I watch the students as a teacher silently moves through the easels, stepping back to observe their work. She touches the shoulder of one painter. She points. The artist nods, leans back, squints at his canvas, and then takes a step forward, dips a small brush on his palette, and paints a slim white seam along the top of an old factory building he has painted in detail. In an instant, the gray sky in his painting, hovering over the rooftops like old cotton, is suffused with light, changing the entire mood of his cityscape. Gram taught me about the power of contrast, using a light trim to heighten the vamp of a shoe, or a dark one to define it, but I’ve never seen the concept come alive with such a subtle placement of color. I’ll remember it the next time I choose a trim.
Bret works at a brokerage house within walking distance of our shop. When we were together, he’d sometimes come and help on weekends when he needed a break from studying for his MBA. I admired that he never forgot his working-class roots and was able to roll up his sleeves and do good old-fashioned manual labor when it was called for. I think if we needed help with an order and we asked him to come over today, he would still pitch in for old times’ sake.
In the distance, I see him, walking briskly toward me in his suit, his beige Burberry trench flapping open in the breeze. Bret finishes the last bite of an apple and tosses the core into the Hudson River. I’m genuinely proud of him and all he’s accomplished; but I also worry. He’s the only man I know who has it all, but the man who has it all can top himself only one way: by getting more. I think of Chase and her dazzling smile. Is she more? When Bret reaches me, he gives me a kiss on the cheek. “So fill me in. Tell me everything about the business.”
“Gram has been borrowing against the building to keep the business afloat. Alfred looked at the books and said she needs to restructure her debt.”
“How can I help?”
“I think Alfred is using this as an excuse to have Gram retire and sell the building. He’d be cashing in on sky-high real estate, but it would mean the end of the Angelini Shoe Company. Which would leave me-”
“Without a place to work. Or a home.”
“Or a future,” I add bluntly.
“What does Gram want to do?”
“She told him she’s not ready to sell. But, between you and me, she’s scared.”
“Look, she’s sitting on prime real estate. We have guys who handle that.”
“I don’t want you to help her sell it. I want you to help me buy it.”
Bret’s eyes widen. “Are you serious?”
“You know how much this business means to me. It’s everything. But I don’t have much money saved, nowhere near what it would take. I have no collateral. And while I’m close to being a master, there are still things I’m learning from Gram.”
“Val, this is tough. Alfred has your grandmother’s ear.”
“I know! But I do, too. If I had an alternative plan, I think she’d consider it.”
“So you’re looking for investors who would keep you in business while you figure out a way to buy the business outright?”
“That sounds good. I mean, I don’t know anything about finance.”
“I know,” he says, smiling.
“But you do.”
“You know I’m here for you. Let me figure this out.” He takes my arm as he walks me back to Perry Street.
“Are you behaving yourself?” I ask.
“Like a conscientious altar boy. I know what I have at home, but thanks for reminding me.”
“Hey, that’s why I’m here. I’m a foghorn for fidelity.”
Tess twirls in the stylist’s chair to check the back of her brand-new haircut in the mirror. I lured my sister to Eva Scrivo’s, the chicest hair salon in the Meatpacking District, with the promise of hip, modern hair.
Black leather chairs are lined up in front of floor-to-ceiling mirrors, filled with customers in the various stages of cut and color. One woman wears a headdress of massive fronds of tinfoil painted with bleach; another woman, with short, swingy champagne-streaked strands is getting a blow out, her hair pulled tight on the end of a round brush; another customer has her roots saturated with a purplish brown mixture while the ends of her hair stand away from her scalp like bike spokes.
“You were right, Val. I needed this. I was a boring soccer mom with that blunt cut.” Tess smiles. “Not that there’s anything wrong with soccer moms, because I am one.”
Scott Peré, the master of curly hair, fluffs Tess’s chunky layers with one hand while looking at her reflection. “I’m only gonna say this once, so listen up. Layers after thirty, girls. Layers.”
“I can think of a lot of things a woman needs after thirty, and layers aren’t even in my top ten,” I tell him.
“Rule amendment,” he says. “With your gorgeous skin you’ve got until forty.” Scott takes his comb and moves on to his next customer, who sits under a drying contraption that throws heat on her pin curls as it slowly gyrates around her head like a swirling metal halo.
I poach some smoothing cream from Scott’s station and flip my head over and work it through. My cell phone rings in my purse. “Grab that for me, Tess. It’s Gram wondering where we are.”
“Hello.” Tess listens for a few moments. I put my hair in a topknot. “This isn’t Valentine. I’m her sister.” Tess hands me the phone. “It’s a man.”
“Hello?”
“I thought it was you. Sorry,” Roman says.
“Roman?”
“Sexy name!” Tess says approvingly as she takes her purse and goes to the counter to pay.
“I was calling to thank you for the other night,” Roman continues. “I got your note. I carry it in my pocket.”
“I’m dreaming of that risotto.”
“Is that all?” He actually sounds disappointed. “I was wondering when we could see each other again.”
“Do you need a haircut?” I ask him.
“No,” he laughs.
“Too bad. There’s an open chair here and I’m pretty good with scissors.”
“I’m going to pass on the haircut, but not on you. Okay? But here’s the hard part. I’m pretty much chained to this place.”
“It’s the same for me in the shop. How about I call you for coffee? After lunch sometime?”
“That’s good.”
I close the cell phone and slip it into my pocket. I meet Tess outside the salon. She motions to me as she talks to her husband. “No special night. Absolutely not. You tell Charisma to stay away from that canned frosting, and Chiara is not allowed to sleep in our bed. Okay, honey. I’m going back to Gram’s with Val. I’ll be home by bedtime. Love you.” She hangs up her phone. “Charlie has his hands full. Charisma was playing on his cell phone and called his boss by accident.” Tess looks at me. “Well?”
“I had a date.”
“And?”
“And he’s very interesting.”
“A Poindexter?”
“Not at all. He’s hip.”
“Complicated?”
“Aren’t they all?”
“Even my Charlie. Complicated even in his simple demands. He likes pasta every Tuesday, a movie on Fridays, and sex on Saturdays.”
Tess has never mentioned sex with her husband. Obviously, the haircut has freed her. I laugh. “That’s a doable schedule.”
“I’m not complaining. But you gotta watch out for the routine. You need to keep a man on his toes. Charlie’s getting close to forty, and you know what happens. New car, new wife, new life.”
“That will never happen to you,” I promise my sister.
“It happened to Mom.”
“Yeah, but that was the eighties. Back then, it happened to everyone’s mother.”
“History has a funny way of repeating itself.” Tess buries her hands in her pockets as we walk. “Even Gram had her problem with Grandpop.”