Page 7 of A Winter in New York

Across the room, Charlie Raven leaped up on to the raised stage and held his drumsticks aloft, spine arched, his head thrown back as his body soaked up the adulation from the undulating crowd.

“I think that’s my cue to get over there,” Viv said, watching Felipe step up and loop his guitar strap over his shoulder.

They pushed their way through to the stage and Felipe reached a hand down to haul her up beside him, touching two fingers to his forehead in silent salute to his brother before turning to give a wild-eyed, bare-chested Charlie the good-to-rock nod. Santo leaned his back against a concrete pillar, his breath stuck in his throat. He’d come here to see his brother, but he couldn’t take his eyes off Viv.

He wasn’t the only one—the energy in the place shot off the scale as soon as she opened her mouth, the smoky old-soul sound of her voice perfect for the Pat Benatar cover they opened with to get the crowd going. And, boy, was the crowd going. Viv’s eyes roamed over the thrusting bodies as her words rang out, a call to action, to sing, to move, to be a part of their gang. Santo wasn’t a dancer. He’d like to have been, but his natural reserve held him fast against the graffiti-covered concrete pillar, the hard beat thumping through his blood. He watched her command the stage, the slick sheen of sweat on her limbs as she moved, the amount she gave of herself to the strangers around her. She caught his eye every now and then, and he felt water-cannoned against the wall by thesheer weight of her sudden undivided attention. Did everyone else in the place notice their connection? How could they not? She was effervescent, holding the club—and Santo himself—in the palm of her hand as she whirled and laughed at the end of one of the band’s original tracks. He’d never seen anyone like her in his twenty-three years. He was smarter than to think he could hold on to a lightning bolt without getting burned but, man, did he want to give it a try.

—

“Didn’t you enjoy it?”Viv jumped down from the stage, ignoring the many hands reaching out for her as she made a beeline straight for Santo. “You didn’t dance.”

“You were amazing,” he said, and his expression told her how much he meant it. She appreciated that about him—he had an open, sincere sort of face that couldn’t lie, unlike most of the people she’d encountered in her life so far. From the care agencies she’d been handed round as a teenager to the various retail bosses she’d worked for since she was fifteen, everyone had their own agenda and it was never in her best interests. Even Louis had his own agenda, but right now she was willing to let that ride because his agenda suited her too.

“Are you hungry?” Santo said.

“God, yes,” she said. “Starving.”

“I know a place,” he said.

Viv grinned. “Let’s go then.”

“You sure?”

She considered it, and found she was. Santo wasn’t a stranger, he was Felipe’s brother. Her gut told her he was someone she could trust, and over the years she’d learned torely on her own intuition. She wanted to spend some time with him, more than she could remember ever wanting to spend time with anyone else in her entire life.

“I’m sure.”

Out on the street, Santo put his leather jacket around her shoulders and steered them a couple of blocks over to a late-night diner. They ate pie and drank espresso, and in the space of the next two hours they fell as much in love as it’s possible to with someone you’ve only met for the first time that night. She sensed his loyalty and deep dependability, and he admired her free spirit and lust for adventure. They saw in each other things they felt were lacking from their lives. “Don’t you mind having to stay in this one place forever?” she asked, having heard how he was next in line to take over the family gelato business.

“My place is behind the counter at Belotti’s.” He sounded surprised she’d even consider it as a negative. “It might not be for everyone, but it suits me just right.”

“But not Felipe?”

Santo laughed, a deep roll in his chest that made Viv want to lay her head against it. “What do you think?”

“That he’d have the place closed down within a week,” she said. “He’d go out and leave the gelato machines unmanned until the entire place overflowed with it, and then the entire street, and then the entire city would disappear under a gelato flood. And all the kids in New York would have to come outside with spoons and eat and eat until it had all gone again.”

“I quite like the idea of the whole city blanketed in Belotti’s vanilla,” he said.

“And strawberry, and chocolate, and banana,” she said.

He shook his head as he stirred his espresso. “We only make vanilla.”

She sat back on her bench seat. “Ever?”

He nodded. “Yes, ma’am. The best vanilla you’ll taste in your whole damn life, good enough to be the only flavor you’ll ever need.”

She sat back and crossed her arms, still wearing his jacket. “I guess I better try it for myself, hadn’t I?”

“Come tomorrow,” he said. “First thing.”

“Rock stars don’t do first thing,” she laughed. “I’ll come after lunch.”

—

And she did. Santospotted her at the end of the line snaking out of the painted glass door the next afternoon and hurriedly untied his apron, begging the rest of the day off from his father as he filled a tub with vanilla and grabbed neon plastic spoons. His father didn’t object; Santo never took a sick day or asked for time off, and frankly he was pleased to see a flash of spontaneity from his youngest son. Maybe he’d have thought differently if he’d known the reason behind Santo’s sudden departure; he and Santo’s mother held Maria and her family in high regard, and although it was early days, they were all hopeful it would be a match, in time. As it was, Santo disappeared out of sight and presented a laughing Vivien with the tub of gelato, much to the disgruntlement of the rest of the line.

“Rock stars don’t stand in line,” he grinned, steering her quickly away down Mulberry Street.

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