Brava, Valentine: A Novel Page 10

  "What size is your foot?"

  "I'm a five."

  "How lucky. You're the sample size!"

  "I always do well at sales," she admits. Kathleen slips off her boot, and slips on The Flora.

  Alfred and Bret, in full corporate mode, are visibly relieved.

  Gram used to tell me that she could tell exactly what kind of customer she was dealing with by the shoe she chose from our collection. A woman who went for The Flora was modern, impetuous, and stubborn. Without saying a word, Kathleen has just told me who she is, and now I have the insight I need to close the deal with her. This is a woman who knows what she wants, and moves in to get it--I have to work fast with her. She makes decisions quickly, and from the gut.

  Kathleen models the shoes in the freestanding full-length mirror. I watch how she looks at her leg and ankle and the shoes now on her feet. She doesn't look at her body in the critical way that most women do. There's something different in the look in her eye as she scans her image in the glass. Kathleen, unlike most women who've been in the shop, likes what she sees.

  "We know we have something special here," I say with warmth and enthusiasm, remembering salesmanship is as important as a great product. "And we're building upon years of experience and quality craftsmanship. Even the big guns uptown agree." I hand her the press kit that Gabriel helped me put together after we were featured in the Christmas windows at Bergdorf's. "But we know we have to grow the brand and make a product that's accessible to all women. And that's the Bella Rosa."

  I go to the shelf and pull three samples of the Bella Rosa, one in pumpkin suede, one in sailor blue leather, and one in chic violet microfiber.

  Maybe because it's nighttime and lower Manhattan is doused in a fog, or maybe it's that the work lights over the table illuminate the shoes to their best advantage while the rest of the shop recedes in shadow, but whatever the reason, the vivid tones of the Bella Rosa explode in the light, like diamonds in a Tiffany window.

  Kathleen grabs the violet Bella Rosa. "I would totally buy this shoe!" she says.

  "Good. Because your loan will help us put them into production," I say, knowing my job is done. I shoot my brother a look of pure triumph.

  "Where are you on that?" Kathleen examines the shoe.

  Alfred takes my cue and opens his research file. "I've had some conversations with American manufacturers, but our initial run isn't large enough for them. There are some interesting alternatives in China, and I have sent them patterns and samples to get some bids going."

  "I'd like to keep the manufacturing in the United States," I pipe up. Alfred has been trying to convince me to go to China for the manufacturing, but I know how Gram would have felt about that. We're an American company, and I'd like to keep it here, to honor our tradition and keep the jobs in Greenwich Village.

  "The China bids are often half of what it would cost to make the same shoe here," Alfred says pointedly, talking more to me than Kathleen.

  "I understand." Kathleen looks at Alfred. "If you can make your shoes according to existing agreements with foreign countries, and it's profitable and economical, why wouldn't you? But we're also looking for our piece of the pie." Kathleen turns to me. "Could you do any of the labor here besides the design? We like to keep as many jobs stateside as possible."

  "I could definitely do packing and labeling here. Maybe some finishing--bows, piping, embellishments. But we need a real factory for the numbers we're hoping to achieve."

  "What are you looking at for your first shipment?"

  "Ten thousand pairs."

  "That's fairly ambitious. So...you're looking for a loan to finance the first ten thousand?"

  "Yes."

  Kathleen types some numbers into her laptop. I look at Bret, who lets me know that I did a great job. As Kathleen squints at her screen, I pray silently that she will come through.

  "We can do that," she says.

  I clap my hands together. "That would be great."

  "I'm going to need a timeline." Kathleen types into her laptop.

  "And we need to review the terms of the loan," Alfred pipes up. "Of course, of course." Kathleen closes her laptop and gives Alfred her card. "Give me a call--we'll make an appointment for you to come in, and you'll be off to the races." She turns to me. "You are not invited. The highest and best use of you is right here in this shop making these glorious shoes. You let us worry about the rest."

  "I don't think I've ever loved anyone so much in my whole life," I exclaim.

  "That doesn't say much about us." Bret points to Alfred and then himself.

  "Well, you guys are all well and good, but Kathleen has the money. And now, we're going to have the Bella Rosa."

  I spent about an hour at Kate's Paperie on 13th Street searching for the best stationery upon which to write to Gianluca. Every time I reread his letter, I find something new. It's good to be adored.

  When things go well at work, it frees me up to think about my personal happiness. When there is a problem in the shop, I become consumed by it, and I don't rest until there's a solution. Gabriel says the downfall of women is that no matter what we achieve in our work lives, we don't feel successful unless we have a man at home. I argue with him about this, because I don't believe it. I'm not that kind of woman. For me, fulfillment comes from taking a scrap of leather and cutting it to the specifications of a pattern, carving a stacked heel from wood, and sewing trim on a buttress. There is nothing like the satisfaction I get when I make something with my own hands.

  I am my best self, the most alive I can be, when I'm creating in the shop. I would never admit this to a man I was interested in, but it's the truth. Love is not the main course in the banquet of my life. It's dessert. My mother would say that's why I'm still single. And my sisters would say that I'm lying. But I know this to be true, that love is my treat, my tiramisu, because I'm living it.

  I have not been tempted to scrap my life in Greenwich Village and get on a plane and go to Italy to be with Gianluca, even though I crave the idea of him. I know about women who drop the lives they lead in one place to go and be with a man in another. I'm fascinated by their impulse to choose the possibility of love over the certainty of work. I would never leave my work behind for a man, no matter how scrumptious he might be. I am, however, interested in romance on my own terms, and in my own time. I'm no master craftsman when it comes to love, strictly an apprentice in training.

  I dump four different boxes of stationery onto the kitchen table. There's the classic airmail blue onionskin paper, a box of note cards with various sketches of Palladian villas (too Italian), a box of plain white stationery with a black mock grosgrain trim (too Upper East Side), and finally, plain ecru note cards with a simple embossed gold heart. I'm going with the onionskin.

  March 5, 2010 Dear Gianluca,

  When I was twelve years old, Siser Theresa Kelly FMA required me to write the Prayer of Saint Francis of Assisi twenty times in order to commit it to memory. It worked. I will, when I see you again, take you through the poetry of God's instrument of Peace. In the meantime, I first and foremost would like to thank you for the most beautiful letter any man has ever written to me. I am humbled by the simple beauty of your words. Your feelings are real and true. Now, I'd like to tell you about mine. I was not looking for love, and I'm still not sure if I should be. I think about you constantly, and even in my mind's eye, you thrill and excite me. Could this be love? I don't know. Could it one day be love? I don't know the answer to that either. But I surely wonder what would have happened that night at the inn. And here's what's true for me: I dream of the possibilities.

  Love, Valentine

  I cross out the e in Valentine and replace it with an a.

  Gabriel looks out the window on the Saturday commuter train to Chatham, New Jersey. I balance a paint set for Maeve's birthday party on my lap, while Gabriel holds the Eloise compilation, wrapped in pink tissue paper and tied with green yarn.

  "You're not over Roman," Gabriel says.


  "Why do you say that?"

  "Because you won't give it up for Gianluca."

  "I thought my letter was funny and tender."

  "It was filled with doubt. An I don't know here, an I don't know there. What do you know? Certainly not the contents of your human heart. You didn't know nothin' writing to him. And Saint Francis? Who mentions a saint in a sex plea?"

  "What should I have said?"

  "For starters? Not that. The letter should have been filled with erotica. You either want the man or you don't. Or maybe this ocean between you is just too big. Maybe you need a local love. What about Roman?"

  "What about him?"

  "Maybe you should go back with him."

  "I'm not going to get back together with Roman just so you can get a seat in his restaurant."

  "It's as good a reason as any."

  "For you. Forget it. I'm not calling him."

  "Maybe he's done with Becky Bruschetta...," Gabriel muses.

  "You mean Caitlin Granzella."

  "He only went with her because she was easy pickings. She's there, working for him in the restaurant. That should be a lesson to you. A man eats what's in the cupboard."

  "Listen to me, Gabriel. Roman and I are done. I have no strings to pull over there any more, so fall in love with somebody else's osso bucco already. There are a thousand Italian restaurants in New York City--"

  "Ca'D'oro is pretty spectacular."

  "Furthermore, if you love me, and I think you do, you don't want me to spend my life following my husband around to make sure he's faithful."

  "You need to get real. And fast. A man can only be faithful in the beginning. You cannot sustain fidelity beyond a month. Six weeks max even if the sex is otherworldly, electrifying, and explosive. Magical sex. But that's why they call it magic--because poof, in an instant, it disappears like Siegfried and Roy's white tiger. No, the truth is, you have to watch your man like a hawk. Any man. I know. I am one."

  "I don't have trust issues," I assure Gabriel.

  "Really," he says.

  Before I can argue the point, the train pulls into the station in downtown Chatham. It's blustery and wintry cold in March as we deboard. I pull the directions out of my pocket. Mackenzie and Bret's house is just a couple of blocks away, according to the map he drew.

  We make the turn up Fairmont Avenue. Staying on the sidewalk, we pass lovely homes, which, even in barren winter, have manicured lawns and evergreen touches in the landscaping.

  At the top of the hill is Bret's home, a stately red brick Georgian with two white pillars anchoring a glossy black door with brass embellishments. It's the best house on the block. The street in front of the house is packed with cars. It's a big party. An enormous bunch of pink balloons tied to the railing sways in the wind.

  As we climb the steps, there's a wreath of white baby roses on the door dotted with small gift packages wrapped in gold. Glittering white letters spelling out MAEVE are fixed in the flowers. More handmade touches by the perfect mother; and I know one when I see one, because I grew up with the best.

  "I hope the book I brought is enough to cover the plate." Gabriel rings the bell. "This looks fancy."

  We hear music and chatter and laughing and kids whooping inside. Gabe takes a deep breath. "I hope there's a bar."

  Bret's wife, Mackenzie, opens the door, balancing her toddler, Piper, on her hip. "Valentine, Gabe," she says. "You made it."

  "The ride was delightful," Gabe says.

  Mackenzie laughs. "Now you know why I never go into the city. Well, there's also the fact that I don't want to leave the city once I'm there."

  Mackenzie is willowy, on the sporty side, with blue eyes that match her cashmere sweater. Her blond hair is the color of ginger ale, and her legs are still tawny from their midwinter trip to Disney World in Florida. She wears a simple beige wool skirt and matching Tod's flats.

  Maeve, the birthday girl, is dressed like a fairy, with net wings that light up anchored to her shoulders. She peeks at us and then runs past when she sees it's two grown-ups.

  "Bret! Your friends are here!" Mackenzie calls out. "Come on in," she says to us.

  Gabriel shoots me a look at the mention of "your friends."

  Mackenzie has never really accepted us because we were part of Bret's life before she was. To be fair, I wouldn't want any ex-fiancee hanging around my husband either. Her demeanor with us manages to be warm, yet simultaneously chilly, like the first full day of spring.

  According to Bret, Mackenzie made it very clear that she wanted marriage and children from their first date, so their romance progressed at lightning speed a year after our breakup. But those were the years when books like The Rules and Marry the Man of Your Choice topped the bestseller lists; women felt pressure to issue ultimatums, and men felt like they had to cave in, or at least Bret did.

  It's as if Mackenzie caught Bret in a butterfly net in Manhattan, carried him into New Jersey, and let him loose directly into the pages of House Beautiful. Even with children running around and a party in full swing, the house is neat and in order. The foyer, with a small toile-covered bench and an enormous silver-framed mirror, sets the stage for the rooms beyond it.

  Mackenzie has decorated the house in a polished and understated way. The furniture is Georgian, all sleek lines and black polished wood accents. A delicate chintz of mint green and beige covers the sleek sofas. The straight-backed chairs have striped seat cushions, with a bit of navy blue trim thrown in to complement the wood. An oval Berber area rug trimmed in navy gives the large room a cozy feel.

  There are plenty of polished silver frames filled with family moments on beaches, at parties, and in high chairs. Over the mantel hangs an oil painting of Mackenzie in an elaborate bridal gown. It's obvious that she, like me, grew up idolizing Princess Diana. The portrait is right out of the Great Hall of Althorp.

  Bret comes out of the kitchen and is happy to see us. "You're here!"

  "I only come to Jersey for corn...and for you." Gabriel gives him a pat on the back.

  Mackenzie hands Piper off to Bret. "Make yourselves at home," she says as she goes into the living room to corral the kids.

  We've had an awkward past, Mackenzie and I. I wasn't invited to their wedding, but after they had been married for a year, Bret invited me out to dinner with them. In the spirit of lifelong friendship, Mackenzie put aside her apprehensions and I dropped my judgments. We were actually fine with one another and had a lot of fun.

  Bret is the kind of man who has to have everyone in his life get along. He can't abide acrimony. He wouldn't even break up with me until I promised that I wouldn't hate him forever. Of course, he couldn't rest until he knew I was happy for him and approved of his choice of wife. The truth is, I think Mackenzie is the best woman for Bret.

  Piper reaches for me, and I take her in my arms. She puts her arms around my neck. The tension in my body goes as she holds me close. Her skin has the scent of apricots. She rubs her cheeks on mine. Babies are a balm.

  "Where's the bar?" Gabe asks.

  "In the den at the back of the house." Gabe disappears through the door. "My folks are dying to see you," Bret says to me. "They're in the kitchen." He points.

  The kitchen is filled from counter to table with Fitzpatricks. When they're home in Queens, they gather in the kitchen, and evidently, when they go anywhere else, they gather in the kitchen as well. I have many memories of their family dinners, a table full of cousins, aunts, and uncles. There was always lots of laughter, plenty of beer, and hearty casseroles at their table. Bret comes from a close family like mine.

  "Valentine!" Bret's mother throws her arms around me. Mrs. Fitz looks like Mrs. Santa Claus. She has smooth pink skin, not a wrinkle on it, and thick, white hair. She's always been warm and dear, and since the day I met her, she's been on a diet. Her husband is tall and lanky, like Bret, and he's nuts about her. "Look, Bob, it's Val."

  "So great to see you." I kiss her on the cheek. "And you look great, both
of you." I kiss Mr. Fitz.

  "Look at him," Mrs. Fitz mock complains as she turns to her husband. "He eats the same amount of fudge I do, and he's a beanpole."

  "You know men. They got us coming and going, especially when it comes to metabolism."

  "You look wonderful." Mrs. Fitz nods in approval. "Slim." Mrs. Fitz and I have a brand of banter that's all about our figures and what we eat and how we look. I wonder what she and Mackenzie talk about. "Are you seeing anyone?" she whispers conspiratorially.

  "Kind of."

  "Is it serious?"

  "Could be."

  "Oh, good for you." Mrs. Fitz squeezes my hand. In one grip, I fill in what she's thinking: sorry it didn't work out with Bret, but life goes on, so go for it.

  "Hey, everybody. The Pirate is here," Mackenzie announces from the doorway of the kitchen. "You don't want to miss him."

  The kitchen drains of Fitzpatricks, followed by Gabriel, until Mrs. Fitz, Mackenzie, and I are left alone.

  "It's a great party," I assure the hostess. "The invitation was beautiful."

  "Mackenzie made them herself," Mrs. Fitz says proudly.

  "Thanks. My old career in advertising comes in handy." She smiles. "It's my way of staying creative. You know, making necklaces out of Cheerios is only so fulfilling."

  "Oh, don't you worry. It all goes by like a shot--and you'll remember these days and wonder where they went." Mrs. Fitz takes a cookie from the Lazy Susan.

  An awkward silence sets in.

  This is why I don't come to the suburbs. Mothers have a lot to talk about with one another, but what can I converse about with them? Making shoes? How can I relate to their daily lives? Wives and mothers already know the answers to the big questions that loom before a woman when she's unattached and focused on her career: Will love find me? (It did.) Will that love make a family? (It does.) Their world seems complete, renovated, redecorated, and fully loaded. Everything is done.

  A stay-at-home mother in the suburbs can plan her life for the next fifteen years. The markers are determined by the children themselves, and the calendar follows: the school year, summer vacation, birthday parties, camp, holiday breaks, and piano lessons. A stay-at-home mother knows weeks, months, and years in advance what life has in store for her. There's an order to family life. In contrast, I have no idea what lies ahead. I don't even know what the next six months will bring, much less the coming year. When it comes to a long-range view for my life, I'm still figuring out which pattern to cut.