Page 12 of A Winter in New York

“Lapin,” I mutter, as it all comes back to me in one hot panicky rush. I’ve done a good-enough job of trying to scour last Valentine’s Day from existence that it’s probably vanished off my kitchen wall calendar. I twitch just thinking about it.

“Did you ever read the book?” he says.

I pass my hand over my hot face. “No.”

I bought a copy the following day, but I haven’t even been able to open it since, and I really burned to read that damn thing. Every time I reach for it I’m reminded of the lie I told about my “dead husband,” the shame I felt for snapping just to try and make someone feel bad, the embarrassment of having made an unnecessary exhibition of myself. And now I’m here with that same guy, telling yet another lie, even if this time it’s because I’m trying to help him. I’d quite like the floor of the gelateria to open up and swallow me whole right now.

He winds a dish towel around in his hands. “Look, I’m sorry for putting my foot in it, about your husband, Iris, I really am. You kind of hit me in my weak spot when you mentioned my wife, I had no right to speak to you like that.”

I flash back and see myself as I was that day, my furious eyes snagging on his wedding ring, his offended gaze bouncing to my mother’s ring on my finger.

“Oh God. I should never have said —” I start, but he cuts across me.

“Please don’t.” He holds his hands up. “I understand. More than you know.” He flicks his gaze toward the ceiling. “Penny, my wife…she died seven years ago.”

My heart constricts at the measured way he delivers this information without meeting my eyes, at the flinch in his voice that tells me it hurts to even say the words out loud. I’m bereft of any words of my own, absolutely in hell. I can’t believe I didn’t place him as bookstore guy earlier. I didn’t think I could be any more mortified about the lie I told that day, but knowing that he, a widower, thinks that a) I had a husbandandb) he passed away has me absolutely shamefaced for so many more reasons than I can even process.

Gio watches me silently, then nods. “A pact to never speak about that day ever again?”

“Never,” I agree hastily, taking the life raft he offers, unable to come up with a way to pull back my lie.

“Drink your coffee.” He nudges my saucer toward me. “Then we can talk about gelato.”

He looks over at the door as someone flings it open, and his face lights up. For my part, I feel saved by the bell.

“Sophia,” he says. “You’re late.”

The library atmosphere in here dissipates with Sophia’s arrival, a clatter of bangles as she battles to tame her inside-out umbrella.

“My dramatic youngest sister,” he says, looking back to me.

She laughs as she slides behind the counter and drapes her wet coat beside mine over the radiator.

“And prettiest,” she says. “And smartest. And not really his sister.”

Gio rolls his eyes, obviously used to this line. “You might as well be,” he says. “Sophia is Santo’s youngest, noisiest, and most obnoxious daughter. The other three are much nicer.”

Sophia is completely unfazed by the insult. There is palpable sibling warmth between them, their verbal sparring underscored with familiarity. “I’ve just talked to the hospital. No change. Although the nurse said he asked for cannoli so one of them brought him some from the festival last night.”

Gio nods.

“This is Iris,” he says.

Sophia’s eyes slide to me, curious.

“She’s a chef,” he tells her. “She’s going to try to help us with the recipe.”

“Excellent,” she says, hooking a Belotti’s apron over her head. “We need all the help we can get.”

“I don’t know how much use I’m going to be,” I say, anxious to play my role down.

“British?” she asks.

I nod.

“But you live here now, right, you’re not just passing through on holiday or anything?”

“What is this, Soph? An interrogation?” Gio says.

---