Page 75 of A Winter in New York

“Home before the ball drops,” Robin says.

I finish my wine, relieved I’m going to have my friends around me come the New Year.

—

“I can’t believe it’sChristmas Eve tomorrow,” Sophia says. She’s wearing an elf hat, a bell on the end that jangles every time she speaks. “I’m so ready for some time off, not thinking about anything but food.”

“How’s things at home?”

Santo finally came home a few days ago, and from what Gio has told me, it’s been a big change for everyone. His mobility on a stick is good enough for him to get around independently, especially with the subtle adaptations Maria has put in place to make sure he still feels like the vital head of the Belotti household rather than someone who needs taking care of. He does, of course, but they’ve made careful plans and surreptitious rotas to make sure Santo never feels less than the strong, respected man he’s always been.

Sophia rolls her shoulders, making her bell jingle. “Not too bad. Everyone’s thrilled to have Papa home, of course, but Mamma’s routines have all had to go out of the window, you know? She’s cooking for Christmas, Felipe is there a lot of the time…I think it’s all driving her a little crazy but youknow what she’s like, always calm and collected on the outside. I’m glad to be out of the way for a while.”

Sophia has her own apartment a couple of blocks away but she’s been staying at the family home to help her parents for the last week or so and I know she’s been finding it stressful. She’s had me drinking mini shots of limoncello at ten in the morning, a tiny plastic glass of Christmas sanity.

“Papa’s coming here later,” she says, biting the side of her fingernail.

I nod, putting a hand up to steady the reindeer antlers Sophia has me wearing. “Gio said.”

They’re all quietly worried about Santo’s return to the gelateria, more for his health’s sake than the forgotten gelato recipe. There’s a weight of expectation, pressure mostly applied by Santo himself. He’s coming over with Maria later once the shop’s closed up for the afternoon. Everyone is hopeful that Santo’s memory will be jolted by his return to the kitchens, even if the doctors have said it’s a long shot.

“Will you be okay here if I nip down to the market?” she says. “I promised Mamma I’d grab a few things for tomorrow night’s dinner.”

“Sure, carry on,” I say.

Gio’s out this morning too, last-minute Christmas shopping, but business has all but dried up now so I’m not overly worried. Sophia replaces the elf hat with her coat and bobble hat before dashing out, and I stand behind the counter with just the festive radio for company. I wipe the coffee machine down, buff the glass counter to a shine, line up the few remaining cookies in the cabinet. This is the first time I’ve been completely alone in the gelateria and it’s an unexpectedly strange feeling, as if the photographs of the Belotti ancestorsare holding an emergency meeting as they scrutinize me from the walls.

I pour myself a glass of water and try to tune my ear into the quiz on the radio but I just can’t shake the discombobulated feeling. I empty the dishwasher for something to do, my back turned to the door as I stack the clean cups on the shelf beside the coffee machine, studiously avoiding the Belotti eyes on the walls. Had I been facing the other way I might have spotted the yellow cab pulling up outside, and the two men climbing carefully out and stepping into the doorway. I’m humming along to “White Christmas,” oblivious until the bell over the door jangles and I turn around and find myself face-to-face with Santo Belotti.

Felipe is behind him, both of them in heavy cashmere coats and fedoras, Santo leaning heavily on a wooden walking stick.

I don’t know what to do. He isn’t supposed to be here for hours. I’ve been dreading this moment ever since Felipe put the pieces of my identity together so easily. Panicky, I surreptitiously remove my mother’s ring from my finger and push it into the pocket of my jeans.

Santo is absolutely still, leaning on his stick as he stares at me.

I wish I wasn’t wearing a Belotti’s apron, I feel like a fraud.

Felipe touches his brother’s arm. “Santo?”

Still he doesn’t speak, still he doesn’t move, so Felipe pulls out a chair at the nearest table and guides his brother into it.

“Coffee,” Felipe nods to me, and I spring into action, all fingers and thumbs.

“Everyone’s out,” I say. “But they’ll be back soon, I’m sure, one of them will anyway. Both of them probably, in fact. Any minute, I shouldn’t wonder.” I’m aware I’m gabbling but I can’t seem to stop the words frothing from me.

I close my eyes for a second and lean my forehead against the coffee machine as it brews, desperately trying to gather myself together. I’d hoped that Santo wouldn’t find the same familiarities as Felipe—he won’t have heard me sing and my mother’s ring isn’t on my finger. I swallow hard as I carry the hot coffee to their table, the cups shaky in their saucers as I set them down. Santo catches hold of my hand and stares up into my eyes.

“Vivien.” His voice is barely more than a whisper.

I sit down beside him at the table.

“You weren’t supposed to be here until later,” I say, stalling as I try to think of the right things to say.

“Santo wanted to give it a try without any fanfare—you know how Maria fusses,” Felipe says, watching his brother closely.

Felipe and I hold this logistics conversation without looking at each other, because Santo’s dark eyes are searching my face and he’s still holding my hand.

“Vivien,” he says again, stronger this time.

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