Page 43 of A Winter in New York

“Oh my God, yes, you might be right,” she says, her eyes bright with an anticipation I well understand—the need to make a dish sing. “Almond could be interesting. I’ll do another batch.”

Gio still hasn’t said a word, so we both turn to him. I think for a second that he’s going to refuse to even taste it, and watch his eyes and see him consider that option seriously. Then he squares his shoulders and reaches for the spoon. Sophia’s eyes widen a fraction and she bites her bottom lip, uncharacteristically nervous for one usually so full of beans. I’m nervous for her as Gio studies the deep-purple gelato on the spoon. We stand in tense silence as he slides it into his mouth, and I have to look away because I can’t help but remember all the places on my body that mouth touched last night. He lays the spoon carefully down and lowers his gaze, the sweep of his impossibly dark lashes hiding his eyes from us as he considers his verdict. Sophia flicks me an anxious look, and I do a tiny shrug because I don’t know any better than she does.

“Okay,” Gio says.

Sophia leans in a little. “Okay you like it, okay you hate it, or…?”

“Okay we’ll try it your way,” he says. “You can make your guest flavors, on the understanding that we go back to vanilla when we have the recipe again.”

It’s almost funny to watch Sophia fast forward through such a wide range of emotions, from battle ready to incredulous to euphoric happy dancing on the spot.

“Oh my God, Gio! I promise you won’t regret this, I haveso many ideas for flavors,” she says, talking too fast as she opens her bag and pulls out a notebook.

“But, Sophia, there is to be no public mention of losing the recipe,” he says, serious. “For Papa’s sake.”

“Sì,sì.” She draws an imaginary zip across her lips. “Not a word.”

He nods, then turns on his heel and disappears into the kitchen. Once he’s gone, she checks the door has closed and leans her back against it, laughing with exhilaration.

“I can’t actually believe he said yes,” she whispers. “You heard him too though, right? I didn’t just dream that?”

“It’s seriously good gelato,” I say.

She grins, her shoulders coming up around her ears. “Isn’t it, though?”

She opens her notebook and runs me through some of her other flavor ideas, noting down any suggestions I make as we chat between customers. It’s one of the nicest half-hours I can remember, trading flavor options, discarding one idea for another, unearthing my knowledge of food and lifting it into the light for a while. Menu planning used to be one of my greatest joys, picking through the best of what was in season to create new flavor combinations, testing, tweaking, honing dishes on instinct until they were worthy of a place on a menu.

“Do you miss it, working with fine food?” she says.

I laugh. “I’ll have you know I make a mighty fine bowl of noodles.”

“Oh, I’m sure you do,” she says, smiling. “But watching you just now, it’s pretty obvious that you love being creative,” she says. “And it’s also obvious how much you know.”

For a few seconds I remember the ambitious woman I wasbefore Adam, before my mother’s illness, powering my way through noisy, high-energy hotel kitchens, thriving on the pressure, living for the pleasure of preparing dishes to wow our customers. That woman feels a long way from who I am today, but I like to think she’s still in there somewhere.

“I do miss it sometimes,” I admit, surprising even myself. “I had to take a step back when my mother was ill, and then after she died…” I shrug. “I don’t know, it’s a tough industry to get back into.” I don’t mention Adam, and I’m grateful Sophia doesn’t push me.

“No finer city than New York to dip your toes in again,” she says. “If you want to, that is.”

“Maybe one day,” I say. “I’m happy with what I’ve got for now.”

Sophia closes her notebook. “But you’ll help me perfect these flavors?”

I nod. That I can happily get on board with. “I should go through,” I say, glancing toward the kitchen door.

“Don’t rush that vanilla recipe too soon,” she says, then screws her nose up. “I don’t mean that, obviously. It’s just, you know. This is exciting.”

“I get that,” I say, and then I head for the kitchen, and Gio.

—

“Sophia wants to knowif aliens have taken over your body,” I say, standing beside Gio at the kitchen workbench.

“Did you tell her yes?” he says.

His eyes linger on me, the lightest brush of the back of his hand against mine.

“I think you’ve done the right thing,” I say. “It’ll create a new buzz.”

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