Page 50 of A Winter in New York

“Yet wildly inaccurate,” I marvel.

Bobby sighs. “He tried, I guess. And they turned up, which, let’s face it, wasn’t a given. His grandmother even arrived with her own cushion to sit on. Go figure.”

Robin’s old-money family are ambivalent at best toward Bobby. An apartment over a noodle house, however tasteful the decor, just doesn’t make any sense to them for their son.

“Maybe she’s having continence issues,” I say, just to make him laugh.

His face is reward enough. He isn’t good with bodily fluids.

“You really think ignoring this is the right thing?”

He holds my hand. “You didn’t tell Gio that the asshole was dead for no reason. It was self-preservation. So now you hold the line. Don’t acknowledge he exists.”

I know he’s right, but the idea of Adam contacting Bella again is abhorrent. Now that I know there’s even a one percent chance he could do it again, I’m not sure I can live with myself if I don’t safeguard her against him.

I just don’t know how to do that yet.

Hey cucchiaino, how was your thanksgiving dinner? Everyone missed you here, me most of all. Call me if you’re still awake. G x

The message lights up my dark bedroom just before midnight, and I press the screen against my body and curl up in a ball. I missed him too. I missed them all, but on Monday morning I’m going to give them their recipe and walk out of that door for the final time. It’s the only decent thing I can do now.

21.

Drinking rule number one: stepaway from messaging people when you’ve got alcohol in your system, you’ll either embarrass yourself or say something you’ll regret when you’re sober. I know this rule perfectly well, yet here I am, my blood diluted by a bottle of red and my finger hovering over the send button. It’s been forty-eight hours since Adam’s message arrived and I’ve thought of nothing else. I’m consumed by it. How dare he try to firebomb my life? And as for messaging Bella…he crossed so many lines there that I cannot just sit on my hands and ignore it. I can’t. I’ve tried, and much as I know Bobby is right, the fear of doing nothing and something happening is worse than the fear of doing something and something happening. So I’m here at one in the morning with my laptop on my knees, re-reading the reply I’ve just written to Adam to make sure I’ve hit the right tone.

Do not attempt to contact me again, nor anyone else in order to obtain information about me. I’ve moved on with my life and am no longer associated with you in any way. I suggest you do the same.

I think it’s enough. It’s bald, to the point, and at least this way I don’t feel as if he’s in the driving seat. I read it once more and presssend, then close my laptop and reach for my wineglass. There. It’s done. It’s Sunday tomorrow, the last day of the holiday, and I intend to spend it cleaning my apartment and wallowing in the bath. I’m desperate to wash away this greasy film of distaste that’s coating my body, to bleach all traces of my vicious ex from my home. Just having his words in the room feels like a violation. And then, on Monday morning, I’m going to go to Belotti’s one last time and get the recipe right. It will be a celebration for them, and a goodbye for me.

—

I’m furious as Iwalk between the noodle house and the gelateria, stomping so hard it hurts the soles of my feet. It’s bitingly cold; there was the buzz of potential snow excitement in the radio forecast this morning. I’ve yet to witness real New York snow. It stayed unseasonably mild throughout the winter season last year, just the occasional flurry here and there that dissolved on impact with the busy city streets. I’m dreading getting to Belotti’s. I’ve lied to Gio this last couple of days about being unwell; I know he’s probably seen my flimsy excuses for what they are. I don’t know if I’m more angry with Adam or myself: him for rearing up just when I was starting to get myself together, or me for allowing him to pull my strings from across the Atlantic. Bobby is adamant that I’m doing the wrong thing, we came as close to a row as we’ve ever been when I told him what I’m doing this morning. I haven’t told him I replied to Adam. I still don’t feel sure it was the right thing but it’s done now, so that’s that.

I come to a stop a few steps from the painted gelateria door, pause to draw in a steadying breath. I can see Sophia inside with her back turned as she wrangles with the coffee machine, and a couple of customers too by the looks of it. No matter. My business is with Gio. I’m going to fire up my old gelato machine, load it with their secret recipe and pray he believes me when I pass it off as sheer dumb luck. We’ve skated pretty close to it already, it’s not so much of a stretch to be completely implausible.

“Iris.”

Someone says my name as I step into the warmth of the gelateria, the smell of fresh coffee and the sweetness of baking in the air. It literally couldn’t be more welcoming unless they filled the place with armchairs and a library of well-thumbed books.

I turn toward the voice and see Maria rising from a nearby table to greet me. She catches me by surprise, gathering me into her arms and kissing both my cheeks.

“Bambina,you’re feeling better?”

I bite the inside of my lip to stop it from trembling as I raise a smile. “I am, thank you. It’s so nice to see you.”

I look up as Gio appears from the kitchens. If he has any reservations about my apparent illness, he makes a good job of not showing it on his face. His smile is genuine and relief registers in his eyes. He’s carrying a bowl of gelato.

“Mamma,” he says, placing it down on the counter.

Maria takes a seat on one of the high stools and reaches for a spoon.

Sophia looks at me and raises her eyebrows, then shrugs in a way that suggests she has no more clue what’s happening than I do.

Maria takes her time over tasting the gelato, several spoons, her eyes closed each time. Has Gio somehow stumbled on the recipe? Has Santo remembered it?

She places the spoon down with care and then nods at Gio, moving around to stand beside him. Sophia opens the door so the only customer in the shop can leave, and then closes it and leans her back against it.

“What’s going on?” she says, looking between her mother and her brother. “Do we have the recipe at last?”

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