Adriana Trigiani - Brava, Valentine

“You make things by hand, like those beautiful birthday party invitations. You’re a wonderful hostess. Your home is a showplace.”

“That’s the trick of it. I thought it mattered that I made the best cupcakes and knew the difference between Berber and sisal carpet. I thought it mattered that I run every morning and stay in shape-you know, to keep my energy up for this big life I’m leading.”

“But you are leading a big life.”

“It doesn’t feel like it. My life gets smaller every single day. I worked until a month before I had Maeve. I was supposed to go back to work after six months, and I just never did.”

“But you were taking care of a baby.”

“I’m not saying one is more important than the other. Of course the needs of a child are more important than any career. But just try and live it day after day. And see how you feel.”

“The definition of happiness is very personal. What might make me happy-”

“I’m not happy,” she cuts me off. “And maybe there are a million reasons why, but the truth is, I only need one to justify changing my life.”

“I’m sorry,” I say.

Mackenzie looks at me. “Besides, it’s too late. It’s just too late.”

“Why do you say that?”

She holds the screen door open. She shifts from one foot to the other, looking to escape. This conversation has gone too far, and she knows it. She did not plan to go down this road. “I’ve already seen a lawyer.”

“Does Bret know?”

She shakes her head.

“He’ll be devastated,” I promise her.

“These things happen.”

“They happen because you let them happen,” I tell her.

She looks at me. “I need to go.” The screen door snaps shut.

I go to the edge of the roof to catch my breath.

“What the hell was that?” Gabriel says. “She clomped down those steps like a show pony.”

“She’s dissatisfied with her marriage. With Bret.”

“Oh, please. We hardly know the woman. You recall we were shunned from the wedding. How dare she come up the stairs and dump all over you?”

“She accused me of having an affair with Bret.”

“I’ve always said you and Bret aren’t over.”

“Gabriel.”

“Sorry. I know nothing is going on between you two…is it?”

“No.”

“Just checking. After all, Bret is here , and it’s over with Gianluca. I don’t know what you do when I go off to work at the Carlyle at night. This place could be a love den, for all I know.”

“I get up early, work all day, go to bed early, and start over again.”

“No secret life?”

“There is one thing.”

“I knew it!”

“I wait for the mailman every day.”

“You love Mr. Vinnie?”

“No, I’m just hoping that one of these days, he’ll have something in his sack for me marked Italia.”

Gabriel thinks about this for a moment. “You know what it’s like living with you? It’s like watching a Bette Davis weepie.”

“Better than being in it, my friend,” I tell him.

Gabriel goes back inside. I till the earth around the tomato plants with the trowel. I pour some water from the can into the planter.

Marriages break up, and the excuse, at the heart of it, is “growing apart.” I pull back the leaves on the tomato plants, pulling off dead ones and making room for new foliage.

I can’t help but notice that the small buds of the new plants, created from the seeds of the older ones, are fresh and green, and grow hardy in the shade of the parent. If Mackenzie were a gardener, she would know that it’s the rare shoot that survives outside the nurturing of the parent plant-that it takes the strength of the whole to give way to a full harvest.

I Skype Roberta in Buenos Aires. The first face I see is baby Enzo’s, who sits on his mother’s lap. Roberta shifts her screen.

“He’s getting so big!”

“I can’t believe it.” Roberta smiles. “I spoke with Alfred. You know I had my doubts about taking on new product. We’ve been making men’s shoes all of these years. Why would we change? But I was walking around the mill yesterday, and I was thinking, the last time we grew the business, and tried something new was when my father started manufacturing. It was that long ago. And then, when you came to visit, and you had so many sketches, so many ideas-I thought, I’ve lost touch with the art of my work. So I went to my staff. And Sandra in cutting has always wanted to cut women’s shoes, and also to work with new fibers. She likes change. And then I went through and looked at each department. We can handle the work-and if we can’t, and if you decide that you don’t want to use us, we will still consider expanding our physical plant, and pursuing new business.”

“Good for you.”

“Thank you for giving me a push.”

“You’re welcome.”

“And no matter what happens, if you choose Caminito Shoes or not, we will always be friends.”

“And family.”

“And family.” She smiles.

The early morning sun fills the workroom with light. The work table is covered in small stacks of deep blue suede, a sea of pattern pieces pinned with sheer paper, and measurements marked by June.

I open the ledger on the desk and view Alfred’s report chronicling the comparables between Chinese manufacturers and Roberta’s factory. He has done his homework.

Our squabbling days are, hopefully, over. Maybe it’s distance from the end of the affair with Kathleen, or his efforts to get along, or mine, but whatever the reason, we are on the right track. June has been helpful-she doesn’t play referee, but she is the Common Sense Cop when we need her. Bret and Alfred have found a way to communicate. Alfred is no longer threatened by Bret’s ideas, and Bret has come to a place where he sees that Alfred, when he puts the company first, makes sound decisions.

This has been difficult for Alfred. I’m sure he wanted to focus on the big picture for the future of the shoe company, but I needed him to run the business on a daily basis. Bret is out in the world, and he knows how to raise money and find it in places Alfred would never have access to. A common goal will do that. It took all of us, becoming better listeners and considering one another’s ideas, to bring us to this morning, when we will finally choose the factory that will make the Bella Rosa .

Alfred pushes through the entrance, carrying two coffees from the deli. He’s learned the basic laws of life in our shop-whoever ventures inside from the outside is responsible for the coffee run. We’ve been so busy of late, the old pot on the cart in the back of the shop has been empty, and we rely on the neighborhood Greeks for our caffeine hit.

“Sorry for the early morning,” I tell him.

“The train was empty-it’s actually an easier commute.”

Alfred sorts through the paperwork sent by our cousin Roberta while I pull the box filled with Roberta’s samples of the Bella Rosa off the shelf to show Alfred.

Roberta made two dozen pairs of flats from the patterns we sent to her. I also bring down the box filled with the Chinese samples-Roberta’s competition. We asked Sung Ma Inc. to run the same pattern and assembly and price it out for us.

“The Chinese samples are solid,” I tell my brother.

“Are you leaning toward going with them now?”

“They do good work,” I concede. I have learned how to negotiate with my brother. If I came on strong and insisted we go with Roberta, he’d fight me. So I let him think that I have an open mind. I lift Roberta’s samples out of the box and hand them to Alfred. “But, I really like Roberta’s work,” I say.

“There is a delicacy to her stitchwork. The Chinese are bolder,” Alfred says.