“Tell me about the gelato,” I say. “Tell me what makes it special.”
“What makes it special?” He half huffs, half smiles, a faraway look gathering in his eyes. “So many things make it special. The taste, of course, but it’s more than that. It’s the connection, the memories, the way taste can trigger emotion.”
His face comes alive as he speaks, and he expresses himself with his hands and his body as much as his words. He turns to open one of the drawers on the back wall, returning to the table with a handful of papers: letters and cards.
“See?” he says, fanning them out. “These are from customers. Thank you notes from people who’ve been back year in, year out on vacation, people who came here as kids and now bring their own children, like a rite of passage. This one is from a family who asked us to serve gelato at their father’s funeral because it was the only thing he could eat in his final weeks.”
We look through them, all of them really saying the same thing—thank you.
“It’s not just gelato,” he says, resolute. Stoic.
“I can see that,” I say, gathering the papers carefully back into a pile. I understand more than I can possibly say—I could have written one of those letters myself.
“I owe Santo everything.” He lays his hand on his chest. “He took me in as his own when I was five years old. Maria did too, even though she was five months pregnant with Francesca at the time. I’ve grown up behind the counter out there. I belong here.” He picks up the letters and puts them back in the drawer. “My daughter belongs here.”
I take a step back, surprised. “You have a daughter?”
“Bella.” His expression changes when he says her name. Pride mingled with raw parental fear. “Fifteen going on twenty-five and thinks she knows everything there is to know about the world.”
“Scary stuff,” I say, mentally doing the maths. Bella can only have been eight or nine when her mother died, unfathomably young. I was thirty-one when my mother died and still wholly unprepared for the utter desolation. But then I was left alone in the world; at least Gio’s daughter had the warmth of the Belotti clan to close ranks around her. Maybe things would have been different for me if I’d had people to lean on.
“Okay,” I say, moving things carefully along. “So tell me what you know about the recipe.”
He leans forward, resting his forearms on the table, palms pressed together. “Honestly? Beyond the basics, not much. Santo took—takes his role as the current custodian seriously, he really believes in keeping our family story alive. It probably seems bizarre to other people, and after all this I’ll for sure be making some back-up plans when it’s my turn, but tradition and loyalty matter to us. You’d understand if you knew Santo, he’s spent his life behind this counter making sure we all get to benefit and prosper.”
“He sounds like a special person,” I say, doubling down on my commitment to never, ever tell these people that Santo shared their recipe with my mother. He’s the head of this family and the poster boy for Belotti integrity; my mother would haunt me for the rest of my days if I did anything to damage that. And, in truth, it’s not just about my mother anymore. I’ve only spent a small amount of time here, but I’m starting to feel a personal obligation too. This place and these people—I’ve never known what it’s like to have roots, never understood what it means to be part of a family. These people don’t just have roots. They’re a mighty oak—or perhaps an aged Italian olive tree is a more fitting description—roots embedded deep beneath the streets of Little Italy, proud and secure because they take the time to nourish it. The carefully preserved glass painted door. The secret recipe. The family gallery displayed on the walls. Their strength comes from their unity, and the small glimpse I’ve had behind the curtain is enough for me to already be enamored.
“But none of that helps when it comes to the recipe,” Gio says. “I know the general idea—sugar, milk, cream—no eggs, of course—but as for how to balance things or any other ingredients, I’m in the dark.”
I look over at the industrial gelato machines, thinking. “If we’re going to experiment, there’s no point loading up big machines, it’s a waste,” I say. “Have you got anything smaller?”
Gio frowns. “Smaller?”
I swallow my smile. “You know, like people use in their own home, a domestic maker. No? I can see from your face that you haven’t,” I say hurriedly, because he looks mildly offended at the idea of people making gelato in their own kitchens rather than buying it from Belotti’s. “I’ve got one, I can bring it with me tomorrow.”
“I’ll come by and fetch it if you like, save you hiking it around,” he offers.
“It’s no problem.” I close his offer down, instinct making me keep myself to myself.
“You’ll come again tomorrow, though?” he says, holding my gaze.
“Same time, if you’ll have me,” I say, swallowing hard.
“I’ll be here,” he says, same as yesterday.
I think about what he’s told me about Santo’s steadfastness, and I wonder if he realizes how much he exudes that same thing.
Sophia looks up from her magazine when I snag my jacket on the way out.
“Any luck?” She places a half-eaten apple down.
“Early days,” I say.
She pushes her curls behind her ears, leaning forward to peer into the kitchen and make sure Gio is out of earshot.
“He is my brother, really. I mean, he isn’t, but he is, in here.” She rolls her eyes as she taps her heart, making light of her own sentimentality. “And he probably seems dull to you, but he isn’t, he’s just running scared. He spends too much of his time in here and not enough out there.” She inclines her head toward the street.
I glance around the quiet gelateria. “Not a bad place to spend your time,” I say. I don’t add that dull isn’t a word that springs to mind about Gio, but then she doesn’t know about our disastrous bookstore run-in.
“Oh, I love it,” she says, that same protective gleam in her eyes as Gio when she speaks of Belotti’s. “I just think we could get with the times a bit. Shake things up, you know?”
Gio appears from the kitchen and shoots her a long, knowing look, then opens that beautiful painted door for me.
“Tomorrow,” he says.
I pull my striped bobble hat on and button my jacket. “Tomorrow.”
6.