Page 26 of A Winter in New York

“Mamma.”

He breaks into a smile that changes his entire posture, his arms outstretched and welcoming.

“Come, come,” he says, beckoning her toward us as she hesitates in the doorway. “Iris, this is my mamma, Maria.”

I get to my feet, nervous out of nowhere. Maria is nothing short of fabulous, an older, curvier version of Sophia with a single thick grey streak through her otherwise raven-wing waves. She smells of expensive perfume counters and jewels glitter on her fingers and in her ears. Put together, I guess you’d say, but the hug she gives me is a bone crusher and the hand on my cheek unexpectedly welcoming. Fundamentally, to me, Maria married the man my mother thought might havebeen the love of her life, but I’m instantly drawn in by her aura and her presence.

“I’ve heard about you, Iris,” she says as she sets me at arm’s length, her soft accent a perfect match with her appearance.

“I’ve heard about you too,” I say, smiling. “These guys talk about you and Santo all the time, it’s so nice to meet you.”

She looks at Gio. “They’re moving him,” she says. “To the rehabilitation center.”

He frowns. “Is that a good thing?”

Maria nods slowly, resting on the stool beside me. “It’s a step toward coming home,” she says. “They can work harder on his mobility there, it’s more specialized.”

“And his memory?” Gio says.

Maria shrugs and shakes her head. “I don’t know, Gio. They don’t know either.”

Gio sighs, and they share a look full of worry and uncertainty.

“Would you like to try our latest gelato attempt?” I nod toward the dish in front of us, because maybe a slight change of mood will help lift their spirits.

She nods and Gio passes her a spoon. I watch him watch her, his breath caught as she tests it.

We both know it isn’t exactly right, but even so, Maria’s verdict feels important.

She takes her time, studying it on the spoon and in her mouth before placing her spoon down and looking at Gio and then me.

“You are both trying so hard,” she says, squeezing my hand. “Santo appreciates it, and I do. This is excellent gelato, but it’s not Belotti’s gelato.”

“I know,” Gio says, resigned. He looks at me. “Let’s give it eight point one.”

I scribble the score beside the recipe and close the notebook.

“I should go,” I say. “Leave you guys to it.”

Maria looks at Gio. “Have you asked Iris to Ognissanti?”

“I —” He breaks off and looks away, a flush crossing his cheeks.

“Oh for pity’s sake, Gio.” She flicks a dismissive hand toward him. “Iris, I’m having a family dinner on Sunday evening, please come.”

It’s my turn to falter, and I look at Gio for guidance. His face is impossible to read, which, frankly, is no help. I don’t want to say yes and upset the fragile balance between us again, but Maria is like a force field all of her own and I feel compelled to accept her invitation. But, then…is it disloyal to my mother to feel so dazzled by this woman? I don’t know if they ever met; instinct tells me not. I hold Gio’s gaze and try to telegraph a silent message:Help me out here, I need a steer.

“Mamma’s right, you should come to the dinner,” he says finally. “I know Bella would like to see you again.”

“Well, in that case, how could I say no?”

I notice how he doesn’t include himself and wonder if he’s feeling press-ganged into this. If Maria notices the omission she lets it slide as she claps her hands, the gold bangles around her wrists making music as she pulls me in close again.

“She’s a hugger,” Gio says, shaking his head as he catches my eye over her shoulder. It’s clear from his face that he loves her and she drives him nuts. I hug her back, and it catches me unaware how good it feels to be gathered into her maternalembrace. I think of my mum, so different from Maria, yet similarly free with her emotions and always ready to throw her arms around someone and make everyone feel special: the girl in the cinema who upgraded our seats to the fancy recliners for a one-night-only showing ofPretty Womanthe year before she died; the guy in the local market who gave me a huge burnished-sunshine peach from his stall for free, when I can’t have been more than five or six; a policeman in Trafalgar Square, working while others danced and wheeled around him one crisp and clear New Year’s Eve. I can almost smell her perfume as the memories crowd around me, so I say my goodbyes and get myself out on to the street, glad of the cold wind in my face to blow the memories back into their safe place. It’s so difficult, this act of balancing my past with my now, trying to do a good thing alongside trying to feel like a good person. I daren’t think about my mother too much while I’m at Belotti’s, it brings the past too close to the surface. I push my head down against the crisp, cold wind and power walk home, anxious for some time alone.

12.

Sunday finds me sickly nervous.It’s Halloween out there for most people across New York tonight, but I can’t say I’m sad to be doing something that doesn’t involve ghosts and ghouls. I never liked Halloween much back in the UK, possibly because it’s one of those things that only really looks fun with old friends and good neighbors. Tonight will be all about Ognissanti instead, which I’ve googled in an attempt not to appear totally ignorant. I now know it’s an Italian national holiday where families get together and feast, and that—thankfully—I don’t need to buy a witch’s hat to attend.

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