I give the sketches of Rosaria’s feet to June, who places the patterns in her bin. I pull an index card from the desk drawer and make notes. I put all of the dimensions of Rosaria’s feet on the card, then staple the fabric swatch and bin number of the rosettes. I staple the envelope with the string measurements to the card as Rosaria, giddy with delight, tells her mom every detail. She is as excited about the shoes as she is about her gown. Rosaria hangs up with her mother and turns to Gram. “I feel so proud that I’m carrying on my mom’s tradition.”
“When is your final fitting?” I ask.
“May tenth, at Frances Spencer’s, in the Bronx.”
“I know it well. Best knock-off seamstress in the five boroughs. I’ll be there with your shoes so they can do the final hem with the heel you’ll be wearing.”
“Thank you.” Rosaria gives me a hug, takes her purse, and goes.
I jot down Rosaria’s fitting date on the card and then open the file case on the desk.
“I’m giving Rosaria the shoes as my gift,” Gram says, not looking up from her work. “No charge.”
“Okay.” I mark the receipt. This is a bad time to be giving away shoes. “Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.” Gram takes the shoes she has been working on and wraps them in cotton.
“You know, with Alfred checking our numbers…”
“I know. But Alfred isn’t running this business. I am.”
June looks at me and raises her eyebrow as if to say, Don’t argue with her.
I tack up the order. On the bulletin board, I see a note in Gram’s handwriting. It says: “Meeting with Rhedd Lewis at Bergdorf’s, on December 5, 10 A.M. Bring V.”
“Gram, what’s this?”
“You remember that costume lady from the movie? Debra McGuire? Well, she may have been prickly, but she liked us. So she recommended us to Rhedd Lewis at Bergdorf’s, who asked to meet with us.”
“Did she say why?” I can hardly contain my excitement.
“She didn’t. Maybe she’s getting married and needs shoes.”
“Or maybe she wants to put our shoes in the store!” My mind reels with the possibilities of supplying the most elegant department store in New York City with our shoes. This is exactly the kind of break Bret was hoping we would get. We need the big guns to recognize and support our brand. “Can you imagine? Our shoes in Bergdorf’s?”
“I hope not.” June puts her hands on her hips and turns to Gram. “Remember when your husband put the shoes in Bonwit Teller’s? It was a disaster. We hardly sold any stock. The word came back that brides didn’t want to spend on their shoes when they had spent a pretty penny on their gowns.”
“That turned us off to department stores,” Gram admits. “That was our first and last foray into big business.”
“Maybe it will be different this time. Look in any fashion magazine. Upscale shoppers are spending two grand on a purse without batting an eye. That makes our shoes look like a bargain. Maybe there’s an opportunity here.”
“Or maybe you just go to the meeting, see what she says, and then go to the Bergdorf café and have the deviled eggs,” June says practically as she takes her shears and cuts a pair of size-eight soles from the pattern paper. June looks at me and smiles supportively, but she’s been around this company long enough to know that it is highly unlikely Gram will change a thing about the way she conducts her business, even if it means she could lose the entire operation.
“Gram, I think we should go to the meeting with an open mind. Right?”
She doesn’t answer me as a long, black limousine pulls up in front of the shop. It seems to stretch from the corner to the lobby door of the Richard Meier building. As it parallel-parks, I see BUILDBIZ on the license plate.
A man in a crisp navy blue suit with a red tie hops out the back door followed by my brother. The wind kicks up their silk ties like kite tails as they head for our entrance.
“What’s Alfred doing here?” I ask.
“He called while you were out with Roman. He’s bringing a broker by to see the building.”
I look at June. Our eyes meet but she looks away quickly.
“Hello, ladies,” Alfred says as he comes into the shop. He goes to Gram and kisses her on the cheek. Gram beams with pride as Alfred turns to the man and introduces her. “This is my grandmother Teodora Angelini. Gram, this is the broker I told you about, Scott Hatcher. We went to Cornell together.”
Gram shakes his hand. Alfred puts his hands on his hips and looks around the shop as though June and I aren’t there. It’s a wonder to me how gregarious my brother is when he is around his peers. With family, he’s morose. But at work, when he’s on his game and personality plus is required, he’s a pistol.
The broker is about six feet tall, a better-looking version of Prince Albert of Monaco, with a full head of hair. His eyes are wide and green, and he has the warm, fixed smile of a salesman.
“We’re going to take a look around, Gram.” Alfred flashes her the fake businessman smile.
“Go right ahead,” she says.
“Let’s start on the roof.” Alfred leads Scott up the stairs.
I sit down on my work stool. “Well, the day I dreaded is here.”
“Now, don’t be this way,” Gram says softly.
“How should I be?” I pick up the laces for my boot and take them to the ironing board. I plug in the iron and bury my hands deep in my pockets as I wait for it to heat.
June puts down her shears and says, “I need a coffee. Can I bring you girls anything?”
“No thank you,” I tell her.
June slips on her coat and dashes out the door.
“June can smell a fight,” Gram says quietly.
“I’m not going to fight with you. I just wish you’d get your game on.”
“Bergdorf’s isn’t going to save us. The one thing I’m certain of is that there’s no magic solution in business. You’re climbing a mountain here, pick, step, pick, step.”
Suddenly, Gram’s old aphorisms sound ancient and irrelevant. Now I’m angry. “You don’t even know what the meeting is about. You didn’t ask. Why don’t we just put a Closed sign on the door and give up?”
“Look, I’ve been down every road with this business. We’ve been on the brink of closing more times than I can count. Your grandfather and I almost lost it after his father died in 1950. But we held on. We survived the sixties, when our sales dipped to nothing because the hippie brides went barefoot. We made it through the seventies, when manufacturing overseas quadrupled, and then we rode the wave of the Princess Di years in the eighties when everybody went formal with their weddings and required custom gowns and shoes. We brought the business out of debt, and went into profit-and I designed the ballet flat to hang on to the market share we were losing to Capezio.” She raises her voice. “Don’t you dare imply that I’m a quitter. I’ve fought and fought and fought. And I’m tired.”
“I get it!”
“No, you don’t. Until you’ve worked here every day for fifty years, you can’t possibly know how I feel!”
I raise my voice and say, “Let me buy the business.”
“With what?” Gram throws her hands in the air. “I pay your salary. I know what you make!”
“I’ll find the money!” I shout.
“How?”
“I need time to figure it out.”
“We don’t have time!” Gram counters.
“Maybe you could give me the same courtesy you show your grandson and give me time to counter-offer whatever he comes up with.”
Alfred comes into the shop. “What the hell is going on?” he says sharply as he motions toward the hallway where Hatcher is inspecting the stairs.
“I want to buy the business and the building,” I tell my brother.