Adriana Trigiani - Brava, Valentine

“I know, I know.”

“And I will guarantee you that Gram told him in the beginning, Just look out for Valentine, okay? She never proposed a partnership. Gram probably didn’t want to bother him, she probably said, Check in on Val at the shop once in a while, help out with the financials-and he said, Gram, it’s over at the bank. I need a job. You can’t just have me check the books-I need a stake in the thing, because I have no other options right now. I’m telling you as I’m standing here, I swear on my mother, father, and our standard poodle Brutus-all dead by the way-that your brother groveled for this gig.”

“You could be right about that. I mean, Gram never mentioned a partnership until we were all in Italy together for the wedding.”

“A little late to sit you two down, don’t you think?”

“Absolutely.”

“So almost on cue, when Alfred is feeling the most vulnerable on all fronts, and like a loser in general, then Missie the Redhead makes the scene.”

“Kathleen.”

“Yeah, her. Alfred couldn’t feel worse about himself; he’s watching June cut patterns and you making art, and he’s lived a life pushing around a bunch of fake numbers. He’s the lowest he’s ever been because he realizes that he’s spent his life not making anything. Missie the Redhead works for the government in a crap office downtown, and she’s ten years younger, therefore ten years dumber, and she looks up to your brother-who probably spun some tale to her like he’s gone back to his roots by choice to run this shoe company, and she looked at your brother, with his big life, and all his experience, and his full head of hair, and said, I want me some of that. And that’s what she’s having down there by the powder room. Some of that .”

“Dear God.”

“And everybody wins-at least in the short term. Your brother is nicer to his wife, the mistress has something to look forward to other than people like you filing loan applications-and Alfred gets his groove on. After the biggest disappointment of his life, he feels smart, scintillating, and desirable again, and then hot sex ensues. And the world goes round. Got it?”

“Oh, I got it.” I put my head in my hands.

Gram used to say if you are lucky enough to live a long life, you see everything come and go at least twice. If I had to predict the things in life that I would have seen twice, it would have included a lot of trends: the return of thick eyebrows, the resurgence of curly hair, and the reinvention of skorts. But I never thought I would have lived through Dad’s indiscretion twice, and I surely didn’t think it would be my own brother Alfred, so wounded by it so many years ago, who would repeat the mistake.

Gram’s absence, her move and new life, have never had such impact as they do right now. She was the calm center of our family, the glue. She would know what to say, and what to do-she’d knock some sense into Alfred, as she did my own father so many years ago. But family problems in a long lens aren’t nearly as potent as they are when they’re percolating in the next room. The distance between our shop on Perry Street and Dominic’s kitchen in Arezzo is so far, it might as well be a galaxy away.

No, we will have to sort this one out on our own. And whether I confront my brother or stay silent and stew, as he has done all these years in the shadow of my father’s mistake, will be my choice. I just wish my brother had made a better one.

I’ve dragged the last of the garden supplies onto the roof to plant the tomatoes. The potting soil, sticks, and planters are good to go. All I need are the plants, which my dad has promised to pick up in Queens, where they are sturdier and cheaper than the ones I would buy here in town.

I considered not planting them at all this year, but figured it had to be bad luck not to. I don’t want to be the first person in my family to cancel the family garden after decades of relying upon it for the August harvest. Even though Gram is gone, the tomatoes must go on.

I pull out my cell phone and sit down on the chaise. I dial Gram.

“Have any luck finding out about Rafael?” I ask.

“You were right. Michel and Rafael were brothers. I scanned the baptismal certificate and sent it to you. And they were about a year apart in age. Michel was the older of the two.”

“Unbelievable.” I can’t imagine what horrible transgression could possibly sever the relationship of two brothers forever. I know there is nothing that could come between my sisters and me. Alfred is different. And maybe part of the reason I want to understand the past in our family is to help me cope with my brother in the present. “What do you think happened between them?”

“I don’t know.” Gram is puzzled. “I was very close to my father-in-law-I can’t imagine why he wouldn’t have told me about this.”

“It must be something pretty awful.”

“Or maybe it’s just money,” Gram says. “My father-in-law watched every penny. And if anyone ever tried to take advantage of him, he cut them out.”

“Well, I’m about to find out what happened. I’m going down there.”

“You are?”

“I can’t tell enough about Roberta from e-mails. And I want to see her factory. Wouldn’t it be something if we could work together?”

“You’re doing so much more with the business than I ever could,” Gram says wistfully. This is the first time since her wedding that she sounds like she misses the Angelini Shoe Company.

“In the end, Gram, we’re still making shoes. It’s all about the shoes.”

She laughs. “I guess you’re right about that.”

“Gabriel moved in. I hope you don’t mind.”

“I think it’s great.”

“I do too. Now, here’s the big question. He wants to redecorate. Now, if you don’t want him to, I won’t let him.”

“How do you feel about it?” Gram asks.

My eyes sting with tears. “I guess I’m okay.” But I’m not. I’d do anything if Gram would say, “Don’t change a teacup. I’m on my way home.” But that’s never going to happen. Sometimes I think her move to Italy is God’s way of preparing me for our final parting, which I do not like to think about-ever.

“Valentine, I was apprehensive about moving over here. I was afraid to start all over again at my age. Yes, I had Dominic here to help me, but it’s still an enormous change. But I swear, once I got past the fear and threw myself into life in Arezzo, I feel twenty years younger. Just waking up to different walls-never mind a new husband, a new village-has given me a whole new perspective. I’ve got a new pep about me. Don’t be afraid of change.”

“Okay, okay,” I say.

“And don’t be afraid of color. I always meant to put more color into the rooms.”

“Gram, Gabriel is choosing the paint chips-I don’t think that’s going to be a problem.”

The Bus Stop Cafe is empty. The groggy waitress pours us the first cups of coffee from the pot; we’re her first patrons at the start of another long day. Greenwich Village is waking slowly, an occasional cab passes by on 8th Avenue, but the streets are empty, and the new morning sun throws very little light on my neighborhood.

Bret pours the cream into my coffee, extra light, no sugar, just like I like it. We used to hang out at the Bus Stop Cafe when we were teenagers, and felt so grown up. Everything has changed in the world, except this diner. The fry cook, the owner, and the waitress are still here twenty years on.

“We’re old,” he says.

“What makes you say that?”

“The staff.”

“Maybe they’re old, and we’re still young.”

“Keep dreaming. You don’t have children yet. Now, that reminds you the clock is ticking.”