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 husband and b) 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.
“I live here now,” I say. “A trainee New Yorker, if there is such a thing.”
“Maybe you can convince Gio to add some new flavors to our range.” She shoots him the side-eye as she speaks.
His expression stiffens and I see his shutters bang down, just as they did in the bookstore on Valentine’s Day.
“What does our logo say?”
Sophia sighs. “Vanilla forever. I know all of that, but what if we never find it, Gio? What then? If we diversify now, we protect ourselves for the future.”
His expression is unmoved. “We’ll find the recipe.”
“And if we don’t?”
“We have time. We will.”
They both look at me, and I hesitate to say anything because this is clearly a well-trodden argument.
“The others agree with me.” Sophia folds her arms across her chest as she speaks, her expression every bit as obstinate as Gio’s. I get the feeling sparks regularly fly between these two.
“Maria too?” he says.
Sophia doesn’t reply. I’m guessing Santo’s wife is of the same opinion as Gio.
“Exactly,” he said. “Case closed.”
“Good luck working with him.” Sophia is speaking to me this time. “He’s a massive pain in the ass.”
He ignores the dig and looks at me. “Let’s go to the kitchens where we can hear ourselves think.”
“I’ve made a list of new flavor ideas, whenever you’re ready,” Sophia says, testy.
Gio doesn’t bite, just turns away.
“This way,” he says.
Sophia chucks me a grin behind his back, her corkscrew dark curls bouncing around her face. I can’t help but like Gio’s spiky little sister. If the other three are anything like her, Belotti family parties must be a riot.
* * *
—
THE GELATERIA KITCHENS ARE cavernous, much bigger than the shopfront would have you believe, a curious mix of traditional and modern. Impressive stainless-steel industrial gelato machines line one wall—Gio runs me through how ingredients load into the top to heat and pasteurize and then pass down into the chilled bottom cylinder where they’re churned with air to create gelato. It’s a macro version of my micro process, super-slick and modern, which I somehow hadn’t expected to find here.
“This is Santo’s favorite,” Gio says, leading me over to a much older machine, all ivory enamel curves and polished chrome. “He insists he can taste the difference between gelato made in this from that in the newer machines.”
“Do you really think he can?” I say.
He places an affectionate hand on the side of the old machine. “I wouldn’t bet against him,” he says.
He leads me down to the far end of the kitchen, which, similarly to the store out front, looks untouched by time. A chunky, oblong mahogany workbench dominates the space backed by bespoke cupboards and open shelving. Two long rows of square drawers with pull stops and brass nameplates sit beneath the cupboards, all hand-labeled. The overall effect is of an upscale apothecary, a place where mixologist magic happens. Or gelato magic, as it is here. I’m enchanted.
“This place speaks right to my chef’s soul.” I breathe, running my fingers over the smooth, well-worn workbench. How many generations of gelato makers have stood here, men and women, all working to recreate the same secret recipe? Seeing the history back here has helped me understand why Gio was so stubborn with Sophia earlier. The family have carved out a niche for themselves, they have a reputation to uphold.
“Santo and Maria had their first date right here,” he says, smoothing a hand over the end of the worktable. “Pizza from across the street and gelato for dessert. They do it again every year on their wedding anniversary.” He places both palms flat on the table, his arms braced as he sighs. “It kills him that he can’t remember the date now.”
I half smile, touched by the simple romance of the story.