“I’m thinking about creating something new that is part of our brand, but doesn’t forsake the custom work in the shop,” I explain. “This would be an outside product, created here, developed here, but manufactured elsewhere.”

“China?” Gram asks.

“Probably. Or Spain. Or Brazil. Indonesia. Maybe Italy,” I tell her.

“Are there any American companies that factory-make shoes?”

“A few.”

“Could we use one of those?”

“Gram, I’m checking into that now.” I don’t want this conversation to get stuck in the Made in America argument Gram has with anyone who will listen. I have to keep her mind on the bigger picture, and our operation.

“Let’s not worry about that aspect of production right now,” Bret says, backing me up. “Let’s focus on the work ahead.”

“Gram, I have to create this shoe first. I’m thinking a casual shoe, but hip. And maybe even accessories. Maybe we’ll eventually expand to include those.”

“Oh, God, no. Not belts!” June interrupts. “I’m sorry. I know I’m supposed to be the hear no evil monkey over here, but sometimes, a girl has to speak up. We tried accessories. What a disaster. Mike made belts and sold them to Saks, and they were returned, remember?”

Gram nods.

“He used a soft leather, a gorgeous calfskin that stretched like Bazooka gum after a couple of wearings. The customers were peeved and Saks was outraged. Every belt was returned.” June shakes her head. “Every single one.”

“And Mike said ‘never again.’ He said we have to stick to what we know.”

“Well, Gram, we don’t have that luxury. We have to take a chance, because if we don’t, if we don’t come up with something that can revitalize our business and take it to the next level, we won’t be here in a year.”

“Okay, then,” Bret says, giving me the file. “You two need to talk, and I’m going to tell my guys that you are putting together a portfolio of ideas for them.”

“You can also tell them we’re going to Italy to bring them the latest innovative materials applied to classic design,” I tell him.

“Val, I never thought I’d say this, but you sound like a businessman.”

“I believe in this company.”

“That comes through.” Bret gives Gram a kiss on the cheek, then June, then me. “Keep it up. You know what you’re doing.” Bret leaves the files with us and goes.

“He really believes in you,” June says.

“He knew me when…,” I tell her. “There’s something to be said for that.”

Ca’ d’Oro is closed on Monday nights, so for Roman and me, it’s date night. Roman usually comes over to Perry Street and I cook, or I go over to his place and he does. Tonight, though, he has invited my family to the restaurant for dinner, in reciprocation for Christmas, and as penance for missing Gram’s eightieth birthday at the Carlyle. This couldn’t be a more perfect setup, because I want my family to get to know him on his own turf. Ca’ d’Oro is Roman’s masterpiece; it says who he is, shows the scope of his culinary talents, and demonstrates that he’s a real player in the restaurant world of Manhattan.

When I finished work at the shop, I came over, set the long table in the dining room, put out candles and a low vase of greens and violets for a centerpiece. Now, I’m in the kitchen acting as Roman’s sous-chef. Preparing food is a respite from making shoes, mostly because I can sample the recipes as he makes them.

“So, he’s your type?” Roman places a thin sheet of pasta dough over the ravioli tray.

I follow him, filling the delicate pockets with a dab of Roman’s signature filling, a creamy whip of sweet potatoes mixed with slivers of truffle, aged parmesan, and herbs. “I wondered how long it would take you to ask me about Bret.”

“He’s a businessman in a suit and tie. Successful?”

“Very.”

“You’re still friends, so it must not have been an ugly breakup.”

“It was a little ugly, but we were friends before, so why not stay friends after?”

“What happened?”

“A career on Wall Street and shoemaking don’t complement each other. I can look back on it and appreciate it for what it was. What worked about us was our backgrounds. One of each.”

“One of each?” Roman places another sheet of pasta dough over the wells of filling. Then he places the cutting press over the dough, and punches out twelve regulation-size ravioli onto the flour-dusted butcher block. He picks the squares up one at a time and lines them up on a wooden tray, and sprinkles them with yellow cornmeal. “Explain that to me.”

“You should never have two of the same thing in a relationship. Mix it up. Irish-Fitzpatrick, and Italian-me. Nice. Put a southerner with a northerner. Good. A Jew with a Catholic, evens out the guilt and shame nicely. A Protestant with a Catholic? Slight stretch. My parents encouraged us to marry our own kind, but too much of the same thing breeds drama.”

“Two Italians?” he asks.

“Fine if you’re from different parts.”

“Good. I’m Pugliese and you’re…what are you?”

“Tuscan and Calabrese.”

“So we’re okay?”

“We’re fine,” I assure him.

“Maybe it’s the careers that are killers. How about a chef and a shoemaker? Does that work?”

I reach up and kiss him, saying, “That depends.”

“But what if you’re all about the drama? The drama of creativity and risk? What if that kind of passion is the thing that binds you together?”

“Well, then obviously, I would have to revisit my rule.”

“Good.” Roman lays another sheet of dough over the press. I fill the wells carefully. “Why don’t you go out in the restaurant and put your feet up?”

“No thanks. I like to help. Besides, if I didn’t, I’d never see you.”

“I’m sorry,” he says tenderly. “Occupational hazard.”

“You can’t help it, and you shouldn’t. You love your work and I love that you love it.”

“You’re the first woman I ever dated who understands that.”

“Besides, I’m more helpful to you here than you would be to me at the shop. I can’t see you sewing pink bows on bridesmaid shoes.”

“I’m lousy with a needle and thread.”

Roman lays a final sheet of pasta dough over the wells, snaps the press shut, reopens it, and a dozen ravioli squares pop out of the trap. He places them on the wooden tray with the others. Then he opens the oven and checks the roast pork and root vegetables, simmering in a wine reduction that fills the kitchen with the scent of butter, sage, and warm burgundy wine. I watch as he skillfully juggles the preparation of the meal. He invests himself in his work; it’s clear he is dedicated and puts in the hours. Roman also does the research. He tests new recipes and combinations, trying things out, rejecting ideas, replacing old ones with new.

Despite the depth of my feelings (and his), I sometimes wonder how we can build a relationship when we hardly see each other. I remember reading an interview with Katharine Hepburn. She said that a woman’s job in a relationship with a man was to be adorable. I attempt to be a no-fuss, stress-free, supportive girlfriend who is more than aware of the pressures he has at work, so I don’t pile on more. To be fair, he does the same for me. I figure as long as we’re both in the same place, I imagine this arrangement will work just fine and get us to the next level (whatever that is).

“Hi, kids!” Mom enters the kitchen loaded down with shopping bags. “I did a downtown shopping blitz. I can’t resist a deal, and nobody tops Chinatown for bargains. Silk slippers for two dollars.” She holds up a bag stuffed with them.

“I know what I’m getting next Christmas.”

“In twelve months, you’ll forget I bought these. Your sisters are here. The boys are parking. You’re making ravioli?”

“Tonight’s special,” says Roman.

“Yum.”

“Where’s Dad?” I ask.

“He’s making a shaker of Manhattans behind the bar. Is that okay, Roman?”

“Absolutely. Make yourselves at home. This night is all about you,” Roman says and smiles.