“But you fell in love…,” I remind her. “That’s a game changer,” I say aloud, as though it’s something I actually know to be true.
“Love only works when two lives come together without sacrifice. No one should give up who they are for someone else. People do it, but it doesn’t make them happy, not in the long run.”
The phone rings, interrupting our conversation. “Angelini Shoe Company,” I say into the phone.
“Rhedd Lewis calling for Teodora Angelini,” the assistant says.
I cover the receiver. “Gram, it’s Rhedd Lewis.”
Gram takes the phone from me. It seems like it takes twenty years for her to say, “Hello?” She listens carefully, then says, “Rhedd, if you don’t mind, I’d like Valentine to take the call. It’s her design. One moment please.” Gram hands the phone back to me.
“Valentine, I’ve sifted through every shoe submitted for the windows. I was wowed, disappointed, shocked, and appalled. There was real junk, and genuine genius…”
Why is she telling me this? I don’t need a critique on top of a rejection. Get to the point, lady.
Rhedd continues, “But nowhere in all the submissions was there such élan, such energy, such a new view but with a respect for the past. You rose to the occasion splendidly, and in creating the Bella Rosa, you married tradition with the pulse of the moment in an artful and seamless way. In fact, I’m in awe. We are going to feature Angelini Shoes in the Christmas windows at Bergdorf’s. Congratulations.”
I hang up the phone and scream so loudly, the pigeons on Charles Street take flight. “We won! We won!” Gram and I embrace. June comes in from lunch.
“What the hell is going on?” she says.
“We won, June! We’re doing the windows at Bergdorf’s!”
“Dear God, I thought somebody hit the lottery,” June says.
“We did!”
I put on one of my mom’s vintage Diane Von Furstenberg wrap dresses. This one is black and white, in a paint-splattered-style print. My hair is long and cascades down like DVF’s own mane back when these dresses were in style the first time around. I want to look good to celebrate our wonderful news with Roman. He doesn’t know it yet, as I’m going to surprise him at the restaurant. He has workmen fixing the electrical on this, his night off, so I’m going to whisk him off for a great celebration meal in Chinatown. I pull on my coat.
“Gram, what are you having for dinner?”
“I heated up the manicotti you made.”
“How is it?”
“Just as good the second time around.” Gram has her feet up, watching television in her easy chair.
“What are you gonna do tonight?” I ask her, as I always do.
“I’m going to watch the news and then I’m going to bed.”
“Don’t wait up.”
“I never do.” She winks.
The cab drops me on Mott Street. Before I push the security code to enter Ca’ d’Oro, I check my lipstick in a compact mirror. The balloon curtains are down in the front windows. I punch in the security code and enter the restaurant. I’m greeted by votive candles flickering on the ledge of the mural, as well as on the tables. Roman must already know my news. He probably called Gram and Gram told him and he prepared a celebration feast for me. God, life is good.
I hear Roman’s voice in the kitchen, so I tiptoe back to surprise him. I sneak up to the doorway. I look inside.
Roman is hovering over a skillet on the stove, while a woman, with long blond hair the color of flat champagne, and wearing a cook’s apron, sits on the island, her legs dangling as she sips a glass of wine. She takes her foot and taps him on the ass with her toes. He looks around and grins at her. Then he sees me. And then she turns and sees me.
“Hon, what are you doing here?” he asks.
I look away from him, and place my gaze on her. She’s ashamed. She looks away.
“We won the Bergdorf windows.” Then I turn and go back out into the restaurant. I’m not good at these kinds of scenes, they are way too dramatic for me. I head for the door at a rapid clip. I can’t say I’m upset. I’m numb. But of course, as Tess is eager to point out, if there’s ever a crisis, go and stand by Valentine, because she remains flatly in denial for a full twenty-four hours after something horrible happens. I put my hand on the door to go out. I push it open. Roman is right behind me.
“Wait,” he says.
I’m outside on the sidewalk. I am not waiting. “Good night, Roman.”
“Stop. You owe it to me.”
Now, I’m angry. Every word he utters is an excuse for me to be mean right back at him. “What exactly do I owe you?”
“Let me explain.”
The idea that he’d actually come up with an excuse for what I saw unnerves me. I’d like to scream at him, but I’m so furious, I can’t form the words.
“She’s a maître d’ I was going to hire, but now I won’t.”
“You know what, Roman? I’m not buying it.” I turn to go.
He stops me again. “Look, there’s nothing going on here. She had some wine, that’s why she was flirting.”
“I love a liquor defense.” I turn away, but this time, it’s because there are tears in my eyes. So much for Tess’s twenty-four-hour rule, I broke it tonight in thirty seconds flat. Let him see that I’m crying. I don’t care. “Roman, your idea of a relationship is seeing me when you can. I’m like spackle. You fit me in between the important stuff.”
“You’re just as busy as I am.” His expression softens. “I think you like the idea of being with me, but I don’t think I’m the one.”
If I were younger and he were a different person, I’d think this was some sort of a rap, designed to distract me from the sexy indiscretion in the kitchen. But it’s not a rap, he’s right. I like him to be there when I want him, but I’m not really present in this relationship either.
“I’m sorry.” It’s almost impossible for me to say I’m sorry, but I did. And then I say the one thing that is hardest of all, because I truly believe it. “I do love you.”
Roman looks at me. Then he shakes his head, as if he can’t take this in. “I think there’s someone else.”
“You’re kidding. I’m the one who just caught you in the kitchen with a woman.”
“You didn’t catch me. It was innocent. Since you came back from Italy, you’ve been distant, and I can’t get in. I’ve begged your forgiveness for missing our vacation. I’ve been trying to make it up to you. Other people have busy careers and make it work. I think our schedules are just excuses. We don’t have what it takes. We just don’t.”
“I think we do.” The thought of losing him makes me feel desperate. I feel a rush of panic, wanting to promise him anything just to have him give me another chance. I want an opportunity to get it right, to prove my feelings, to surrender, to commit, and to show him how much I love him. My mind fills with images of him, on the roof last Christmas roasting marshmallows with the kids, playing basketball with my nephews, taking Gram’s arm in the street for no reason. I’m not ready to say good-bye to this good man. But I don’t know how to help him understand who I am and what I’m capable of, because I haven’t given him one indication of the real person I am inside. I hold him at arm’s length, and most of the time, even farther, and I don’t know why.
“Valentine, if that’s true, then we should try.”
“I need to think about you, Roman. I don’t want to turn this into a big Band-Aid that ends up with us in bed and we smooth it over, and then everything’s fine for a few weeks, and then this…this happens again. There’s something wrong, and I need to figure out what. You deserve better.”
“Do you mean it?” There’s an expression on his face that I haven’t seen in a while: hope.
“Besides, I kissed a man in Capri. There. I’ve said it. It’s been bothering me and I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. The truth is, I have no right to march into Ca’ d’Oro and judge you with Blondie-blonde when I did a stupid thing.”