SUNDAY FINDS ME SICKLY NERVOUS. It’s Halloween out there for most people across New York tonight, but I can’t say I’m sad to be doing something that doesn’t involve ghosts and ghouls. I never liked Halloween much back in the UK, possibly because it’s one of those things that only really looks fun with old friends and good neighbors. Tonight will be all about Ognissanti instead, which I’ve googled in an attempt not to appear totally ignorant. I now know it’s an Italian national holiday where families get together and feast, and that—thankfully—I don’t need to buy a witch’s hat to attend.
Maria and Santo live in Brooklyn Heights, which—although it’s only a few miles as the crow flies—is across Brooklyn Bridge, and means leaving Manhattan Island. I haven’t done that more than a handful of times since arriving in the United States, which would probably seem extraordinary to some but has been right for me up to now. Gio offered to call round for me this evening—he and Bella live in the condo above the gelateria and it wouldn’t be out of their way—but as I climb into the Lyft I’m glad I insisted on making my own way. Now it won’t be strange when I travel back alone.
I wasn’t sure what to wear tonight. My favorite washed-out jeans felt too casual, but my only decent black going-out dress felt too short and too formal. I ended up scouring local stores and found a green velvet blouse that is probably too trendy for me, but I like it anyway. Paired with skinny black jeans and heels, I hope it suggests “I’ve kept it low-key but made an effort,” and that the huge bunch of flowers in my arms say “Thanks for asking me over.”
I’m distracted by the city at night as we cross the Brooklyn Bridge. I’m a Londoner at heart but, even so, the scale and grandeur of the skyline here takes my breath, especially tonight as I travel across the illuminated bridge spanning the East River. I’m dazzled, nerves thrown out in favor of drinking it all in, the only sound in the van that of the female driver chatting quietly to someone in her earpiece. The nerves kick back in with a jolt as soon as the cab comes to a stop halfway along a street of elegant brownstones, each accessed by a flight of stone steps edged with black wrought-iron balustrades. Santo and Maria’s has small pots on each step filled with winter flowers, and at the top grand wooden double doors in an ornate stone surround. It’s stunning. Daunting, actually. So daunting I almost lose my nerve, but then one of the doors flings open and Sophia is pulling me inside.
“I saw you from the window,” she says, hanging my coat on the stand in the wood-paneled hallway. “You okay?”
“Are you sure I’m not gatecrashing a family thing?” I say, chewing the inside of my lip as I take in the polished parquet, sweeping staircase and low chandelier.
“Mamma’s excited to have you here, she wants to impress you with her cooking,” she says, laughing as she points out the guest bathroom before leading me into the living room. I’m overawed by the old-school opulence: high ceilings, grand framed mirrors, and a magnificent, welcoming carved fireplace. Deep sofas face each other either side of a low coffee table, pools of lamplight bathing the scene in warmth and comfort. For all of that, it’s not at all austere, and the family filling the space are not standing, or indeed sitting, on ceremony. The sofas are filled with Belotti sisters, and kids dash up to us, all of them come to have a look at the new person in their midst.
“You’ve met most of us,” Sophia says, taking the flowers from me as her sisters jump up to hug me. It’s a lot: so many people and so many hugs, too many kids’ and partners’ names being tossed out to have a hope of remembering any of them.
“Iris.”
Maria appears in a cloud of expensive scent and subtle sophistication—it strikes me that her house reflects her style perfectly.
“The flowers are so pretty, thank you,” she says, pressing a kiss against my cheek. “Gio is on the way, he called to say they’re stuck in traffic.” She looks down as a crawling child pulls himself up on her leg and she bends to lift the baby into her arms. “What is it, Leo? You want to say hello to Iris too?”
The child is frankly adorable, round-limbed and pink-cheeked, and I’m thrown completely off guard when he holds his arms out to me.
“He’s a total ladies’ man,” Maria says, passing him over without a second thought. I feel a moment of pure panic—I don’t have any practice with small children. No nieces or nephews, no friends asking me to be a godparent or babysit. I do my best to look as if I know what I’m doing with Leo, balancing him on my hip as Maria did, my arms around his small, robust body as he leans back to get a good look at me. I smile when he grins, showing me the two milk teeth that have just broken through his bottom gum. I’m caught unaware by the unexpected pleasure holding this child brings me, as if an age-old instinct awakens at the weight of an infant in my arms. I laugh as Leo clutches a great handful of my hair, and when I look up, Gio is leaning against the door frame watching me. He holds my gaze until I look away, flustered, and Bella appears behind him and bounces over to me, taking the baby as she showers him with kisses and shoots me a small smile.
“I hear you aced your piano test,” I say.
“Concert pianist in the making,” Maria says, her arm around her granddaughter’s shoulders.
“Iris helped me,” Bella says, bending to place the wriggling baby down. He shoots off toward the sofas on all fours with impressive speed, and a small, shaggy dog ambles up behind him. No one bats an eyelid as the dog sniffs the baby’s foot, at which Leo scoots himself around until he’s nose to nose with the pup.
“Bruno, poor old boy,” Maria murmurs, as one of Gio’s sisters leans over the arm of the sofa to fuss the dog’s ears before scooping Leo up.
I stand among the Belottis as they chat and laugh and move around me, three loving generations, and I feel…I don’t know, warmed? I always tend to feel a bit like a kid standing outside with my face pressed to the window among other people’s families. My mother made sure my childhood was busy and I knew I was loved, but there was no escaping the fact that it was just the two of us. Losing anyone is devastating, but there must be some comfort to be drawn from shared memories and experiences with other people. I don’t have that. No one else remembers my childhood, and if and when anything happens to me, no one will be able to share my mother’s stories.
“Drink?” Gio says, coming to stand beside me.
I realize that this is the first time I’ve seen him out of the black-and-whites he always wears at the gelateria. His dark shirt is unbuttoned at the neck, and there’s a grown-up spice to his cologne that makes me think of smoky woodland walks and late-night bourbon. I glance at other people’s glasses, anxious to fit in.
“Wine would be good?” I say.
Before he can move, Sophia arrives at my other side and hands me a glass of red.
“Mamma has us well trained. You’ll never be here more than five minutes without a drink in your hand,” she says.
“Just wait until you leave,” Gio says. “She’ll insist you take half the contents of her fridge with you.”
Maria claps her hands on the other side of the room, a glitter of jewels and a clatter of bangles.
“Now that everyone has arrived, let’s eat!” she says, and her family get to their feet and follow her into the dining room. Gio smiles and places a light hand on the small of my back.