Page 79 of A Winter in New York

“Would you mind, Santo?” he says, gamely brandishing the implements. “I’ve never carved for the family before.”

He makes it sound as if his brother is bestowing the favor by allowing him the honor of carving, a simple act of generosity that I find I have to look away from.

“So much food,” I murmur as the meat is surrounded by all manner of vegetables and roast potatoes, and beneath the table Gio puts his hand briefly on my knee. I cover it with my own, a fleeting moment of connection, of us, within this busy festive scene.

“Do you miss London, Iris?” I look up as Francesca spoons garlic-coated green beans onto her son’s plate while she chats to me across the table.

“I don’t anymore, really,” I say, picking through the bones of my previous life to find something positive to say. Without mentioning my mother, there’s nothing. “I’m pretty settled here now and I’ve barely scratched the surface of New York.”

“I miss Paris,” Pascal says, mournful, but I could have kissed him for the ease with which he has rerouted the conversation from London Underground to Paris Metro in one swift stop.

Francesca rolls her eyes. “We were just there, Pascal.”

The conversation ebbs and flows around the table as plates are filled and refilled, gravy boats replenished and wineglasses topped up. There’s no hurry, no sense of anyone wanting to move proceedings along. Felipe has many stories to tell of far-flung places, and he doesn’t seem to have any particular guilt about the way he’s chosen to live his life. Equally, there seems no animosity from the family toward him; Gio is a gift bestowed upon Santo and Maria, their only and much-beloved boy. How fortunate he is to have so many people who adore him—but then, as I’ve learned in recent months, he is an incredibly easy person to love.

“I don’t think I’ve ever eaten this much in my life,” I say, laying down my cutlery. “I’m admitting defeat.”

“There’s still dessert,” Maria says, and everyone around the table slides a little farther down in their seats and groans. Sophia was right about Maria cooking enough to feed the block. There’s been enough food on this table today to feed most of Brooklyn. I help clear the table, glad of the excuse to stretch, enjoying the experience of milling around the kitchen with Gio’s sisters. The conversation is easy, wine-fueled, and funny, and I’m still laughing when I excuse myself from proceedings to go to the bathroom. Gio is nowhere to be seen, but as I stand in the grand hallway Felipe comes in the front door.

“Sneaky cigar with Santo,” he says, tapping the side of his nose as he shrugs his coat off. “Don’t tell Maria.”

“Is he still outside?” I say.

He nods, tucking his half-smoked cigar behind his ear.

“Do you think he’d mind if I go out and join him for a few minutes?”

“I shouldn’t think so,” Felipe says.

I’m nervous at the thought of talking to Santo alone, chewing the inside of my lip as I reach for my coat and slip out through the double doors. It’s snowing lightly, and I find Santo sheltering beneath the porch overhang in his heavy coat, pulling on his cigar as he surveys the neighborhood.

“Mind if I join you? I could do with a breather.”

He looks at me as I stand beside him out of the snow.

“Thank you for letting me come today,” I say.

He nods in acknowledgment.

“He’s had enough heartbreak in his life already,” he says, clearly talking about Gio. “I see him with you and he’s alive again. Seven years, and now he’s alive again.”

I don’t know what to say. Nothing perhaps, so I just listen.

“But to not say anything about you, to not tell him who you are to me…it’s gonna eat me alive, and you too, and the more it eats, the more damage it does. Like dry rot. You cannot have dry rot in your house and expect the place not to fall down around your ears, Iris.”

I nod, miserable because I know it’s true.

“My Maria,” he says, prayer-like, looking to the skies for guidance as he shakes his head. “Your mother’s name is not part of my family story. I was a stupid young fool. I made mistakes. But they’ve stayed in here”—he taps his chest—“and in here”—he taps his head, and his eyes tell me how hard he’s labored to keep his secrets all of these years. “And then I walk into my gelateria and there you are, with hercornflower-blue eyes, and it’s a judgment on me, because of what I did. I gave my family secret away and so now it’s been taken away from me, blown straight out of my head.” He makes a hand gesture toward his head, like a small bomb exploding. “Some kind of judgment, huh?”

I reach into my coat pocket.

“And now I’m giving it back to you,” I say, and I hold out the torn mint-green napkin.

He looks at it in silence without taking it from me.

“She treasured it,” I say. “She made this gelato for me my entire life. She made me swear to never share the recipe with a living soul, but somehow I don’t think that promise included you.” I place it in his hand, even though letting go of it is like letting a piece of her go too. “Please, take it. It’s always been yours.”

He studies his own youthful handwriting for a few seconds, then tucks it away inside the chest pocket of his overcoat. I can see he’s moved, so I watch the snow fall and wait.

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