Adriana Trigiani - Brava, Valentine

“I remember when Grandpop used to buff the shoes on that machine. You’re pretty good at it.”

“Surprised?” I’m so used to snapping at my brother in self-defense, I do it even when he pays me a compliment. “I didn’t mean that,” I tell him. “I meant to say, Thank you.”

The phone in the shop rings. June’s and my hands are full, so Alfred picks it up.

“Angelini Shoes,” he says.

I look at June. I’ll bet it’s the first time in my brother’s professional life that he has picked up the phone like a receptionist.

“It’s Mom.” Alfred gives me the phone.

“Checking in!” Mom says. “What’s going on?”

“June wants to retire.”

June chuckles as she sorts straight pins and shakes her head.

“Don’t let her,” Mom says.

“Too late.”

“Valentine, listen to me,” Mom says. “June has threatened to quit for years. We give her a good long three-week vacation and she comes back fresh and says, ‘I don’t know how people lead lives of leisure.’ Okay? She’s not going anywhere.”

“Tell your mother I mean it this time,” June says.

“Ma, she means it this time.”

“Put her on the phone,” Mom says.

I bring the phone to June’s ear. I can hear my mother through the receiver. June says, “Uh-huh…” And listens. Then June says, “Okay, all right, Mike…Uh-huh…Okay, then. Good-bye.”

I take the phone back from June.

“It’s all settled,” Mom says to me. “June wants a nice break this summer. So you need to get ahead of the game in the shop. I’m coming in to help out.”

“When?”

“As soon as I take care of some things around the house,” she says.

Mom is fibbing. She doesn’t have any chores in Queens. Her house is in tip-top shape down to the hand-polished brass doorknobs she made my father install when she saw them in a layout of an English manor house in British House & Garden . Mom is simply buying time to plan her glamorous working-girl wardrobe. Mike Roncalli does not set foot on the island of Manhattan without planning her outfit down to her underwear. Her highest dream is to be snapped unaware by trendspotting Bill Cunningham, the New York Times photographer who takes pictures of chic New Yorkers on the street.

“Look, I was an Angelini before I was a Roncalli, and this is a family business. With your brother there, it’s all about unity. We all have to roll up our sleeves to help out.”

I hang up the phone. “She’s coming to work.”

“Mom?” Alfred says. “Really?”

“She needs a project. And guess what? We’re it.”

Now that I’ve shored up the staff with a plan to add Mom into the mix (so June can stockpile patterns in advance in order to take her long summer break), it’s time to focus on the Bella Rosa . A long walk on the river to think things through is just what I needed to face the work ahead. The March sky, the color of driftwood, reminded me that spring is here, and with it, the urgency of meeting deadlines on the annual calendar. The fashion world works a full year in advance, and every moment counts as we plan the new line.

As I hang up my coat, I hear Bret and Alfred inside the shop having a lively discussion about the New York Yankees. It sounds like an argument, but I can never tell-when men talk sports, they show a range of emotions rarely exhibited in other parts of their lives.

My brother and Bret have always gotten along on the surface. When I broke up with Bret years ago, Alfred made it very clear that he thought I was making a huge mistake. But, as in most things, Alfred will usually take the adversarial position when it comes to me. His disapproval wasn’t as much about Bret as about my inability to embrace the responsible, expected path-marriage to a nice, respectable breadwinner and all the claptrap that comes with it.

Bret and Alfred share the same working-class background, and both were brilliant in school, top of their classes. They even followed the same personal path: they married, moved to the suburbs, and each had two children. They appear to have a lot in common, but I know them both well, and Bret brings empathy to his aggressive business style, while my brother is ruthless. Our new arrangement, with Bret advising me on raising capital, will require some diplomacy, and the middle child (me) will play the middleman.

June left work a couple hours ago, and I skipped dinner to mentally prepare for our first meeting with Kathleen Sweeney from the Small Business Administration. I interrupt Bret and Alfred’s sports talk. “Whose idea was it to have a night meeting? I’m beat.”

“Kathleen is really backed up at work. It would take weeks to get a regular appointment-I finagled this because she owes me a favor,” Bret says.

“Now, we’re not committing to anything in this meeting, are we?” Alfred asks. There’s a tone of suspicion to his question.

“Alfred, if we’re going to grow, we have to be aggressive. There’s not a lot of cash out there, and while I’d prefer not to take a loan, we have to.”

“Have you looked at investor funds? Other sources of revenue?” Alfred turns to Bret.

“Absolutely. But you know the climate at the banks.”

“Yeah, I do,” Alfred says impatiently. “That’s what worries me. The banks are gouging people, ramping up interest rates.”

“I hear you,” Bret says.

“Just so you do,” Alfred carps.

I look at Alfred. “Hey, Bret is trying to help here.”

“Look, Alfred, there are options here. The SBA is looking to support small business. You’d be foolish not to entertain the idea of a low-interest loan to finance the production of the Bella Rosa .”

“I’m not a fan of taking on more debt,” Alfred grumbles.

“But if it yields results, what’s the problem?” Bret says.

Alfred senses he is being cornered, two against one. So I say, “Let’s see what she has to offer.”

“Fair enough.” Alfred leans back on the work stool and folds his arms. The showdown between the traditional banker (Alfred) and the Wall Street wonder (Bret) has been diffused for the moment. I hope this Kathleen is on her game. She’d better be, to deal with Alfred.

The buzzer sounds, and Bret goes to answer the door. I open the business file Gram left for me because I don’t want to make eye contact with my brother. He can’t seem to let go of his old image of me, and refuses to accept that I might know what I’m doing. I won’t let him rock my confidence. I can’t. The stakes are way too high right now.

“I’d like you to meet Kathleen Sweeney,” Bret announces.

Alfred stands and extends his hand. “Nice to meet you,” he says.

Kathleen smiles at Alfred. She’s petite, with an athletic build, around thirty, with short, layered red hair. She wears a Max Mara coat. Good sign-she knows quality. Her tiny nose has a few freckles, and she has bright green eyes. She comes straight off a poster for the Aer Lingus Welcome to Ireland campaign.

Bret helps her out of her coat. She wears a classic navy blue wool suit with a peplum jacket and a white blouse underneath. She also wears understated gold jewelry, small hoops and simple cross on a chain around her neck. But the gold is real.

“I’m Valentine.” I extend my hand.

“Great to meet you. You submitted the loan proposal. Very thorough work,” she says.

“Thanks.” I look at my brother. He definitely heard the professional compliment thrown my way.

Bret sits down next to me, Kathleen takes the work stool at the head of the table, and Alfred sits across from her.

Bret looks to me to run the meeting. He gives me an encouraging smile that says, It’s your show . So I step up.

“Kathleen, first of all, thank you for coming over to the shop. It’s important that you see the operation firsthand, so you might understand what we do here, and how the Small Business Administration can help us grow.”