“Something wonderful is going to happen for you on the Isle of Capri. I’m thinking engagement.”
“Ma, please.”
“I’m just saying, hurry up. I don’t want my first face-lift and the first dance at your wedding to coincide. I’m sinking like a soufflé over here.”
“You don’t need any work, Mom.”
“I caught a glimpse of myself looking down in the bathroom tile when I was scrubbing it and I said, ‘Dear God, Mike, you look like a sock puppet.’ I’d get the Botox but they aren’t saying good things about it, plus, what’s my face without any expression? Animation is my thing.”
My mom could talk twelve transatlantic hours in a row about cosmetic enhancement, so I cut her off. “Mom, how do you know if the guy is the guy?”
“You mean if he’ll be a good husband?” She pauses, then says, “The ticket is for the man to love the woman more than she loves him.”
“Shouldn’t it be equal?”
Mom cackles. “It can never be equal.”
“But what if the woman loves the man more?”
“A life of hell awaits her. As women, the deck is stacked against us because time is our enemy. We age, while men season. And trust me, there are plenty of women out there looking for a man, and they don’t mind staking a claim on somebody else’s husband, no matter how old, creaky, and deaf they are.”
She lowers her voice. “Even with the cancer, at sixty-eight, your father is a catch. I don’t need round two in the infidelity fight. I’m twenty years older and fifteen pounds heavier, and my nerves, let’s face it, are shot. Plus, I’ll let him make a mistake once, but twice? Never! So, I keep myself nice and smile, even if I’m crying on the inside. Maintenance! Do you think I wanted to go to the dentist and have all the silver pried out of my mouth and replaced with enough porcelain to build a shrine and fountain to the Blessed Lady? Of course not. But it had to be done! When I smiled with my old teeth it was like looking into a pickle barrel and that wouldn’t do. A woman must endure a lot to keep herself in shape and keep a man…intrigued. And don’t think I’m kidding about the face-lift. I’ve got the infomercial on Thermage Tivoed. I’ve watched it plenty; the only thing is, there are women on that commercial who look better in the before pictures and I’ve yet to figure that out. And show me one woman over sixty-”
Mom gags and coughs. Saying that number actually closes her throat. She goes on.
“-one woman over that fence who doesn’t know she’s got to fight like a tiger and I’ll show you a woman who has given up. The only difference between me and the women who let themselves go and wind up looking like Andy Rooney in a wig is my will. My fortitude. My determination not to quit.”
“Mom, you’re the Winston Churchill of antiaging. ‘Never, never, never, never, never give up your sit-ups.’ You make me want to jump out of this bed and do squats.”
“A nimble bride is a happy one, honey.”
Gram grips my arm as we climb the steep hill past the church to Vechiarelli & Son, our tanners for as long as the Angelinis have been shoemakers. The back streets of Arezzo burst with color, red cabbage roses on pink stucco walls, crisp white laundry hanging high against a blue sky, collections of small ceramic pots spilling over with green herbs in kitchen windows, and an occasional wall fountain, in the shape of a face, cascading sparkling water into an urn.
“It’s the first shop to the right,” Gram pants once we make it to a level street.
“Thank God.” My heart is racing. “I’d say we should have driven, but I don’t think the car could have made it up this hill. I don’t think there’s a shift on the stick for straight up.”
Gram stops, adjusts her skirt, smooths her hair, and secures her shoulder bag just so on her arm. “How do I look?”
“Great.” I’m surprised. Gram has never asked me to comment on her appearance.
“How’s my lipstick?”
“You’re in the pink, Gram. Coco Chanel pink.”
Gram throws back her shoulders. “Good. Let’s go.”
Vechiarelli & Son is a three-story stone house on the end of the street, with a similar setup to our shop at home. The main entrance, used for business, is a wide wooden door under the portico. On the upper floors, there are double doors that lead to small balconies on each level, the top one propped open with a plant, a throw rug hanging over the balcony, airing out in the breeze.
As we climb the steps to go into the shop, we hear a heated argument at full tilt, two men shouting at each other at the top of their lungs. The fight is punctuated with the sound of something being slammed on wood. They’re speaking Italian, and way too quickly for my level of fluency.
I turn to look at Gram, who stands behind me. My expression tells her we should run before the nut jobs inside figure out they’ve got company. “Maybe we should have called first.”
“They’re expecting us.”
“This is some welcome wagon.”
Gram pushes me aside, lifts the brass door knocker, and bangs it several times. The fight inside seems to escalate as the voices move toward us. I take a step back. We’ve kicked over a hornet’s nest, and the swarm sounds deadly. Suddenly, the door flies open from the inside. An old man with white hair, navy wool slacks, and a blue-striped button-down shirt has a look of pure aggravation on his face, but the anger falls away when he lays eyes on Gram.
“Teodora!”
“Dominic, come stai?”
Dominic embraces Gram and kisses her on both cheeks. I am standing behind her and I can see that the line of her spine changes as he kisses her. She grows about two inches taller, and her shoulders relax.
“Dominico, ti presento mio nipote, Valentine,” she says.
“Que bella!” Dominic approves of me. Better that than the alternative!
“Signor Vechiarelli, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” He kisses my hand. I get a good look at his face. It’s the same face as the man in the photograph buried in the velvet pouch in the bottom of Gram’s dresser drawer. I try not to show my surprise, but I can’t wait to get back to the hotel and text Tess to tell her.
“Venite, venite,” he says.
We follow Dominic into the shop. There’s a large farm table that takes up the center of the room. A series of deep shelves filled with sheets of leather line an entire wall, from floor to ceiling.
Old-fashioned tin lamps hang low over the table, illuminating the polished wood in spheres of white light. If I close my eyes, the fragrant beeswax, leather, and lemon take me home to Perry Street. A single door leads to a back room. Dominic calls through the open door.
“Gianluca! Vieni a salutare Teodora ed a conoscere sua nipote.” Dominic turns to me and raises his eyebrows. “Gianluca è mio figlio e anche mio socio.”
“Lovely.” I look at Gram, figuring a bull with flaming nostrils will come galloping through that very door, impale us on his horns, toss us into the air, trample and kill us. Gram motions that all is just fine, but I don’t believe her for a second.
“Gianluca!” Dominic bellows again. This time, it’s a command.
Gianluca Vechiarelli, Dominic’s son and partner (his description) stands in the doorway filling it with his height. He wears a brown apron over work pants and a denim shirt that has been washed so many times it’s practically white. It’s hard for me to see his face because the work lights are so bright, and he is taller than the lights.
“Piacere di conoscerla.” Gianluca extends his hand. I take it. My hand gets lost in his.
“Come è andato il viaggio?” Dominic asks Gram about our trip, but clearly he couldn’t care less, he’s more interested in her arrival here than her departure from America. He pulls rolling work stools out from under the table and invites us to sit. I remain standing while he sits down next to Gram, giving her his undivided attention. It seems he cannot get close enough to her. He doesn’t seem even slightly embarrassed that his legs are touching hers, and that his hands have made their way to her knees.