. It’s not easy. I felt for both of them.” June places the pattern paper and the leather in a stack for me to sew.

I place a finished kid leather dress shoe on the brushes. I pump the pedals with my foot as the brushes whirl rhythmically, evenly buffing the leather. Small striae of the palest pink begin to peek through the vamp of the eggshell pump. I concentrate on making the patina even. I stop the pedal when the pink is the exact shade of a new dogwood blossom. As I lift it up to the light, I realize that Alfred stands beside me.