Adriana Trigiani - Brava, Valentine

My cell phone rings on the counter. I pick it up while Mom and Gram go down the long, lonesome road of life with Feen.

“Valentine, it’s Pamela. When did Alfred leave?”

I check the clock. “Around five. He had a bunch of meetings with the Small Business rep downtown.”

“He’s supposed to be here for Rocco’s parent-teacher conference. I have a sitter and everything.”

“He’s not answering his cell?” I ask.

“It goes straight to voice mail.” She sounds completely frustrated.

“I’ll track him down. You go ahead to school, and I’ll tell him you’ll meet him there.”

I hang up with Pamela and call my brother. He picks up the phone after a couple of rings. “Hey, Alfred. Call Pamela. She couldn’t reach you and said there’s some parent-teacher thing at school.”

“Oh, no.”

“You forgot?” This is not like Alfred at all. He remembers everything-including the grade he got on his calculus final in eleventh grade. “Well, get on the bus, brother. She’s waiting for you.”

I snap the phone shut, completely annoyed. Along with a partnership I never wanted, I am officially my brother’s keeper. What’s next? I spend my Saturday afternoons ironing Alfred’s shirts?

My mother scans the keyboard on the computer. “How do you shut this off?”

“Are you done?”

“Yes.”

I hit the buttons out of Skype. The screen goes black. My mother claps her hands together. “What a trailblazing invention. I just love the 21st century! It’s so William Shatner. So Star Trek.”

“Do you ever miss old-fashioned ways?”

“Which ones?”

“Love letters written with a fountain pen?”

“Oh, God no. Your father can’t spell. He cannot express himself via words at all . He tried to write to me when we were young, but I needed a dramaturg to deconstruct his sentiments. No, no, I like how we communicate now. Dutch tells me how he feels to my face. Press a button and my mother’s face pops up from Italy. There’s nothing like right now, in the moment.”

The Small Business Adminstration office is two doors down from the room we are sent to when serving on jury duty. The waiting area is filled with people, laptops out, cell phones on, doing business. I sign in. Whenever you deal with doctors or government agencies, there’s invariably a clipboard and a number 2 pencil dangling from a string.

Kathleen pokes her head out the office door and motions to me. I point to the list-there’s at least nine names in front of mine. She waves me in.

“I have your paperwork all set to go,” she says as she closes the door behind me.

“Already?” I’m amazed and also slightly guilty about the line I just jumped in the waiting room. Kathleen has really been charmed by the Angelini Shoe Company.

“It was a snap. Alfred looked over it and signed it.”

“Great.”

“Ray Rinaldi approved them and sent three sets back to me for your signature.” Kathleen places the documents in front of me and gives me a pen. I sign the paperwork. She stamps them.

“You should have your loan within six weeks. This gives you time to make a deal with a manufacturer.”

“I’m on it.”

Kathleen stands. “You’ve been great to work with.”

I open my tote bag and lift out our signature red and white striped shoebox. “These are for you.”

Kathleen opens the box. “They’re gorgeous!” She lifts out a pair of Flora calfskin slippers. “I can’t possibly keep them.”

“Why not? It’s not a bribe. The loan has already been approved.” I point to a bouquet of flowers with a thank-you card that sits on Kathleen’s desk. “We express our gratitude with shoes instead of flowers. Friend to friend.”

“I’ve had a great time working with you and your family.” Kathleen smiles.

I never noticed how pretty she was, or maybe now I see her as a beauty because she just promised me enough money to make the Bella Rosa .

I place my copy of the contract in my tote bag. I feel very guilty when I pass through the waiting room loaded with people who, just like me, need a loan to survive, and hopefully grow.

I text Bret:

Me: LOAN APPROVED!

Bret: Congrats!

Me: Thanks to you.

Bret: Now we find a factory.

Me: In the U.S.?

Bret: Arguing with your brother about China.

Me: I knew he’d be a problem.

Bret: That’s why I’m here. I fight. You make your beautiful shoes.

Me: What would I do without you? I know: I’d be in proper therapy!

Bret: You’re my therapy. Nobody makes me laugh like you.

Me: Or you!

Bret: xo

Me: xo

Tess, Jaclyn, and I sit in the rotunda waiting area of Sloan Kettering Hospital. Dad is here for his checkup, and Mom seemed nervous about coming alone, so we all came to give them our support. You would think, after the diagnosis and months of treatment, that we would be used to the grind that comes with a diagnosis of stage-two prostate cancer, but we’re not. We live in fear, but we don’t talk about it. We put on big smiles, joke and laugh to keep our parents’ spirits up. But all the while we grip the rosaries in our pockets, holding on to the beads, praying for good news every time Dad has to walk through those doors.

We love the word remission , and we throw the word cure around as our deepest wish (because it is). But cancer is now an official member of the Roncalli family. We don’t like it, we didn’t ask for it to be born, but it’s here, and we have to accept all of it: its cranky moods and unpredictable behavior, its sudden retreat when the doctors try a new drug and tell us to go home and wait for the results. In the meantime, we cope with the toll it takes on our father, who goes from normal to exhausted to sick as the doctors try to make him better.

But today, I’m feeling unusually lucky. With the loan approval, maybe we’re on a roll, and things in general will begin to go well for my family. I’m superstitious, though, because I’ve seen momentum go in the other direction, so I keep my optimism to myself.

“Do you think Dad will get a good report?” Jaclyn asks.

“He looks good. You know, physically.”

“Val, he always looks good. The people in our family can be at death’s door and they never look sick. They die in the picture of health. You can’t count on visuals,” Tess says.

“I hope I age like Dad. He’s looked the same since he was forty.”

“It’s the nose,” Jaclyn says. “A nose is important as you get older. It holds everything up. Like a tent pole.” Jaclyn scrolls through her BlackBerry. “Look. Gram sent a picture of Dominic and her. Check it out.”

Gram and Dominic embrace on the deck of a cruise ship. There are foamy white caps on the Black Sea. They are bundled up like sherpas, in down coats, knit caps, dark sunglasses, and thick gloves.

“Are they on their honeymoon, or did they join the Russian mob?”

“It must have been cold over there,” Tess says. “Freezing. Hey, here’s one with Gianluca.” Jaclyn hands it to me.

I look down at the picture. He’s standing by the hood of his car with a peevish expression on his face. Gram and Dominic must have been late to go somewhere. Annoyed or not, he looks gorgeous in the picture.

“Have you heard from him? I mean, any word since I caught him in the bathroom?”

“Yes, I’ve heard from him.”

My sisters lean in.

“Are you Skyping?” Tess asks, trying not to pry, but desperate to know every detail.

“No. We write letters.”

“With stamps?”

“Yes, Tess. With ink, stamps, envelopes. The old post office routine.”

“Wow. How romantic.” Tess says the word without meaning it. Her idea of romance is cards that play songs when you open them, huge floral arrangements, and a diamond heart suspended on a thick gold chain. A handwritten letter is the poor man’s way to a woman’s heart, and Tess, like my mother, prefers the glitz. “An old-fashioned letter.”