Adriana Trigiani - Brava, Valentine

“Why?”

“To lessen the work on your end.”

“But we have an excellent finishing department. My girls are perfectionists. They have experience with grosgrain and patent leather finishing on my formal men’s shoes. I believe they would do an excellent job on your design.”

“Okay, then, I’m officially open to finishing the shoes here.”

“Good.”

“So you’ll consider this?”

“I like you.” She leans back in her chair.

“My daughter rarely likes anyone,” Lupe says.

“I’ll be right back.” Roberta gets up and goes into the house.

I reach over and take Lupe’s hand. “Thank you for this delicious lunch. I hope someday you’ll both visit us in New York City, and I can return the hospitality.”

“I’ve never been to New York.”

“Well, when you do, you stay with me.”

“Thank you.”

Roberta comes out of the house carrying a small bundle of envelopes. She gives them to me. “When my father died, he gave me these letters. They were handed down from Rafael to his son Xavier to my father. They were tied with this string, never opened, and never answered. My father always said that even though Rafael held a grudge against his brother to his death, he must have loved Michel, because he saved these letters. Maybe you would like to have them. I believe they belong to your family.”

I look down at the bundle, kept in pristine condition. There must be a dozen envelopes. The black fountain pen ink has faded to charcoal gray. The U.S. postage stamps are dated from 1922 to 1924. At the bottom of the stack is a series of empty envelopes, addressed to Rafael and opened with a letter opener.

“Those were the envelopes with the checks. My great-grandfather opened them and deposited the money. But he did not open the letters. He did, however, leave a note that said, ‘Marker paid in full.’ I think that’s important,” she says.

Roberta and I appear to be very different. She’s a mass-production shoemaker and not a custom cobbler-but she is every bit as particular as I am when it comes to her product. Roberta’s keen artistic eye follows all the same principles that I follow when constructing a pair of high-quality shoes: it’s about design, line, shape, and execution. It’s about seeking the finest of materials from around the world-leather, suede, and silk-procuring them, and insisting upon the best techniques to build the shoe, so when it goes to be sold, the craftsmanship will showcase the value.

I saw firsthand how Roberta demands the same quality in the production of her machine-made shoes that I do in my custom line. As I grow the brand, I will need the best manufacturer I can find to build the Bella Rosa . I believe I have found her, here in Buenos Aires. And the best news: she’s family. So, three generations later, we meet again, this time on Rafael’s terms, and with the hopes of Michel that went unrealized because two brothers could not find a way to forgive one another, and accept one another’s choices. Maybe we can be better; maybe we can even do better.

After lunch, Roberta took me to the textile mill where the new microfiber fabric has been created from cotton and hemp. It’s thick and luxurious, and a strong possibility for construction of the Bella Rosa . As I head back to the hotel, I’m far later than I thought I would be, but the trip to the mill was informative and important. I feel guilty that I leave Gianluca on his own day after day, but he doesn’t seem to mind. And after all, I’m here to work, I remind myself.

I check my BlackBerry. My heart sinks when I see that I’ve missed three calls from Gianluca. I hope he received my message and spent the day by the pool. I’m looking forward to his strong arms around me. I call the hotel to let him know I’m on my way. The phone rings through, but he doesn’t answer. The operator comes on and asks if I’d like to leave a message. I don’t leave one.

I’m in the habit of getting business done whenever I can, even in the car between the hotel and the factory. I don’t want to lose a minute of play time with Gianluca, so I have to hustle when I have a spare moment. So I text Bret:

Me: Amazing factory in BA. Cousin wants to sign on. Details pending.

Bret: Great news.

Me: If not for you, for the loan, for everything, this would not have happened. How can I thank you?

Bret: Close the deal!

Me: XOXO

Bret: XOXO

I text Alfred.

Me: Looks good with Roberta. Go ahead and connect. I will send numbers.

Alfred: How did it go?

Me: I think you can carve out a deal! The factory is first-class.

Alfred: Unbelievable.

Me: How are you?

Alfred: Better.

Me: Hang tough, brother.

Alfred: I will!

I cut and paste Roberta’s numbers into the phone and send to Alfred. I quickly return e-mails to Tricia Halfacre, my button salesman, who found some oversize patent leather medallions she thought would be “fetching” on the Bella Rosa . There are messages from Gabriel, who misses me, and Tess, who wants to know, oddly enough, about Argentinian food. I swear sometimes my family doesn’t understand that I have a real job. Somehow, they still see me as a ten-year-old girl sewing a pair of felt boots in the shop for my teddy bear. If only they could see me now.

When I push the hotel room door open, there are no lights on. How strange. I move to go into the living room. “Gianluca?” I call out. I look in the bedroom, and then the bath; no sign of him. When I return to the living room, I trip over his suitcase. Then I see that the French doors to the balcony are open.

Gianluca sits on the balcony with his back to the doors. I put my arms around him from behind. He pulls away.

“What’s the matter?” I ask, knowing full well what’s the matter. I’m hours late when I promised to be home early.

“It’s ten o’clock at night,” he says.

“Did you get my message?”

“I received a message that said you wouldn’t be back for lunch, but that you would be home for an early supper. I called you three times. I’ve been waiting here for hours, and I did not hear from you.”

“I would have called you back right away, but Roberta took me to the textile mill, and I didn’t hear my phone. I didn’t realize that you had called.” My gut fills with guilt. I could’ve called him, many times. And when I was in the car and didn’t get him on the phone, I should have sent the porter. Instead, I answered e-mails and texts-and even communicated with my button salesman. As a girlfriend, I am about as low as you can get.

“I was worried about you,” he says tensely. “I don’t know this cousin of yours, or the barrio the factory is in-you left me here with no information, no other way to reach you.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You’ve apologized a great deal on this trip. You say ‘I’m sorry’ often.”

“That’s because I am sorry.”

He is really angry. And he’s not buying my contrition for a second. I know I’ve crossed the line. He knows I could have connected with him-he knows I put the shoes first. And he’s absolutely right. I have really screwed up here. Gianluca sits in silence.

“I can’t help it,” I whine. “Roberta had been frosty, and today she thawed-and invited me to her home for lunch with her mother. I got the whole story about my family. And then I had to see where they make the microfiber.”

Gianluca looks off, uninterested.

“You couldn’t care less,” I say, more a revelation than an accusation.

“I didn’t come this far to be treated poorly,” he says.

“You knew I had business here. This isn’t a vacation for me-it’s work. I’m sorry…” I stop. I am apologizing all the time to him. He’s right on that count. What am I sorry for exactly? Putting him out? “No, I’m not sorry, Gianluca. You surprised me here, and I’m not going to apologize for doing the work I came here to do. I thought you, of all people, would understand that.”