The Supreme Macaroni Company (11 page)

“You can’t get married in church without it. Besides, it’s good for you. A little retreat with other couples who are going through what you’re going through. Daddy and I led the discussion one time. We weren’t asked back, because, well, we’re not sure. Maybe because we got into a spat about home budgets during the financial portion. You know your father, he can be tight with the blades.”

“Blades?”

“The cash. The green. You’ll love pre-Cana . . . a spiritual discussion about the solemnity of the occasion and practical advice about day-to-day living with one another. That’s not going to hurt you.”

“If we survive it.”

“I’m sure you and Gianluca have discussed all the big issues, and this is good for the small ones. Oh, he’ll need his annulment paperwork.”

“He carries it on his person like a passport.”

“Do not mistake my anxiety for disapproval. I am thrilled you’re getting married. I’m so happy for you. I want to make your life easier, not harder. I want you to enjoy this special day. I really do.”

“Then can you be a little happy that I’m wearing your dress?”

“Not really. Years ago I had a yen to cut it up and make doilies, and now I’m sorry I didn’t.”

“But this gown is blessed.”

“No, honey, I had it historically cleaned and hermetically sealed in plastic, but not blessed.”

“I mean, it’s lucky. Look at the good fortune you and Dad have enjoyed. You’ve really done very well.”

Her eyes misted with tears. “Forty-one years. We were broke, then we got cocky, we got cocky and Daddy strayed, then Daddy repented and returned, then I went whack-a-doodle, then I calmed down, and then Daddy got the prostate, and ever since, we’ve been good.”

“It helped when he took the estrogen therapy. I think he understood you better.”

“Understood me? He practically
became
me.”

“Ma, when did you go whack-a-doodle?”

“Don’t you remember my yoga retreat in the Catskills?”

“Vaguely.”

“You were in college. I was turning thirty-seven—”

“Forty-eight.”

“Whatever. Don’t correct me. I don’t need my children pointing out my flaws. I’m bad with math.”

“Only when it comes to your age.”

Mom ignored me. “Well, I went to a couple of yoga classes, then a prayer meeting in a sweat lodge outside of Albany. I got impetigo, came home, and had to soak my foot in white vinegar for a month. My one journey to enlightenment gave me a rash. Go figure.

“Anyhow, my point is that even when you don’t make a plan of it, you will change. You will want different things at different points in your life, just as he will. Circumstances will hit you with some whammies, and you’ll fight back, and sometimes you’ll just give in to it and choose to lie down in the river and glide. Whatever you do, know that there’s a long line of us that came before you who walked in your shoes.” Mom looked around the shop. “It always comes back to shoes with us, doesn’t it?”

T
he Chelsea Market, a couple of blocks from our shop, had grown from a local food mall with bakeries, wine vaults, fresh seafood, and a soup stand to a tourist attraction with all the old guard shops dwarfed by a television studio, fancy restaurants, clothes shop, and a bookstore.

Buon Italia remained my favorite destination, with food imported from Italy and a fresh pasta department that tricked Gianluca into thinking he’d never left Tuscany.

I had planned a romantic dinner of tortellini in puttanesca sauce, fresh bread, and an arugula salad. I was studying the olive oil selections when I felt what I can only describe as a familiar presence next to me.

“I like Lucini. Tuscan. It’s buttery.”

I looked up at Roman Falconi and as if by habit, I blushed. “Roman.”

He wasted no time and put his arms around me and kissed both my cheeks. The only thing between us was a small block of parmesan cheese. It wasn’t a good buffer. Roman took the cheese and placed it in the cart, then stood back and looked at me.

“You look good,” he decided.

“So do you.” And it was true. He did. Obviously, he was working out because he was in better physical shape than I remembered. He was as handsome as ever, and he had cropped his hair short. He smiled at me, moving his head from side to side, squinting a bit as if he was studying a painting.

“What are you making?” He began to go through my cart.

“Something simple. Tortellini.”

“Do you ever make the pork shoulder?”

“No, but I ordered it at Babbo. Does that count?”

He put his hand on his heart. “You go to Batali? You’re killing me.” He smiled. When he smiled, I remembered why I fell in love with him. “Why don’t you come over later? I’ll make you dinner.”

“I can’t.”

“Right. You’re cooking.”

“And I’m getting married.”

Roman’s face fell. He looked slightly seasick, but quickly recovered as only a man who is used to juggling complex recipes, hungry customers, and beautiful women can do. It’s the face of a man who always thinks he is missing something even when he isn’t sure he wants it.

“I miss you,” he said.

“Thank you.” I didn’t know what else to say.

“Do you miss me?” he asked.

“I miss that pork shoulder.”

He laughed. “Who you gonna marry?”

“A tanner.”

“You hate the beach.”

“No. I hate bathing suits. I love the beach. Besides, he’s not that kind of tanner. He works in leather.”

“How old is he?”

This was exactly the kind of question that unnerved me when I dated Roman. He’s a mind reader.

“Around your age,” I lied. As soon as I did, I was ashamed. I didn’t have a problem with the age difference, did I? “Why do you ask?”

“I like to have as many facts as I can about the competition.”

“How about you? You serious with anyone?”

“Not really. And I’m not looking.”

“That’s a first.”

“Why don’t you just put a nutcracker in your cart?”

This time, I laughed. “I’m sorry. You know, Roman, you’re like an institution—a big building with a fountain out front. Important. Impressive. I like knowing you’re there because everything on earth changes except for you.”

“Is that a compliment?” he wondered.

“Absolutely,” I assured him. Roman followed me around as I finished my shopping. He helped me choose the best crushed and peeled tomatoes in the store. He stayed with me as I chose a bottle of wine. We laughed as we had in the beginning, but this time there was no anxiety. We knew exactly who we were and how the story ended. It meant we could be honest.

“Are you happy with the chump?”

I looked at him.

“Chump is a term of endearment.” He smiled.

“Maybe it is in Chicago but it’s not in Queens.”

“So let me put it this way—are you happy?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Then I’m happy for you,” he said, not meaning it. “But if anything changes, you know the way to Mott Street.”

“You’re serious.”

“Very.”

Roman was, first and foremost, a cook. He thought that if he added new and interesting ingredients to an old recipe that it would somehow turn out differently.

“Don’t you believe in fate, Valentine?” he asked.

“You think because I needed fresh tortellini that’s a sign we should get back together?”

“Why not?” He beamed that glorious smile and I swear it lit up the room, causing every woman in Buon Italia to look into the light.

I shook my head and laughed.

“You think I’m joking,” he said. “But I’m not. You still on Perry Street?”

“For a hundred years.”

“Maybe I’ll stop by sometime.” Roman kissed me on the cheek and left. I stood there for a moment as though I’d been hit by a hammer.

“Baby, that man likes you,” a lovely African American woman said to me as she picked up a can of olives near my cart.

“It’s too late for him.”

“People change,” she said, pushing her cart past me. “I like a tall man.”

“Me too.” I smiled.

A
lfred, Charlie, and I met for lunch at Valbella’s, our favorite Italian restaurant in the meatpacking district. David, the owner, always rolls out the red carpet and the best sopressata this side of Naples. He sees me coming and starts cracking crab legs for my appetizer. I need to eat a lot of fish for the next month so I’m at fighting weight for the wedding pictures.

Charlie (I’m sure Tess is behind this) is wearing a three-piece suit. Never mind that I haven’t seen a three-piece suit on anyone since I watched
Scarface
with Gianluca, but it looks nice on my brother-in-law. Alfred wears a tie with a white shirt and his jeans and cardigan. I feel like I’m out with a couple of rejects from Boys Nation.

“Charlie, do you have any idea why we’ve called you here today?” Alfred began.

“I’m guessing you want to save my family from financial and emotional ruin,” he joked.

“Stop that. You’re a winner. Would you like a glass of wine?” I asked him.

“My liver is still processing Christmas Eve,” Charlie said. “I’ll have a glass of seltzer.”

“You know, Charlie, Alfred and I have been thinking about you. We’d like to have you come and work with us.”

“We want to give you a job that uses your skills,” Alfred added, looking at me. “We have some ideas, but we’d like to hear yours.”

“I’m not wild about shipping,” Charlie said.

I look at Alfred. I could kill Tess for tipping Charlie off about the position before our lunch. “Okay, what do you think you’d like to do?”

“I don’t know. But I’m open.”

“To anything but shipping,” I thought aloud.

“I know this sounds a little nuts, but I’m not sure what you’re good at,” Alfred said. “I’m sure you’re brilliant at what you do, but what is it exactly?”

“I managed a team of salesmen at the alarm company. I had to teach them how to sell, and I also oversaw operations. I was in charge of the team that checked the alarms before they were installed.”

“Quality control?” I asked.

“Bigger than that. I had to make sure that the alarms worked mechanically.”

Alfred looked at me. “Mechanics?”

“Yeah, I mean, I pretty much can take apart any machine and put it back together.”

“Tess always said that you knew how to handle a remote, but I had no idea you had skills beyond that.”

“I do.” Charlie smiled confidently. “And I speak Spanish.”

I grabbed Alfred’s arm. “You do?”

“Fluent.”

“Why didn’t I know this?” I threw my hands in the air.

“When was the last time Spanish was spoken in the Roncalli household?”

“Never,” I admitted.

“I minored in Spanish at Villanova.”

“I had no idea,” Alfred said.

“I almost got on
Who Wants to Be a Millionaire
in 2007. I think that’s it for my secrets,” Charlie said.

“Well, our shoes are made in Argentina.”

“I’m aware of that,” Charlie said.

“And now that I’m getting married, I’m not going to be able to run down to Buenos Aires—you could be our guy. Our operations guy.”

“Make me an offer,” Charlie said.

The waiter arrived with a silver tray filled with surf and turf for southern Italians. There were hunks of Parmesan cheese, delicate rolls of salami, and glistening yellow peppers stuffed with anchovies.

“First we eat,” I said to Charlie and Alfred. “Then we make a deal.”

T
he night before my wedding, I finished my new shoes.

I carefully snipped the threads around the shank of the heel. I had made a pair of formal pumps in off-white raw silk with a cutwork around the vamp that matched the lace on my mother’s wedding gown. I cut three-inch Cinderella heels out of Lucite, stacked for comfort and all-night dancing. When I lifted the hem of my gown, the shoes looked like wings and my feet looked like they were floating a few inches off the ground.

Gabriel came in with a gift wrapped in white. He placed it on the cutting table.

“I told you I could finish up. I sent the patterns to Charlie via e-mail. He’s going to forward them to Roberta.”

“Great. I’m going to get married without a single worry about the shop.”

“Val, are you sure I can’t help?”

“I like the finishing. I zen right out,” I told him as I clipped one last thread.

“Are you nervous?”

“Yeah.”

“Everything will come off without a hitch.”

“My mother is the hitch queen. She’ll handle any problems.”

“She lives for it.”

I looked at Gabriel, who had hoisted himself up on the worktable. He dangled his feet nervously. “Are you okay?”

“I hate change,” he said.

“Not as much as me.”

“But you’re the one getting married. The very definition of that is change.”

“It is, and it isn’t. I can’t tell you what I’m going to feel on the other side of commitment, but so far, I haven’t had to change anything about myself for Gianluca. I’m assertive, and I do what I think is best. I mean, he comes first, of course, but I’m my own person.”

Gabriel looked at me quizzically. “You seem to have it all figured out.”

“I don’t know about that. I just want to be married on my own terms.”

“Is there such a thing?”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re joining your lives together. Two makes one. It’s the only time math is fuzzy—when there’s a marriage.”

“I prefer two separate but equal people in love unite in marriage.”

“Val, seriously?”

“What?”

“How does feminism play with a traditional Italian man?”

“He’s the father of a very independent daughter. He gets it.”

“Whatever you say.” Gabriel got up and handed me the gift. “Want to open your present?”

“Shouldn’t I wait for Gianluca?”

“It doesn’t involve him.”

“Nice. And you’re coming down on me about joining lives together?”

“What do you want from me? I’m very torn.”

I ripped into the package. I pulled off the bubble wrap. In an elaborate gold-leafed frame, Gabriel had mounted my final sketch of my wedding shoes. “Do you like it?” he asked.

“I love it. And I love you.” I gave Gabriel a kiss.

“I was going to get you a salad spinner, and went with the art instead.”