Dad holds up his sexy elves plastic cup of wine. “I’d like to make a toast. To Dr. Buxbaum at Sloan who took my prostrate numbers from north to south. Which is a good thing.”
“To Dr. Buxbaum!” we toast. My father is beating prostate cancer and he still can’t pronounce it.
“Many, many more years, Dutch,” Mom says, raising her glass again. “We have lots of sunsets to see, and lots of places to go. You still have to take me to Williamsburg.”
“Virginia?” Tess asks.
“That’s your dream trip?” Jaclyn says. “You can get there in a car.”
“I believe in setting goals that one can achieve. Low expectations make for a happy life. I can die without seeing Bora-Bora. Besides, I love glassblowing, Georgian architecture, and Revolutionary War reenactors. Aim for doable, kids.”
“I think you mean it.” I swig my wine.
“I absolutely do. I have dreamed of the attainable and the attainable has found me. I wanted a nice Italian boy with good teeth, and that’s what I got.”
“I still have all my choppers,” Dad says, nodding.
“You think small things don’t matter until you consider teeth,” Gram toasts Dad from the chaise.
We sip our wine as we ponder Dad’s bite and Mom’s dream of Colonial Williamsburg. The only sound we hear is the faint pop of the marshmallows as they ignite into orange flames, only to turn bright blue before charring to black. Roman supervises the operation and actually seems to be having fun. He looks over at me and winks.
The kids have gone downstairs to play with some of those minuscule Polly Pocket dolls, while the grown-ups remain on the roof, sitting around the old table finishing our wine. A cold wind kicks up as the fire in the grill dies down. I collect the cups, and I’m about to head downstairs to start the dishes when I hear Alfred lean over and say to Gram, “Scott Hatcher’s offer is still on the table.”
“Not now, Alfred,” she says quietly.
I knew this was coming. I could barely look at Alfred all night, knowing he was calculating square footage and interest rates with every mouthful of manicotti. He’s made remarks and dropped hints until I’m good and sick of it. So I turn to my brother and say, “It’s Christmas! She doesn’t want to talk about Scott Hatcher and his cash offer. And besides, you told us Hatcher was a broker, not a buyer.”
“He’s both. He sells properties, but he also buys them for investment purposes. Anyhow, what difference does it make?”
“A lot. A broker comes in and gives an opinion. It’s a process. After a few months, when you’ve gathered enough information and gone out to competitors to get the best price, then, and only then, if you want to sell, do you hire your own broker and name your price. But that’s not what’s going on here. He’s a developer.”
“How do you know?” Alfred counters.
“I did my research.” If only Alfred knew how much research. I know more about Scott Hatcher than I ever wanted to. “It isn’t prudent for Gram to sell the building after one offer. That’s bad business.”
“And you know from business?” Alfred sneers.
“I’ve been putting together my own numbers.” My family looks at me. Funnyone is artistic, not a numbers person. I’ve blindsided them.
“You’re not serious.” Alfred turns away from me.
“I’m deadly serious,” I say, raising my voice.
Alfred turns back and looks at me, confused.
“Not now, Valentine,” Gram says firmly.
“Anyhow, it’s Gram’s decision. Not yours,” Alfred says dismissively.
“I’m Gram’s partner.”
“Since when?” Alfred yells.
I look at Gram, who begins to speak, but reconsiders.
“Kids, don’t get like this,” Dad interjects.
“Oh, we’re gonna get like this.” I stand up. When I stand, the in-laws-Pamela, Charlie, and Tom-get up from the table and inch back to the fence line of the roof. Only Roman remains at the table, with a look on his face that says, Here we go.
“You two, stop it right now,” Mom chirps. “We’ve had a lovely holiday.”
I persist. “How much was the offer, Alfred?”
He doesn’t answer.
“I said, how much?”
“Six million dollars,” Alfred announces.
Shrieks rise from my relatives on the roof, like hosannas at a tent revival.
“Gram, you’re mega rich!” Tess exclaims. “You’re like Brooke Astor!”
“Over my dead body,” Gram says, looking down at her hands. “That poor Astor woman. And I mean poor. May she rest in peace. If you don’t raise your children right, all the money in the world doesn’t matter. It’s the fast track to tumult.”
“Please, Ma, we are not the Astors. There’s a lot of love here,” Mom says.
“So what’s going to happen with the offer?” Jaclyn asks delicately.
“It’s a very high offer, a great offer, in fact, and I’ve advised Gram to sell,” Alfred says, laying out his plan like a road map. “She can finally retire after fifty years of killing herself, get a condo in Jersey out by us, and put her feet up for the first time in her life.”
“She has her feet up right now,” I tell him. I turn to Gram. “What happens to the Angelini Shoe Company?”
Gram doesn’t answer me.
“Valentine, she’s tired.” Alfred raises his voice. “And you’re pushing her. Stop being selfish and think about our grandmother for a change.”
“Now, Alfred, you know how much I love my work,” Gram says.
“That’s right. We’ve got a great business going here. We make three thousand pairs of shoes a year.”
“Oh, come on. That’s hardly viable by any current business standards. You don’t have a Web site, you don’t advertise, and it’s run like it’s 1940.” Alfred turns to our grandmother. “No offense, Gram.”
“None taken. That was a big year for us.”
Alfred continues, “You use the same tools Grandpop did. At this point, the Angelini Shoe Company is nothing more than a hobby for you two, and the part-timers you employ. It’s a financial wash in a good year, but with the debt, it’s irresponsible not to consider closing and cleaning up what you owe. Besides, even if we could find somebody to buy the shop, it would not come to one percent of what this building is worth. This building is the gold.”
“It’s our business!” I tell him. Doesn’t he see that our great grandfather’s shoe designs are the gold? Our name? Our technique? Our reputation? Alfred puts no value on our tradition. What are we without it? “We make our living in this shop!”
“Barely. If you had to pay rent, you’d be in the street.”
Clickety Click moves back to Alfred’s side. She threads her arm through his, which tells me that she’s heard this before.
“I live within my means. I’ve never asked anyone for a penny.”
“I helped you when you broke up with Bret and quit teaching.”
“Three thousand dollars. You didn’t give me that money. I paid it back in six months at seven percent interest!” I can’t believe he’s throwing this in my face. Then again, of course he’s throwing this in my face. He’s Alfred! My mother shifts uncomfortably on the lawn chair and Dad stares off at the Verrazano Narrows Bridge as if it’s burst into flames like a marshmallow on a stick.
“I think what Alfred is trying to say,” Mom says diplomatically, “is that my mother is of a certain age now, and in looking ahead, down the road, we should all anticipate changes.”