Adriana Trigiani - Brava, Valentine

My parents took care of everything they had. A car was never purchased new, but used and in good condition. I don’t remember a painter or a plumber visiting our home; my father repaired everything himself. My mother even helped my father pour a concrete walkway in the backyard when it was her dream to have one.

My mother aspired, and still does, to possess the finer things of life, but even those markers-a marble foyer, a Jacuzzi in the bathroom, a state-of-the-art kitchen, all the features of fine living and upward mobility-were provided by my father through the labor of his own hands. He did the work wealthy people hire other people to do. My mother didn’t sit around while he made things, she became his eager assistant. It may seem that Mom has airs, but she never lived in a rarefied atmosphere.

I remember my parents working together on projects around our house. They made my mother’s obsession for a beautiful home a family project. I remember paint chips, and swatches, and Saturday afternoons at the lumberyard, where they’d scheme a new room, or improve an old one. Their marriage is one of true minds-they’re a team, and they like figuring things out together. My mother never had a career, but she always had an agenda. And my father dutifully went along with it. So my mother got her dream life, and my father, a purpose.

“There’s a real art to a good marriage, isn’t there?”

“I think so,” Bret says. “Making someone happy is a full-time job.”

“Mackenzie’s lucky,” I say. “But she’s also smart. She picked a good guy who gave her everything she ever wanted.”

“I hope so.” Bret smiles. “Thanks for noticing.”

But it’s me who is grateful to him-no matter what, Bret Fitzpatrick believes in me-and maybe it’s old loyalty carried into adulthood, but whatever it is, I can always count on him. We come from the same place.

The Fitzpatricks and the Roncallis are people who gather in kitchens around a tray of homemade manicotti, not in fancy living rooms where silver trays of canapés are passed. Where we come from, champagne is for toasting, good china is for holidays, and silver place settings are heirlooms while love is given freely, not something exchanged in hopes of material gain or social status. There is something to be treasured about people who know instinctively when enough is enough.

Across the way, the Bleecker Park playground, nestled under old elm trees, comes to life with toddlers on their early-morning play dates. A mother guides a stroller with one hand while pushing the wrought iron gate open with the other. A father, his hair wet from the shower, wears a business suit and holds his son’s hand as they walk quickly toward P.S. 41 in time for the bell.

The swings in the park, filled with children, begin to sway, and I watch a little girl, her legs pushing higher and higher as she leans back into the swing. Soon, it seems she might take flight.

18 aprile 2010

Cara Valentina,

I made a delivery of kidskin to the Prato mill and thought of you. I thought about your pink dress and how you looked very much like a peony the day I brought you here a year and a half ago. Signora inquired about you at the mill. I sent your regards. Prada is doing a boot made of velvet and leather for Spring 2011, and Signora cannot get enough Vechiarelli leather.

I have reread your last letter over and over again, knowing that you are very busy and cannot write as often as I do. Your words stay with me, as does the sound of your laughter. How I long to hear it again. I will call you. The sound of your voice must do, but please say you will come to Arezzo in the summer. The lavender will bloom in your honor-I promise.

Love,

Gianluca

The workshop is in pre-shipping mode, which means that every surface is covered with open red and white striped shoe boxes. It’s like falling into Aunt Feen’s pressed glass candy dish, which was filled year-round with peppermint wheels except at Christmastime, when she replaced the old Brach standbys and sprang for the chocolate and hazelnut Baci in the blue-and-silver foil wrappers.

I survey the box count against the shipping lists, propped on the table with instructions. I put down my coffee and flip on the work lights. The gates on the windows have been rolled back. Alfred is already at his desk. It’s six o’clock in the morning, and he usually arrives at nine.

“Hey,” I say softly so as not to startle him. “There’s coffee up in the kitchen.”

“I stopped at the deli.”

I make space for my coffee on the table. I open the finishing closet, filled with layers of pumps, by size, separated by thin sheets of muslin. The pale pumps, soft calfskin dyed in shell pink, mint green, buttercup yellow, and beige, are stacked by size. The scent of sweet wax and leather fills the air.

“I think we should talk,” Alfred says.

“Sure.” I sit down on the work stool. I have been dreading this moment, when Alfred actually admits he’s having an affair with Kathleen Sweeney and swears me to confidentiality. I’d really like to pretend that I didn’t see Alfred and Kathleen together, and life could go on as it has before. It was so much easier when I disliked my brother for the way he treated me. Now I have to dislike him for the way he treats his wife.

Alfred takes a deep breath and says, “I think I should go to Buenos Aires with you.”

The look on my face must be one of total surprise. Alfred agreed that I should go when we discussed this weeks ago.

He quickly adds, “I’d like to see the operation there.”

“I don’t know if Roberta even wants to bid on manufacturing the Bella Rosa . And since we may have to send you to China eventually, I think we should keep costs down and just one of us should go. And I think it should be me, because I need to figure out how to put the shoe in production on-site.”

“This isn’t about your ability. You absolutely know what you’re doing,” he says.

What’s going on here? Alfred has never been supportive of me. Something is up. His tone throws me off guard. “Okay, where’s the hammer?”

He looks at me, confused.

“Lower the hammer. You know, this is the moment when you say, ‘Just kidding. If I, Alfred, walked out of here, you’d fold in a week.’ So go on. Say it.”

“But that’s not true.”

“Alfred, now is not the moment for earnest . I need honest.”

“You work hard, and you produce. You’ve kept up production on the custom shoes while developing the new line. You’re committed. You’re careful about costs. You even took in a roommate who pays rent-and all that helps in running the building and bringing down the debt. I can’t be critical of you.”

“Well.” I think for a moment. “Thank you,” I say.

I’m a classic middle child. If someone is nice to me, I’m nice right back. If they’re mean, then I can be too. But when behavior crosses over into cruelty, I retreat entirely. So in light of Alfred’s lovely observations about my work ethic and product, I feel I should return the compliment. “Alfred, you’ve come up with good ideas-and I think we’re producing at a level we never did before because you’re doing our budget and the financials. I mean, I’ve never done a shipment this size, knowing exactly what it costs, and what we’ll make. We never thought about the profit margin. You’ve introduced real business standards to our company.”

“It’s nothing special.”

“It is to me. I’m grateful to you for all you’ve done.”

“But we still fight,” he says.

“We do, and I don’t like it. But it’s getting better. And I’m completely confident leaving you here to run the shop while I’m gone.”