Page 65 of A Winter in New York

“You think of everything,” I say, sloshing some into my cup.

He slides the bottle back inside his jacket and I realize he’s brought it just for me, just for this hot chocolate, and I link my arm through his as we wander from house to house, bedazzled.

I stop to admire a vintage metal sleigh that rivals Santo’s Cadillac in length, metallic scarlet and big enough for us to climb aboard. We don’t, though—the front seat is already taken by a Coca-Cola-worthy Santa Claus holding on to the reins of eight reindeer in flight across the lawn, all of them aglow with hundreds of golden pinprick lights. I check, and of course the one up front has a red nose.

“For a guy who doesn’t like the Christmas store, this is a big step,” I say.

He drops his arm across my shoulders. “This is different. We came here every year as kids.”

I see the Belottis in my mind’s eye, a gaggle of overexcited little girls and Gio, dark-haired and serious-eyed, tagging along behind them.

“We come from very different lives,” I say with a soft sigh. “My mother was a huge Christmas fan, but we never amassed a collection of family decorations or yearly traditions, we moved around too much. If it didn’t fit in the backseat of the Vauxhall it didn’t come with us, and it was nothing like the size of Santo’s Cadillac, let me tell you.”

He squeezes my shoulders. “Come spend the holiday with us this year?” Christmas lights reflect gold and green in his eyes as he looks down at me. “Unless you have other plans?”

I don’t have other plans. Bobby has been furious this entire year straight that he and Robin are committed tospending the holidays on a cruise with Robin’s family because Robin’s eldest sister has decided to get married while everyone is together. Up until today, my vague plan has been turkey for one plus Smirnoff, gelato on tap, and the TV on. I haven’t actually been depressed about the idea, it’s felt simple and unfussy. I’ve been eyeing up new pajamas and saving a bottle of champagne just for the big day.

But what now? Gio has offered me a seat at the Belotti dinner table. I don’t need to be the little kid with her face pressed against the window this time, or even the woman telling herself her lonesome Christmas is stylish and independent. I long to say yes, to experience a real family Christmas Day.

“I’d love to,” I say, and I do an internal double-take at myself for blurting the words out before my head and my heart have had at least a ten-minute ruck about it. “Only if you’re sure? You can change your mind, I won’t be offended.”

His laugh comes easy and warms my cold cheeks. “I won’t change my mind.”

Okay, then. Christmas with the Belottis it is. It sounds like a movie I’d queue to see, and I stand there in the middle of the over-the-top lights of Dyker Heights and try to remind myself that Christmas Day falls before my New Year’s Day deadline, and to get a grip and soak in this temporary joy.

—

“That was bonkers,”I say, back in the cherry-leather comfort of the Cadillac with the heaters on full. “Fabulous, but bonkers.”

“Bonkers,” he says.

The word sounds ridiculous in his accent.

“You know, crazy but fabulous,” I say.

“I know what the word means,” he says.

He pulls out into the slow-moving traffic and I settle back in my seat, my elbow on the armrest between us.

“I’m buying myself one of these,” I say, the brandy warm in my bloodstream. “I’ll roll grandly around New York in it every night.” I close my eyes and smile, my head tipped back against the seat. “I’ll take Smirnoff with me for the ride, and we’ll become infamous as that eccentric English woman and her stand-offish cat. We’ll wear sunglasses in the summer and matching knitted scarves in wintertime.”

He doesn’t reply, and I open one eye and find him pulled up at a red light and looking at me.

“You’re a sight for my sore eyes,” he says, and then he puts his hand on my knee and leaves it there when he pulls away from the light.

I remember back to confessing to Bobby about Gio’s good hands, and here we are a few months later with that very same hand resting on my knee. I cover it with my smaller one in the darkness of the car, and the only word I can put to how I feel is content. It’s not precisely the right word. Ideally I’d like something that combines content with a side order of the need to climb Gio Belotti like a tree, but he’s driving and this is one precious vehicle, so content will have to be enough for now.

“Where are we going?”

“Wait and see.”

I squeeze his hand. “Another surprise?”

“Yes.”

“Will I need more brandy?”

“You might.”

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