“NOW THAT’S MY IDEA OF A MERRY LITTLE CHRISTMAS.” June bites into a jelly doughnut and closes her eyes. She chews, then sips her coffee. “You know, sex on a holiday is the best. You’ve had good food, scintillating conversation, or in your case, a family brawl that sets the mood for a roll in the hay. And after a fight, you know, you need it. Gets the kinks out.”
“Sounds like you’ve been there?” The better question may be, where hasn’t June been?
“Oh, I could tell you about a Saint Patrick’s Day in Dublin that would make your-”
“June.” Gram comes into the shop, wearing her coat and a scarf tied under her chin. She puts down her purse and takes off her gloves and coat.
“I was just about to tell Valentine about that rogue with the brogue who I met on vacation in 1972. Seamus had no shame, believe me. Delightful man.”
“I wish you’d write a book. That way, we might savor the details as a literary experience”-Gram hangs up her coat-“and we’d have the option of checking the book out of the library…or not.”
“No worries. I’ll never write a book. I can’t be vivid on the page.” June flips the pattern paper on the cutting table like she’s a matador twirling a cape. She lays it on the table. “Only in real life.”
“The sign of a true artist,” I say and fire up the iron.
“What do you think?” Gram removes her head scarf. She turns slowly to model her new haircut and color. Her white hair is gone! Now dyed a soft brown, her hair is cut and cropped, with long layers pushed to the front, and pale gold highlights around her face where there used to be small, pressed curls. Her dark eyes sparkle against the contrast of her pink skin and warm caramel hair color. “I used the gift certificate you girls gave me for Christmas at Eva Scrivo’s. What do you think?”
“God almighty, Teodora. You lost twenty years on the walk home,” June marvels. “And I knew you twenty years ago, so I can say it plain.”
“Thank you.” Gram beams. “I wanted a new look for my trip to Italy.”
“Well, you’ve got it,” I tell her.
“I mean our trip to Italy.” Gram looks at me. “Valentine, I want you to go with me.”
“Are you serious?” I have only been to Italy on a college trip, and I would love to see it with my grandmother.
In all the years my grandparents traveled to Italy, the trips were strictly business: to buy supplies, meet fellow artisans, share information, and learn new techniques. Usually, they would be gone about a month. When I was small, they went annually; in the later years, they would stagger the trips and go every two or three years. When Grandpop died ten years ago, Gram resumed her annual trips.
“Gram, are you sure you want to take me?”
“I wouldn’t think of going without you. You want to win those Bergdorf windows, don’t you?” Gram flips through her work file. “We need the best materials to make them, don’t you think?”
“Absolutely.” We are waiting for the dress design that Rhedd Lewis promised us. I’m learning that in the world of fashion, the only people who work on deadlines are the ones making things, not the ones selling them.
June puts down her scissors and looks at Gram. “You haven’t taken anyone to Italy in years. Not since Mike died.”
“I know I haven’t,” she says quietly.
“So, what gives?” June pins down her pattern paper on the leather.
“It’s time.” Gram looks around the shop, checking the bins for something to do. “Besides, someday Valentine will run the shop, and she needs to meet everybody I deal with.”
“I wish we were leaving tonight. I’m finally going to see the Spolti Inn, and meet the tanners, and go to the great silk fabric houses in Prato. I’ve been waiting my whole life for this.”
“And those Italian men have been waiting for you,” June says.
“June, I’m taken.” Did she even hear the cleaned-up version of my Christmas night?
“I know. But it’s the law of the jungle. It’s been my experience, whenever I have a man, I attract more of them. And in Italy, trust me, the men line up.”
“For tips. Porters, waiters, and bellboys,” I tell her.
“Nothing wrong with a man who can do some heavy lifting for you,” June says and winks.
“Valentine will have plenty of work to do. There won’t be time for hobnobbing and socializing.”
“Too bad,” June sighs.
“That’s really why I’m taking you,” Gram says to me. “You’ll do the work while I hobnob and socialize.”
I think about those late-night calls from Italy that seem to go on for longer than necessary to order leather. I think about the man in the picture buried at the bottom of Gram’s dresser. I remember our conversations about time being like ice in her hands. Is she really taking me to Italy for an education so that she might eventually hand off the Angelini Shoe Company, or is something else going on here? I expected Gram to go to Eva Scrivo and come home with a version of her old haircut, short, full, and silver, instead she walks in here looking like the senior-citizen version of Posh Beckham at an assisted-living bingo night. What gives?
There’s a knock at the door.
“Let the fresh hell begin,” June says gaily.
“Gram, Bret is here for our meeting.”
“Already?” Gram says in a tone that tells me she would rather not take this meeting at all.
“Gram, I want you to have an open mind. Please.”
“I just changed my hair completely. You can assume I’m open to new things.”
I push the door open. Roman stands in the doorway with a paper cone of red roses in one hand. The other hand is behind his back. “What a surprise!”
“Good morning.” He leans over and kisses me as he hands me the flowers. “I was in the neighborhood.”
“They’re beautiful! Thank you. Come on in!”
Roman follows me into the shop. He’s wearing jeans, a wool bomber jacket, and on his feet: yellow plastic work clogs over thick white socks.
“Aren’t your feet cold?”
“Not in my Wigwam socks,” he says, smiling. “Worried about me?”
“Just your feet. We gotta work on your shoe selection. You’re with a cobbler now. You made me give up Lean Cuisine lasagna so I can’t let you go around in plastic clogs. I’d love to make you a pair of calfskin boots.”
“I won’t say no,” he says, grinning. From behind his back, Roman produces two more bouquets of flowers. He gives one to Gram and the other to June. “For the babes of Angelini shoes.” They fall all over him in gratitude. Then Roman notices Gram’s hair. “Teodora, I like your hair.”
“Thank you.” She waves the bouquet at Roman. “You really shouldn’t have!”
“Valentine’s Day isn’t for another month.” June inhales her bouquet.
“Every day is Valentine’s Day for me.” Roman looks at me in the process. “Now, how many of your boyfriends have used that line?”
“All of them,” I tell him.
In the powder room, I fill two pressed-glass vases with water and deliver one to Gram and one to June. I find a third vase and fill it with water for my bouquet.
Gram arranges her roses in the vase. “It’s gratifying to see that there are still men out there who know what pleases a lady.”
“In all ways.” June winks at me.
Gram places June’s flowers in the other vase as the shop falls into deadly silence save for the rustle of the pattern paper as June cuts it. Roman, good sport that he is, spins the brushes on the buffing machine, waiting for someone to say something that isn’t related to his/mine/our sex life.
“And you haven’t even had my cooking yet,” Roman says to June.
“I can’t wait,” June growls.
“Now, June,” I warn her. It’s one thing for June to take us on a jazz tour of her love life when it’s just us girls, but it’s another thing entirely for her to paint the frisky picture of The Good Old Lays in front of Roman.
The front door pushes open.
“Good morning, ladies,” Bret calls out from the vestibule. Bret enters the shop in a navy Armani suit, with a splashy yellow tie on a crisp, white shirt. He wears polished black Dior Homme loafers with tassels.
Bret extends his hand to Roman. “Bret Fitzpatrick.”
“Roman Falconi,” he says, giving Bret a firm handshake.
“I take it you’re here for wedding shoes?” Bret jokes.
“What do you got in a thirteen?” Roman looks to Gram, June, and then me.
And here it is, my past and my future in a head-on collision. As I size them up, it’s obvious to me that I like tall and employed. I am also my mother’s daughter, and therefore, critical. Roman’s clogs look like giant clown shoes next to Bret’s sleek loafers. Given a choice, I would have preferred serious shoes on my boyfriend in this moment.
“Bret’s an old friend of ours,” Gram says.
“He’s helping us with some new business opportunities here at the shop,” I explain.
Roman looks at Bret and nods. “Well, I won’t keep you. I’ve got to shove off. Faicco’s has some amazing veal shanks from an organic farm in Woodstock. Osso bucco is our special tonight.” Roman kisses me good-bye.
“Thank you for the flowers,” Gram says and smiles.
“Mine, too,” June says.
“See you later, girls.” Roman turns to go. “Nice to meet you,” he says to Bret.
“You, too,” Bret says as Roman goes.
“That wasn’t awkward at all,” June says as she holds a straight pin between her pursed lips. “Something old meets something new.”
“That’s your new boyfriend?” Bret looks off at the door.
“He’s a chef,” Gram brags.
“Ca’ d’Oro, on Mott Street,” I answer before Bret even asks. When we were a couple, our communication resembled a good game of Jeopardy!, and to be honest, sometimes I miss that connection.
“I’ve heard of it. It’s supposed to be very good,” Bret says agreeably.
It’s nice to know my old boyfriend isn’t one bit jealous of my new one. Though maybe I wish he were. Just a little. “I highly recommend the risotto.”
Bret sits down and opens his briefcase. He pulls out a file marked ANGELINI SHOES. “I wanted to run something by you. Have you ladies had a chance to discuss expanding your brand?”
“Valentine mentioned a couple of things-” Gram begins.
“Gram, your hair is different. What did you do?”
“It’s a new cut.”
“And a dip in Mother Dye,” June laughs. “And I know, because I dip myself.”
“Well, you look great, Gram,” Bret says. I’m impressed with Bret’s ability to soften up a resistant client. He must kill at the hedge fund. “June, is it all right with you if we discuss business?”
“Pretend I’m not even here.”
“Valentine was telling me about the concept of branding. Now, you know, we’ve been in business for over a hundred years, so our brand is known and tested. It is what it is. Here’s what I don’t understand.” Gram smooths her new bangs off to the side. “We make wedding shoes from our historical designs. Our catalog, if you will. We make them by hand. We can’t make them any faster. How would we serve a larger clientele than we already have?”
“Valentine?” Bret tosses me the question.
“We wouldn’t, Gram. Not with our core designs. We couldn’t. No, we’d have to design a new shoe, one that could be mass-produced in a factory. We would introduce a more affordable, secondary line.”
“Cheaper shoes?”
“In price, yes, but not in quality.”
“I’ll be honest. I don’t know how to do that,” Gram says.
“Investors like to know that the product they finance has the potential for wide distribution, therefore a higher profit margin. The way you do that is to come up with something that’s both fashionable and affordable and doable for the designer and manufacturer,” Bret says and hands Gram a report that says: BRANDING, GROWTH, AND PROFIT FOR THE SMALL BUSINESS. “Now, if you follow my logic, I think we can put a fund together that will buy you the time and materials to develop the business in new directions.”
“That makes sense,” I say encouragingly, but when I look at Gram, she seems unconvinced.
“So, investors are looking for you, a venerable institution, with quality brand identification, to come up with something that can be mass-produced.” Bret continues, “Here’s the beauty. It doesn’t have to be a wedding shoe.”
“I see.” Gram looks at me.
“I’m thinking about creating something new that is part of our brand, but doesn’t forsake the custom work in the shop,” I explain. “This would be an outside product, created here, developed here, but manufactured elsewhere.”
“China?” Gram asks.
“Probably. Or Spain. Or Brazil. Indonesia. Maybe Italy,” I tell her.
“Are there any American companies that factory-make shoes?”
“A few.”
“Could we use one of those?”
“Gram, I’m checking into that now.” I don’t want this conversation to get stuck in the Made in America argument Gram has with anyone who will listen. I have to keep her mind on the bigger picture, and our operation.
“Let’s not worry about that aspect of production right now,” Bret says, backing me up. “Let’s focus on the work ahead.”
“Gram, I have to create this shoe first. I’m thinking a casual shoe, but hip. And maybe even accessories. Maybe we’ll eventually expand to include those.”
“Oh, God, no. Not belts!” June interrupts. “I’m sorry. I know I’m supposed to be the hear no evil monkey over here, but sometimes, a girl has to speak up. We tried accessories. What a disaster. Mike made belts and sold them to Saks, and they were returned, remember?”
Gram nods.
“He used a soft leather, a gorgeous calfskin that stretched like Bazooka gum after a couple of wearings. The customers were peeved and Saks was outraged. Every belt was returned.” June shakes her head. “Every single one.”
“And Mike said ‘never again.’ He said we have to stick to what we know.”
“Well, Gram, we don’t have that luxury. We have to take a chance, because if we don’t, if we don’t come up with something that can revitalize our business and take it to the next level, we won’t be here in a year.”
“Okay, then,” Bret says, giving me the file. “You two need to talk, and I’m going to tell my guys that you are putting together a portfolio of ideas for them.”
“You can also tell them we’re going to Italy to bring them the latest innovative materials applied to classic design,” I tell him.
“Val, I never thought I’d say this, but you sound like a businessman.”
“I believe in this company.”
“That comes through.” Bret gives Gram a kiss on the cheek, then June, then me. “Keep it up. You know what you’re doing.” Bret leaves the files with us and goes.
“He really believes in you,” June says.
“He knew me when…,” I tell her. “There’s something to be said for that.”
Ca’ d’Oro is closed on Monday nights, so for Roman and me, it’s date night. Roman usually comes over to Perry Street and I cook, or I go over to his place and he does. Tonight, though, he has invited my family to the restaurant for dinner, in reciprocation for Christmas, and as penance for missing Gram’s eightieth birthday at the Carlyle. This couldn’t be a more perfect setup, because I want my family to get to know him on his own turf. Ca’ d’Oro is Roman’s masterpiece; it says who he is, shows the scope of his culinary talents, and demonstrates that he’s a real player in the restaurant world of Manhattan.
When I finished work at the shop, I came over, set the long table in the dining room, put out candles and a low vase of greens and violets for a centerpiece. Now, I’m in the kitchen acting as Roman’s sous-chef. Preparing food is a respite from making shoes, mostly because I can sample the recipes as he makes them.
“So, he’s your type?” Roman places a thin sheet of pasta dough over the ravioli tray.
I follow him, filling the delicate pockets with a dab of Roman’s signature filling, a creamy whip of sweet potatoes mixed with slivers of truffle, aged parmesan, and herbs. “I wondered how long it would take you to ask me about Bret.”
“He’s a businessman in a suit and tie. Successful?”
“Very.”
“You’re still friends, so it must not have been an ugly breakup.”
“It was a little ugly, but we were friends before, so why not stay friends after?”
“What happened?”
“A career on Wall Street and shoemaking don’t complement each other. I can look back on it and appreciate it for what it was. What worked about us was our backgrounds. One of each.”
“One of each?” Roman places another sheet of pasta dough over the wells of filling. Then he places the cutting press over the dough, and punches out twelve regulation-size ravioli onto the flour-dusted butcher block. He picks the squares up one at a time and lines them up on a wooden tray, and sprinkles them with yellow cornmeal. “Explain that to me.”
“You should never have two of the same thing in a relationship. Mix it up. Irish-Fitzpatrick, and Italian-me. Nice. Put a southerner with a northerner. Good. A Jew with a Catholic, evens out the guilt and shame nicely. A Protestant with a Catholic? Slight stretch. My parents encouraged us to marry our own kind, but too much of the same thing breeds drama.”
“Two Italians?” he asks.
“Fine if you’re from different parts.”
“Good. I’m Pugliese and you’re…what are you?”
“Tuscan and Calabrese.”
“So we’re okay?”
“We’re fine,” I assure him.
“Maybe it’s the careers that are killers. How about a chef and a shoemaker? Does that work?”
I reach up and kiss him, saying, “That depends.”
“But what if you’re all about the drama? The drama of creativity and risk? What if that kind of passion is the thing that binds you together?”
“Well, then obviously, I would have to revisit my rule.”
“Good.” Roman lays another sheet of dough over the press. I fill the wells carefully. “Why don’t you go out in the restaurant and put your feet up?”
“No thanks. I like to help. Besides, if I didn’t, I’d never see you.”
“I’m sorry,” he says tenderly. “Occupational hazard.”
“You can’t help it, and you shouldn’t. You love your work and I love that you love it.”
“You’re the first woman I ever dated who understands that.”
“Besides, I’m more helpful to you here than you would be to me at the shop. I can’t see you sewing pink bows on bridesmaid shoes.”
“I’m lousy with a needle and thread.”
Roman lays a final sheet of pasta dough over the wells, snaps the press shut, reopens it, and a dozen ravioli squares pop out of the trap. He places them on the wooden tray with the others. Then he opens the oven and checks the roast pork and root vegetables, simmering in a wine reduction that fills the kitchen with the scent of butter, sage, and warm burgundy wine. I watch as he skillfully juggles the preparation of the meal. He invests himself in his work; it’s clear he is dedicated and puts in the hours. Roman also does the research. He tests new recipes and combinations, trying things out, rejecting ideas, replacing old ones with new.
Despite the depth of my feelings (and his), I sometimes wonder how we can build a relationship when we hardly see each other. I remember reading an interview with Katharine Hepburn. She said that a woman’s job in a relationship with a man was to be adorable. I attempt to be a no-fuss, stress-free, supportive girlfriend who is more than aware of the pressures he has at work, so I don’t pile on more. To be fair, he does the same for me. I figure as long as we’re both in the same place, I imagine this arrangement will work just fine and get us to the next level (whatever that is).
“Hi, kids!” Mom enters the kitchen loaded down with shopping bags. “I did a downtown shopping blitz. I can’t resist a deal, and nobody tops Chinatown for bargains. Silk slippers for two dollars.” She holds up a bag stuffed with them.
“I know what I’m getting next Christmas.”
“In twelve months, you’ll forget I bought these. Your sisters are here. The boys are parking. You’re making ravioli?”
“Tonight’s special,” says Roman.
“Yum.”
“Where’s Dad?” I ask.
“He’s making a shaker of Manhattans behind the bar. Is that okay, Roman?”
“Absolutely. Make yourselves at home. This night is all about you,” Roman says and smiles.
“And it’s just wonderful! We have our own private chef in his own hot restaurant cooking for us. It’s more than we deserve!”
“I’ll meet you at the bar, Mom.” Mom goes back out to the dining room as I lift the tray of finished ravioli and place them on a portable shelf on wheels. I pull the shelf toward the worktable. “You know my mother is very impressed with you.”
“I can tell. You win over Mama and you got the daughter.”
I reach up and kiss Roman. “Mama doesn’t have anything to do with it.”
Roman hands me a basket of homemade bread sticks to take out to the bar.
Mom and Dad sit on bar stools with their backs to the restaurant. Dad’s feet, in black suede Merrells rest on the lower bar of the stool, while Mom’s, in dark brown calfskin ankle boots with a high wedge heel, dangle above the foot bar, like a child’s. Tess and Jaclyn stand next to the bar. Tess is wearing a red cocktail dress, while Jaclyn wears black maternity pants and a matching oversize turtleneck. Jaclyn holds up her hand. “I know. I’m the size of a bus.”
“I didn’t say a word.” I give her a quick hug.
“I saw it in your eyes.”
“Actually, I was thinking how beautiful you look.”
Jaclyn takes the bread basket and pulls a stick from the pile. “Nice try.” She chews. “I just hit double digits in pants.”
“I should have your pants play the stock market,” Dad jokes.
“Not funny, Dad,” Jaclyn says as she chews.
“How’re you feeling?” I put my hands on my father’s shoulders.
“Your mother ran me all over Chinatown like a runaway rickshaw. I’ll be dead but she’ll have a lifetime supply of slippers.”
“Where are your husbands?” I ask Tess.
“Parking.”
“Thank God the boys like each other.” Mom swirls her burgundy-colored Manhattan around in the tumbler and sips. “You know that doesn’t usually happen with in-laws.”
Tess looks at me.
“Ma, we know,” I remind her. Sometimes Mom can be clueless; after all, we’ve had nothing but frost with Pamela for years. “Are Pamela and Alfred coming? They didn’t RSVP.”
“We’re still on the Island,” Tess says and shrugs. “Pam hasn’t spoken to any of us since the blowup at Christmas.”
“Did you call and apologize?” Mom asks her.
“I don’t know what to say. Besides, Valentine should call. She’s the one who blurted it out.”
“We all call her Clickety Click. Besides, she calls us the Meatball Sisters behind our backs and I never got an apology for that.” I sound five years old.
“Mom, you make comments about her size, too,” Jaclyn says as she fishes a cherry out of her ginger ale, pops it into her mouth, and chews.
“About her general size, her smallness, yes, but never specifically her feet.”
“Feet, ass, hands, it doesn’t matter,” Dad declares. “You girls are icky picky and Pamela got her feelings hurt. Now it’s up to you to heal the rainbow. Our rainbow has a gaping hole in it right now because you can’t keep your opinions to yourselves. Somebody needs to call her and straighten out the situation.”
“Your father is right. We should call her,” Mom says.
“I don’t want to call her!” Jaclyn grabs another breadstick. “I can’t! I’m seasick until noon every day, and the truth is, I can’t take any more stress. I’m tired of it. She’s been in this family for years. Grow a hide already! Yeah, we’re a tough crowd, but so what? And while you’re at it, eat a sandwich. Clickety Click? It’s more like Thin-ety-thin.”
“The pregnancy hormones have arrived,” Mom whispers. “Must be a boy.”
Charlie and Tom enter the restaurant and greet Mom and Dad. Roman comes out of the kitchen with a plate of fried pumpkin blossoms. He places them on the bar, then shakes their hands.
“I’m giving you four stars already for the parking. It was a slam dunk.” Charlie takes off his coat.
“Parking is a snap in Little Italy,” Dad says. “Italians know how to attract business, right, Roman? And when we taste your food, we’ll tell you if you can keep it.” Dad throws Roman a wink.
Roman forces a smile. My father doesn’t notice. Gram pushes the door open and enters. She takes off her hat, shakes out her new hair, and then turns full circle, like a model. Charlie and Tom whistle, while my sisters marvel at her brown hair.
“Ma! You’re a brunette again!” Mom claps her hands together joyfully. “Finally you took my advice!”
Dad spins around on his bar stool. “Somebody’s been throwin’ back her Geritol,” he says approvingly.
“Mom, now you can trim another five years off your age,” Tess offers.
“At least! If eighty is the new sixty, that makes me forty!”
“And that makes me a perv.” Dad sips his drink. “With your fuzzy math, I’m old enough to be your father.”
“Nothing wrong with an older man,” Mom says and shrugs.
“Alfred is on his way,” Gram announces.
“He told me he wasn’t coming.” Mom goes behind the bar to pour Gram a Manhattan.
“I told him he had to come.” Gram puts her tote bag on a stool by the bar. “I’m tired of this silly feud. I’ve seen enough of them in my lifetime. A family fight stagnates, then over time turns into a hundred-year war, and nobody remembers what the argument was about in the first place.”
“My sediments exactly, Ma.”
“Sentiments,” Mom corrects Dad.
“Should we wait for Alfred to begin?” Roman asks Gram. “I’ll go ahead and bring the food out,” he says on the way to the kitchen.
“Need me?” I ask him.
“I got it,” he calls over his shoulder.
I catch Roman’s exasperated tone. My family has done nothing but complain since they arrived. My boyfriend got a very tired look on his face when my family rehashed the Pamela Christmas tiff. No one should have to live through that twice.
“The sketch of the wedding gown arrived.” Gram hands me a large gray envelope marked BG from her tote. “Hand-delivered by Bergdorf Goodman.”
The sketch of the wedding gown we are to design a shoe for is rendered in ink and watercolor on a heavy sheet of drawing paper. The silhouette shows shards of chiffon, which look like they’ve been cut with a steak knife and sewn haphazardly onto a fitted sheath. It looks like a dress made of fine silk that accidentally ended up in the washing machine. It’s dreadful.
“Who needs shoes with this gown? You need a coat.” I give the design to Tess.
“One that buttons from neck to ankle.” Gram shakes her head. “Who is Rag and Bone?”
“Two hot designers,” I tell her.
Mom puts on her reading glasses and peers through them at the design. “Oh dear, is there some sort of new austerity program in place?” She hands it off to Jaclyn. “I don’t understand why they wouldn’t use someone like Stella McCartney. She’s classic and romantic and whimsical.”
“And your mother was in love with her father. Paul was her favorite Beatle,” Dad chimes in.
“I’m not going to apologize for my good taste,” Mom says and swigs her drink. Roman brings a tureen of ravioli to the table.
Jaclyn gives me the design. “Why can’t things be pretty? Why does everything have to be so ugly?” Jaclyn weeps, then bangs her hands on the table. “What is wrong with me? Why am I crying?” she sobs. “I’m not crying inside my mind-inside my mind, I’m sane! It’s just a dress. I don’t care about that dress,” she blubbers. “But I can’t stop…” Roman goes behind the bar and pulls out a box of tissues. He places them on the table, next to Jaclyn.
“Now, now.” Mom puts her arm around Jaclyn to soothe her.
“God, I wish I could drink! Four more months with nothing to take the edge off!” Jaclyn puts her head in her hands and cries, “I need booze!”
Roman exhales slowly as he surveys the table. He has the same look on his face that he did during the fight on Christmas Eve. He’s trying not to judge, but he’s definitely annoyed. Good food doesn’t matter when you’re serving it to angry people.
Alfred pushes open the entrance door, bringing a brisk shot of cold air in with him. Alfred extends his hand to Roman. “Nice to see you again,” he says with a tone as chilly as the winter wind he dragged in.
“I’m glad you could make it,” Roman says pleasantly, but he looks as though he’s got six Roncallis too many in the restaurant already.
Alfred doesn’t move to take off his coat. Instead, he surveys the tops of our heads, refusing to make eye contact. He finally walks over to Mom and kisses her on the cheek. He shakes Dad’s hand. “I can’t stay. Gram asked me to show up and say hello, but I have to get going soon.”
Tess looks down at her empty appetizer plate, while big wet tears drop onto Jaclyn’s sweater like dew. “What’s the matter, Jaclyn?” Alfred asks her.
She sobs, “I don’t know!”
“Please, Alfred. Stay at least for the antipasto,” Dad implores him. What can Alfred do? Say no to his sick father?
Alfred pulls out a chair. “Just for a minute.”
“Great.” Roman forces a smile. “I’ve got a fresh antipasto, followed by a specialty of the house, a truffle ravioli, and then we’re having pork roast with roasted root vegetables.”
“I’d like to see the menu,” Dad jokes. Everyone laughs except Roman.
We take our seats. Alfred sits on the far end, next to Gram. Dad sits at the head of the table on one end, while Roman takes the seat at the head of the table closest to the kitchen. We dig into a platter of rolled salami, sweet sheets of pink prosciutto, glossy olives, sun-dried tomatoes, hunks of fresh parmesan, and flaky tuna drizzled in olive oil. Roman puts a basket of homemade bread, fresh from the oven, in rotation around the table.
Jaclyn passes the sketch of the dress to Alfred.
“What’s this?”
“The Bergdorf dress.”
He looks at it. “You got to be kidding.”
“It’s definitely a design challenge,” I say, forcing a smile.
“You really think that this is going to change the course of the shoe company?” He shakes his head.
“We can only try,” I say evenly, resisting the temptation to snap back at him. I take the sketch from him and slip it back into the envelope, placing it on the table behind me. A dull quiet settles over the table. Roman surveys our plates, making certain his guests have what they need. He stands quickly and replenishes our wineglasses.
“Dad, how are you feeling?” Charlie asks.
“Pretty good, Chuck. You know, I get a burning sometimes, in my nether parts-”
“Not while we’re eating, honey,” Mom says.
“Hey, he asked. And I do get a burning sensation.”
“When are you going to Italy, Gram?” Alfred changes the subject.
“April. Valentine is going with me.”
“Why?”
“I’m going to meet the suppliers,” I explain.
“April. I love Italy in April,” Roman says as he sits back down.
“You should join us.” I squeeze Roman’s hand.
“I just might.”
“I’d invite myself along, but it’s planting season in Forest Hills,” Mom says gaily.
“For the record, we can’t fit any further flora and fauna on Austin Street.” Dad waves his fork at Mom.
“Honey, you say that, and then, voilà, there’s another gorgeous rhododendron or strip of yellow phlox thriving somewhere in the garden.”
“There’s always room for phlox,” I say and pass the bread to Jaclyn, who finds the word phlox so funny, she can’t stop laughing. “Now what?” I ask her.
“I don’t know,” she giggles. “It’s like I had too much sugar and I’m on the scrambler at Six Flags. On the inside, I’m not laughing. I swear,” she laughs. “Bah-ha-ha.”
“I never had those mood swings when I was pregnant,” Tess says.
“Who are you kidding? It was like Glenn Close with the curly perm moved in. You hid in closets. You read my e-mails. You swore I was having an affair,” Charlie says.
“I don’t remember that at all,” Tess insists. “But childbirth? That’s another story.”
Tess rips a piece of bread in two and butters it. “They say you forget, but you don’t.”
“Tess, you’re scaring me,” Jaclyn says. Tom pats her hand.
Roman looks at me and raises both eyebrows. He stands, picks up the tureen, and goes around the table serving the ravioli. I can see he’s about to snap, between Dad’s burning groin, Tess and Charlie’s fussing, and Jaclyn’s weeping, this isn’t exactly the kind of light dinner conversation that goes well with handmade ravioli. What’s the matter with my family anyhow? They almost seem annoyed to be here, as if coming to dinner at a hot Manhattan restaurant was a supreme sacrifice. On top of their surly moods, they seem oblivious to the amount of work Roman has put into this meal for them.
I try and make up for my family. “Roman, the ravioli is scrumptious.”
“Thank you.” Roman sits down.
Why aren’t they complimenting his cooking? I kick Tess under the table.
“Ow,” she says.
“Sorry.” I look at her but she doesn’t catch my cue.
When Tess was dating Charlie, I knocked myself out to make him feel welcome. I listened to Charlie drone on about installing home-security systems until my eyes rolled back in my head like martini olives. When Jaclyn got serious with Tom, she warned us that he was “shy,” so we made sure to bring him in on every conversation, to try and include him. He finally told Tess and me to back off, that it wasn’t necessary to include him in our dull conversations, he gets enough of that at work. We’ve failed with Pamela, but it wasn’t from lack of trying; she’s just not into the stuff we enjoy, like eating, so it’s always been a struggle to find common ground. When Alfred was dating her, we were on our best behavior, but once they married, it was too much work.
Now, as I look around the table, reciprocation of my kind gestures toward my sisters and brother when they were bringing someone new into the family has gone out the window. It seems they are just too jaded, disinterested, and old to put on a good face for Roman. He’s getting the rent-a-wreck version of my family when the rest of the in-laws got the Cadillac treatment. It’s almost assumed that Funnyone isn’t a serious player in romance, so why bother? Why use the good china on Roman, he won’t be around anyway. But they’re wrong. They are my family, and they should be on my side and, God forbid, root for my happiness. Tonight, it’s clear they couldn’t care less. Here they are at a restaurant short-listed in New York magazine for Best Italian Eatery and they act like they’re grabbing a sweaty hot dog in wax paper out of a bin at Yankee Stadium. Don’t they see that this is special? That he is special?
“Are you going to tell the chef what you think?” I say so loudly that even Roman is startled. The family does an en masse hmm, good, great garble that seems insincere.
And then Alfred says, “Who’s paying for the trip to Italy?”
“We are,” I tell him.
“More debt.” He shrugs.
“We need leather to make shoes,” I snap at him.
“You need to modify your operation and sell the building,” he says. “Gram, I agreed to come tonight hoping that I might be able to tell Scott what your plans are.”
Now I’m really angry. This dinner was supposed to be a lovely evening about getting to know my new boyfriend, and now it’s turned into agenda night for the Angelini Shoe Company. “Could we talk about this another time?”
“I have an answer for Alfred,” Gram says quietly.
Alfred smiles for the first time this evening.
“I’ve been doing a little research on my own,” Gram begins. “I had a long talk with Richard Kirshenbaum. Remember him?” She turns to Mom. “He used to run the printing factory on the West Side Highway? He and his wife owned it.”
“I remember her well. Dana. Stunning brunette. Amazing fashion sense. How is she?” Mom asks.
“Retired,” Gram deadpans. “Anyhow, I told him about the offer and he advised me to wait. He said that Scott Hatcher’s offer wasn’t nearly enough.”
“Not enough?” Alfred puts his hands on the table.
“That’s what he said.” Gram picks up her fork. “But we can talk about the details another time.”
“You know what, Gram? We don’t have to. I can see Valentine and her crazy ideas have gotten to you and you’re not thinking clearly.”
“I’m clear,” Gram assures him.
“No, you’re just buying time.”
“First of all, Alfred, if I could buy time, I would have done it already. It’s the only thing I don’t have enough of. Though none of you would understand that, not having reached your eightieth birthdays.”
“Except for me.” Dad waves his white napkin in surrender and continues. “Time? It’s like a freakin’ gong in my head in the middle of the night. And then I get the cold sweats of death. I’m hearing the call to arms, believe me.”
“Okay, Dutch, you’re right. You’re exempt. You would understand this because you have a health situation-”
“Damn right.”
“-that would make you empathetic to old age. But the rest of you are too young to understand.”
“What does this have to do with your building?” my brother asks impatiently.
“I am not going to be pushed into anything. And I feel you’re pushing me, Alfred.”
“I want what’s best for you.”
“You’re rushing me. And as far as Mr. Hatcher is concerned, he is looking out for his best interests, not mine.”
“It’s a cash offer, Gram. As is. He’d buy the building as is.”
“And as it is, today, I’m not selling.”
“Okay. Fine.” Alfred places his napkin next to his plate. He stands and moves to the door. Roman shakes his head in disbelief at my brother’s lack of manners.
“Honey!” Mom calls after him. He goes through the door. Mom goes after him.
Dad looks at me. “See what you started?”
“Me?”
I look to Roman, but he is gone. “Great. Now dinner is ruined. I hope you’re all happy.” I throw down my napkin. “Now that’s something to cry about.” I look to Jaclyn, who suddenly can’t muster a tear.
I go into the kitchen. Roman is carefully slicing the pork loin and placing it on a platter. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. It’s actually worse in my family. When they’re not complaining, they’re plotting.” Roman puts down his carving knife, wipes his hands on a moppeen, and comes around the butcher-block table and puts his arms around me. “Let it go,” he says.
I pretend, for his sake, that I can. But I know, having seen the expression on his face and his abrupt exit to the kitchen, that my family just became a potential deal breaker in our relationship. Roman left Chicago because of this kind of infighting and competition in his own family, why should he put up with it from mine? Why would any man sign on for this kind of nonsense, even when it’s achingly familiar?
As complex as Roman is in the kitchen, when it comes to his private life, he is a minimalist. He doesn’t clutter his loft with unnecessary furniture, his kitchen with dust-collecting gadgets, or his heart with emotional fracases. He makes quick decisions and clean breaks. I’ve seen him do it. He is not a fan of drama for the sake of it, and the last thing he wants to do is argue. He wants his life outside work, which is competitive and volatile, to be the opposite: calm and peaceful. My family, even when I beg them, cannot deliver that. Sensing my feelings, he says, “Don’t worry.”
“Too late,” I tell him.