Roman pulls his car into a parking garage on Sullivan Street. He leaves the key in the ignition and waves to the attendant, who waves back. We go out onto the street and he kisses me under the streetlight. “Which one is yours?” I ask him.

“That one.” He points to a loft building, an old factory of some sort, with words carved on the door, but I can’t read them. He grabs my hand and we run to the entrance. We get inside and go up in the elevator to the fourth floor, we kiss, and when the car bounces, our lips wind up on each other’s noses and we laugh.

The doors of the elevator open onto an enormous floor-through loft with a series of large windows on both sides. The floors are wide planks of distressed oak with polka dots of old nail heads. Four large white pillars anchor the center of the room, creating an open, indoor gazebo. Greek-key plaster molding hems off the cathedral ceiling, while architectural pilasters lean against the wall, giving the loft a feeling of an old museum storage room. There’s a large painting on the far wall of a lone white cloud on a blue night sky.

An industrial kitchen, the length of the loft, is behind us. Neat and organized, it’s outfitted with state-of-the-art appliances. A wild chandelier of Murano-glass trumpet vines in orange and green hangs over the counter.

His bed, in the far corner of the room, is a four-poster, with a valance behind it of clean white muslin. The silver radiators spit steam into the silent loft. It’s got to be 120 degrees in here. I begin to sweat.

“Let’s get that coat off you,” he says. He kisses me as he unbuttons my coat. He doesn’t stop with the coat. He undoes the tiny pearl buttons on my pale pink cashmere sweater and slips it off my shoulders. For a second, I wonder how I look, then disregard it, good, he’s already seen me naked. He touches the damp drops on my forehead.

“Is this the steam heat or us?”

“Us,” I promise. He unzips my skirt. I help him off with his coat. He struggles with the sleeve of his shirt until I pull it off his arm, like a wrapper. We laugh for a moment, but then go back to kissing. I hold his face in my hands, never letting go as we move across the room. We leave a trail of our clothes on the floor, like rose petals, until we make it to his bed. He lifts me up and puts me on the soft velvet coverlet. He reaches across and opens the window. The wind blows in, ruffling the valance like summer laundry on the line. The cool air settles on us as he lies over me.

We make love to the music of the cranky boiler and the whistle of the Christmas wind. We are hot and cold, then cold and hot, but mostly hot as we tangle ourselves in each other. His kisses cover me like the velvet quilt that now lies on the floor like a parachute.

I sink down into his pillows, a spoon in chocolate cake batter.

“Tell me a story.” He pulls me close and rests his face in my neck.

“What kind of story?”

“Like the tomatoes.”

“Well, let’s see. Once upon a time…,” I begin. As I’m about to continue, Roman falls asleep. I look to the floor and the coverlet, knowing that sometime in the next few hours, the boiler will rest and I will freeze. But it doesn’t, and I don’t. The only thing I wear as I sleep are his arms. I’m warm and safe and wanted by a man I adore, who lies beside me like a mystery, and yet, enough is known to sleep deeply and dreamily long into this Christmas night. What a blissful place to rest my once weary heart, patched like the old man’s coat pockets, the man who grew too old to dream.

8. Mott Street

“NOW THAT’S MY IDEA OF A MERRY LITTLE CHRISTMAS.” June bites into a jelly doughnut and closes her eyes. She chews, then sips her coffee. “You know, sex on a holiday is the best. You’ve had good food, scintillating conversation, or in your case, a family brawl that sets the mood for a roll in the hay. And after a fight, you know, you need it. Gets the kinks out.”

“Sounds like you’ve been there?” The better question may be, where hasn’t June been?

“Oh, I could tell you about a Saint Patrick’s Day in Dublin that would make your-”

“June.” Gram comes into the shop, wearing her coat and a scarf tied under her chin. She puts down her purse and takes off her gloves and coat.

“I was just about to tell Valentine about that rogue with the brogue who I met on vacation in 1972. Seamus had no shame, believe me. Delightful man.”

“I wish you’d write a book. That way, we might savor the details as a literary experience”-Gram hangs up her coat-“and we’d have the option of checking the book out of the library…or not.”

“No worries. I’ll never write a book. I can’t be vivid on the page.” June flips the pattern paper on the cutting table like she’s a matador twirling a cape. She lays it on the table. “Only in real life.”

“The sign of a true artist,” I say and fire up the iron.

“What do you think?” Gram removes her head scarf. She turns slowly to model her new haircut and color. Her white hair is gone! Now dyed a soft brown, her hair is cut and cropped, with long layers pushed to the front, and pale gold highlights around her face where there used to be small, pressed curls. Her dark eyes sparkle against the contrast of her pink skin and warm caramel hair color. “I used the gift certificate you girls gave me for Christmas at Eva Scrivo’s. What do you think?”

“God almighty, Teodora. You lost twenty years on the walk home,” June marvels. “And I knew you twenty years ago, so I can say it plain.”

“Thank you.” Gram beams. “I wanted a new look for my trip to Italy.”

“Well, you’ve got it,” I tell her.

“I mean our trip to Italy.” Gram looks at me. “Valentine, I want you to go with me.”

“Are you serious?” I have only been to Italy on a college trip, and I would love to see it with my grandmother.

In all the years my grandparents traveled to Italy, the trips were strictly business: to buy supplies, meet fellow artisans, share information, and learn new techniques. Usually, they would be gone about a month. When I was small, they went annually; in the later years, they would stagger the trips and go every two or three years. When Grandpop died ten years ago, Gram resumed her annual trips.

“Gram, are you sure you want to take me?”

“I wouldn’t think of going without you. You want to win those Bergdorf windows, don’t you?” Gram flips through her work file. “We need the best materials to make them, don’t you think?”

“Absolutely.” We are waiting for the dress design that Rhedd Lewis promised us. I’m learning that in the world of fashion, the only people who work on deadlines are the ones making things, not the ones selling them.

June puts down her scissors and looks at Gram. “You haven’t taken anyone to Italy in years. Not since Mike died.”

“I know I haven’t,” she says quietly.

“So, what gives?” June pins down her pattern paper on the leather.

“It’s time.” Gram looks around the shop, checking the bins for something to do. “Besides, someday Valentine will run the shop, and she needs to meet everybody I deal with.”

“I wish we were leaving tonight. I’m finally going to see the Spolti Inn, and meet the tanners, and go to the great silk fabric houses in Prato. I’ve been waiting my whole life for this.”

“And those Italian men have been waiting for you,” June says.

“June, I’m taken.” Did she even hear the cleaned-up version of my Christmas night?

“I know. But it’s the law of the jungle. It’s been my experience, whenever I have a man, I attract more of them. And in Italy, trust me, the men line up.”

“For tips. Porters, waiters, and bellboys,” I tell her.

“Nothing wrong with a man who can do some heavy lifting for you,” June says and winks.

“Valentine will have plenty of work to do. There won’t be time for hobnobbing and socializing.”