“Fair enough,” he says quietly.
“And…I’m not going to agree to any of this unless you agree that you will not be directly involved in the creative side—”
“Fine.” Alfred cuts me off, not because he doesn’t want to argue, but the truth is, he could not care less about the shoes. He could as easily be CFO of a company that makes bricks—Angelini shoes are just a product to him, numbers on a ledger. Legacy is a cross to my brother, not a crown.
“I don’t want you underfoot,” I tell him.
“Then we have a problem,” he says.
“Alfred will be a full partner in every way,” Gram says. “He’s going to devote himself to modernizing the company, on a day-to-day basis.”
“How? He already has a job.”
“I’m no longer at the bank,” Alfred says quietly.
“What?” Maybe this is what Pamela and Alfred were fighting about—exactly what Jaclyn heard through the walls at the inn. “You quit the bank?”
“I was let go,” he admits.
“But you’ve been there eighteen years!” In an instant, I’m defensive for my brother. He is, after all, a brilliant businessman and the biggest success story in our family. The fact that he didn’t respect my work never meant that I didn’t respect his. I’m angry for him. “Those banks!”
“I saw it coming,” Alfred says. “But that doesn’t make it any easier. Believe me, I wouldn’t take this job if I didn’t have to.”
“Gram, it’s not right that you went behind my back and made a deal with Alfred without consulting me.”
“We needed a plan, Valentine. I didn’t want to dump the whole company on you and leave you to struggle in this economy without a plan.”
“Fair enough. But Alfred?”
“Valentine,” Gram warns. “We’re lucky we have someone in the family with Alfred’s knowledge and level of experience.”
“Of all people! He hates my guts.”
“I don’t hate you at all,” my brother says impatiently. “I don’t approve of the way you do things, and I question your choices—”
“Who are you to question my choices? I know how you feel—you think I’m a screw-up, in life and work. How would you like to feel judged all the time?”
“You have good qualities,” he says quietly.
“There’s a ringing endorsement.”
“Look, Gram is right. You need help. Someone to take the reins.”
“You’re not taking the reins, Alfred. We’re sharing them. Right, Gram?”
I remember the ride to the church this morning, and how when the horse went off course, and the wheels slid on the wet pavement, the driver held both reins and guided the carriage back to safety. It would never work to have two drivers, each holding one of the reins, each with a different idea about how to direct the carriage back on course. It takes one driver to steer a carriage—and a singular vision to run a company.
I have no idea how a partnership with my brother could possibly work. I can’t picture myself side by side with Alfred, making important decisions or haggling about inventory. But this is the deal Gram has made, and it’s her company, and her building. She could have given them both to me outright, but she didn’t. I have to accept her terms. I have no choice. And she knows it.
“When you return home, I’ve set up a meeting with Ray at the shop. He’ll go over the details, but I’ve already signed off on my end. I’m no longer sole proprietor of the Angelini Shoe Company. I will maintain an emeritus position on the board of directors, which now includes each of you. When the time comes for me to sell the business outright, that will be a decision that we will make together. In the meantime, can I trust you two to take care of our family business?”
Alfred says yes aloud, and I nod in agreement. I’m afraid if I speak, I’ll cry, and I can’t give Alfred that satisfaction.
“Your grandfather would be so happy, and so proud that his grandchildren joined forces to run his company.” Gram’s voice breaks. Grandpop has loomed over this day like a heavy storm cloud threatening rain. In the glow of her present happiness with Dominic, Gram has been thinking about her first husband. She and Grandpop’s long and difficult marriage has fallen into shadow, but not so far into the dark as to not be seen. Gram spent more than fifty years of her life with my grandfather, and even in death, his wishes matter to her.
“You took good care of the family brand,” I reassure her.
“You can do better,” she assures me. “And with Alfred, you will.”
The things I will remember about Gram’s wedding won’t be poignant (the recitation of the vows) or sad (Aunt Feen hitting the floor), they won’t be joyous, or romantic, they will be practical. With one hand she signed her wedding license, and with the other she cut the Angelini Shoe Company in half, like a sheet of leather.
As we climb the steps of the inn, the night sky changes from midnight blue to steel gray. A small sliver of a powder blue moon pushes through the dark clouds. The moon doesn’t throw much light, but it doesn’t have to. I can see everything plainly: the road is dark, it’s winding, and I have no idea where it leads.
3
Ain’tcha Ever Coming Back
I TURN THE KEY IN the door of my room at the Spolti Inn, careful not to make a sound. I don’t want to trigger any late-night powwows with my sisters. I’ve seen enough of the Angelinis, Roncallis, Fazzanis, McAdoos, and Vechiarellis for a lifetime, not to mention Gepetto, the wedding guest who, in our darkest hour, became one of us as he witnessed Aunt Feen’s swan dive into public drunkenness. The way this evening has gone, I should have joined her. Better to be drunk to take the blow of Gram’s decision than stone-cold sober.
I don’t know what Gram was thinking, sticking me with Alfred as my partner, but she hasn’t done me any favors since she fell in love with Dominic. It’s almost as if True Love has rotted her brain. And here I am—her defender and champion—left with partial when I deserved the whole. She split the Angelini Shoe Company in two, like a pair of shoes, handing one to my brother and the other to me, rendering one completely useless without the other.
I drop my shawl and my purse on the bed. Then I kick off my shoes.
I look around the room for something, anything, to eat. I’m starving. Well, there’s always the welcome platter that Signora Guarasci left in each of our rooms. A bottle of pink liquor, some breadsticks, and a bowl of fresh figs call my name.
I grab the bottle and the corkscrew off the platter and, placing it on the nightstand, stab the point into the cork. I’m so over this day, I could bite off the neck of the bottle with my teeth. I need a drink, and I need it now. How ironic. I spent most of the day at the hospital waiting for my drunken great-aunt to sober up—and the first thing I do in the hotel room is grab the booze. At least this particular weakness is in the DNA, it’s not my fault.
I fill the crystal tumbler from the dressing table with pink whatever-it-is to the brim. I rip open the breadsticks, anchor one in my mouth like a cigar, and chew. Then I sit down in the rocker, pull the footstool over, and put my feet up. I hold up the glass and toast myself. Congratulations! You didn’t get kissed! You didn’t eat cake! You were upstaged by Bella Boobs, and you’re in business with your brother, who has never liked you! We’ve got a winner! I swig.
Then, I look down at the scads of faux pearls that lie on my chest in a tangled clump. What was I thinking? They are ticky-tacky. On top of all the indignities of the day, I didn’t even look good.
After twelve hours, the pearls feel like pennyweights around my neck. I lift the mass of them over my head and drop them on the floor. That’s the beauty of plastic; it travels well and takes abuse. I could drop them out the window and they wouldn’t shatter on the streets below—no, they’d just tuck and roll, like my ego has done all day long. I won’t wear multiple strands of Coco Chanel–inspired pearls ever again—unless I’m in France. This look did not work in Italy. Or maybe it just didn’t work on Gianluca Vechiarelli, and that’s what
’s troubling me. I take another swig.
I text Gabriel Biondi, who would be the love of my life if he weren’t gay. We’ve been best friends since college, and he’s the desperate call I can make at 3:00 A.M.—or the transatlantic text I can make at any other hour of the day. Right now, he’s devising the seating chart for the sold-out Saturday night show at the Carlyle. He’ll be happy to hear from me, if only to procrastinate at work.
Me: Disaster in Italy.
Gabe: What?
Me: Aunt Feen hammered at the reception. Was hospitalized.
Gabe: OMG.
Me: Gets worse.
Gabe: How?
Me: Alfred fired at the bank—Gram put him in business with me.
Gabe: The Apocalypse!
Me: It’s here. I’m sucking flames.
Gabe: How’s John Lukka?
Me: Learn to spell. You’re Italian. GIANLUCA brought a date to the wedding.
Gabe: Expletive.
Me: Uh huh.
Gabe: Thought at least you’d get lucky.
Me: No such lukka.
Gabe: They cut my hours at the Carlyle.
Me: No!
Gabe: It’s gonna be a Hard Candy Christmas around here.
Me: It’s only February.
Gabe: OK. Hard Candy Saint Patrick’s Day.
Me: I’m sorry.
Gabe: Come home.
Me: In a hurry.
There’s a knock at the door. I ignore it.
The knock becomes a series of small, persistent taps. Guilt washes over me. What if Aunt Feen has stopped breathing? What if my dad or mom is sick? I take a big gulp of the wine and throw my phone on the bed. I give up.
“Coming.” I open the door.
“Valentina.” Gianluca leans against the sash of the door and folds his arms. The fine gray wool of his morning suit appears pressed, as if he just put it on. The only indication that he’s been through the same long day I just endured is the loosened tie, a black-and-white-striped foulard whose undone knot gives him the sexy air of formal/casual sprezzatura—even at this hour.
“Hi.” I close my eyes and inhale the familiar scent of his skin, a combination of clean lemon and spicy leather, before I take a step back into my room. I wasn’t expecting him. Ever. I am in postevent decline: my mascara is smudged like raccoon tar pits underneath my eyes, my dress is half unzipped, and I smell like cheap dessert wine. What a confluence of lovely to lure this man into my lair. “Just a moment,” I say to him. I go to the bed, snap open my evening bag, and remove his handkerchief. “Here.” I hold it out for him. “Thank you.”
“I’m not here for the handkerchief.”
“Oh.” I fold the handkerchief in half, and then, after a few moments of silence, I turn it into an origami accordion in my hand. The hallway behind Gianluca is quiet and still. The only light comes from the security lamp at the far end of the corridor.
“I hoped that I might choose the right room,” he says.
“Aunt Feen is down the hall,” I tell him, waving in the general direction of her room. What a responsible guy. He came to check on his new aunt, the one with a drinking problem.
“How is she?” he asks.
“She’s sleeping it off.”
A few moments pass. I refold the handkerchief.
“Are you going to ask me in?”
I pause. Actually, I freeze. Ask him in? For what, exactly? Maybe Carlotta rebuffed him. Just like the paste version of real pearls, I’m her substitute. Or maybe that’s not it at all. Maybe it’s a business thing, and he wants to sell me some rare calfskin for the shop. Or maybe it’s an old debt. It’s possible that I owe him for the horse and carriage. All I know is that he’s standing there waiting…for something.
Oh, if only it were me. My secret hopes for a wedding-trip tryst with Gianluca hit the ground and burst into flames the moment he showed up with Carlotta at the reception. I didn’t see that coming; a woman with a love plan never does. My instincts did not serve me well, but to be fair, when I’m with my family, they never do. My instincts focus elsewhere—usually churning around some drama they’ve created. The pursuit of potential romance and family obligations do not mix.
When Gianluca left the hospital with Carlotta, I felt rejected. Ridiculous, I know. (You cannot be rejected by someone that you do not actually have a date with.) Gianluca and I were hardly a sure thing, but if our past encounters were any indication, there was heat, a mutual attraction, and a certain sympathy that I imagined might lead to something more. It’s been a few months since I saw him in New York, and while I’ve been busy, my thoughts have gone to him from time to time. Okay. More than a few times. What woman doesn’t like a man that makes his desires known? He told me he had feelings for me. And I already know that I like kissing him.
And then there’s the digestif element, the concept of a treat at the end of an arduous night. I deserve a little romance and male attention after all I’ve been through on this trip. Payback for being a good sport and unpaid majordomo for my mother and sisters and their families. I have been an undesignated but completely used Extra Pair of Hands (my mother’s term) since we gathered at the airport. I lug, I tip, I assist, and I corral—and I do it with a smile.
I hauled my mother’s extra suitcases, counting them as my own so she wouldn’t have to pay extra. I administered my father’s glaucoma eye drops on schedule in Italian time. I helped my sisters with their kids, the patient maiden auntie who diverted their attention in the terminal when a fight was brewing, bought them candy to shut them up, and once on board played rounds and rounds of Tic-Tac-Toe on cocktail napkins until I thought my eyeballs would blow from their sockets and roll down the center aisle and into first class.
I also served as an unpaid assistant nurse for the geriatric travelers in our party. I fetched Aunt Feen’s meds, unwrapped her crackers from the cellophane, smeared them with cheese, and upon landing, became her two-legged cane/wheelchair stand-in, which has left me with a stiff shoulder and a sore lower back.
I’ve been perfect. And all I wanted in exchange for my suffering was a little comfort from a Tuscan tanner. He kissed me on the balcony of the Quisisana last year when Roman Falconi stood me up on our Capri vacation. He asked me to consider his affections on my roof overlooking the Hudson River. But that was then. Today, all of Gianluca’s previous declarations seemed to dry up and blow away like Italian snow when he brought Carlotta to the wedding.
And now, who can imagine why, my self-confidence has…waned. I’m back at Holy Agony when I turned thirteen and was caught in the coat closet by Sister Imelda in the arms of Bret Fitzpatrick after our confirmation dinner. She didn’t say a word, that prying postulant; she just slammed the door shut and left us in the dark with our shame. There is such a thing as the ruined moment, the missed opportunity, love derailed. I should know. I’ve lived it more than once.
“May I come in?” he asks again.
“Okay,” I answer, with a sense of defeat. “Careful of the pearls.” I gingerly kick the puddle of faux under the bed as he closes the door behind him. “There’s only one chair,” I apologize. I’m downright awkward, offering a tour of the two pieces of furniture in my room.
“I make you nervous?”
“No, no, not at all.” Only in the land of Valentine Maria Alfreda Roncalli would pent-up sexual energy translate into a case of dyspepsia.
He sits down in the rocker. He stretches his long legs out in front of him. He wears a size 13 shoe. He fills up this hotel room with a lot of man.
“Would you like a glass of…I think it’s wine?” I offer.
“Grazie,” he says.
I go to the table. There’s only one glass. Of course there’s only one glass—this is the spinster suite. I’m lucky Signora left me a bowl of free figs. “Uh, we’ll have to share,” I tell him as I pour the wine.
“Good,” he says.
I bring him the glass. He takes a sip and leans back in the rocker and looks at me.
I sit as
far forward on the edge of the bed as I possibly can be without actually standing up. I sort of…perch. Let’s get the bad news out of the way first. “So, where’s Carlotta?”
“I drove her to Deruta, where she lives.”
“Oh, great.” I don’t know what’s so great about it, but too late now, I said it. “I always liked Deruta. Pretty pottery.”
“And what did you think of Carlotta?”
“That was some mink.”
Gianluca laughs. “She’s very elegant.”
“That would be one word for it.”
Gianluca looks confused.
“If the men in my family took a vote, I think they’d come up with a word to describe her, and it wouldn’t be elegant. How long have you been seeing her?”
“Seeing her?”
“Yeah.”
“Since I was nine years old.”
“Nine?” Boy. No wonder they are considered the world’s best lovers. They practice. These Italians start early.
“Her father makes the equipment we use in the shop.”
“Oh, that’s interesting.” I don’t find it one bit interesting. I could not care less. I lean forward and take the glass from Gianluca and sip the wine. I hand the glass back to him. “Childhood romances are wonderful.”
“She told you?”
“No, I just assumed.”
“Why?”
“The way you were together, I guess. I’m like that with Bret.”
“Bret?” he asks quietly.
“Yeah, Bret Fitzpatrick and I finish each other’s sentences—still. We broke up years ago, but we’re still close. There’s a history. It’s comfortable.” I hope he’s jealous of Bret; it would serve him right for sandbagging me by bringing Carlotta to the wedding. So I pile on. “There’s a shorthand with an ex who knows you well. You know, like you have with Carlotta. I’m sure you know everything about one another.”
He nods.
I continue, “So, how did you like the wedding?”
Brava, Valentine Page 5
