I’m deeply comfortable in Gio’s arms, even though I’m always subconsciously aware of a quiet ticking clock in my head. It was there long before my New Year’s cut-off date. It’s there when I’m awake and features in my dreams when I sleep, eerie dreams where I stand and stare at the clock face and realize that the quarter-hour markers have been replaced with words. LIAR in black capitals at quarter past, SECRET printed at the half-hour point. Adam’s name marks quarter to, and a tiny faceted ball sits ready to drop at midnight. The hands spin in both directions, fast and out of control. It wouldn’t take a psychiatrist to analyze the meaning behind my dreams, the portent of danger that runs like the San Andreas Fault beneath my precarious life.
Before Gio leaves, we make love—and it is love even if we haven’t said the words aloud—on the sofa by the haze of the tree. I used to grumble about this sofa, but if Bobby ever asks me if I need it replaced, I’ll say no, because it’s the keeper of my secrets and the custodian of some of my best memories now. This one in particular.
* * *
—
SNOW CHANGES EVERYTHING, DOESN’T it? The Narnian view from the windows, the muffled sound of the world, the conversation on the streets. New York has become an even more magical place for me this week. I went to the park across the street this morning to make fresh footprints in the overnight snowfall. I stopped to listen to the busker for a while; she’s in fine voice these days and reached out to touch hands when I dropped some money in her plastic tub. It’s too wet out there for upturned hats this weather.
I spent a couple of hours at the gelateria yesterday morning, helping Sophia out behind the counter. I go every now and then, not for the recipe anymore, as there’s little call for gelato while the city dithers under this deep freeze and the family waits for Santo. I go because I love being there, because Sophia has become one of my favorite people, because the Belottis make me feel as if I belong. I have a coffee mug with my name on it. Maria sometimes sends recipes she thinks I’ll appreciate. Bella played the piano yesterday, Christmas carols that rendered the atmosphere almost unbearably sweet as Sophia, Gio, and I slid homemade cannoli and tender sugar-glazed Italian cookies into green-and-white-striped paper bags. An illicit tray of small shots of Pascal’s limoncello sat on the counter for the customers as they waited in line, designed to keep tempers calm and the till ringing.
I’m sure the Belottis suspect there’s something happening between Gio and me, and I appreciate that none of them have asked directly, although there have been moments when Sophia has seemed as if she’s bursting to. They know Gio well enough to understand that he’s someone who needs to do things to his own timescale, and for my part I’m relieved to just keep things in precarious balance for as long as possible. I wish with all of my heart that this was an uncomplicated love affair, but it isn’t. Gio has his baggage, and I drag my invisible suitcase of secrets behind me like a lead weight. It’s going to burst open one day and spill my dirty underwear in the street for everyone to see, but for now I just want to take joy from the simple things as the calendar flips from day to day. Tomorrow will take care of itself.
31.
“ALL I WANT FOR CHRISTMAS is your gelato recipe,” Bobby says, handing me a glass of wine. It’s Christmas in three days and the noodle house has officially closed until after the holiday, so I’ve come upstairs to say goodbye before they head off to rendezvous with Robin’s family at some ungodly hour of the morning. Their Vuitton luggage stands packed and ready by the door and the apartment is spick-and-span, more Robin’s organizational skills than Bobby’s, I suspect. They’ve generously given me a key and free use of their place over the holidays, but I think I might find it hard to leave my own apartment now the tree is there. I get a thrill every time I flick it on, like my own mini light switch-on ceremony. I don’t do a countdown, but I totally could.
“You’re still going to Gio’s family for Christmas, right?” Robin says, lifting Smirnoff onto his window seat.
“Don’t worry, I promise I won’t spend the day alone with the cat,” I say, watching the ginger furball turn circles on his cushion before folding himself down.
“He’s terrible company,” Robin says, fussing Smirnoff’s ear and getting his hand batted for his trouble.
Bobby sits beside me on the sofa and I reach out and touch his leg. “Are you wearing leather trousers?”
He rolls his eyes as he swats my fingers. “Pants, for the millionth time, and yes, one hundred percent lambskin.”
“Are you testing them as uniform for the waitstaff?”
Bobby looks horrified. “They’re Balmain, Iris. Your eye for quality is disturbingly inaccurate.”
“Wipe clean, anyway,” I say, catching Robin’s eye with a subtle wink. “Practical.”
“Jesus, I’m not going hiking in them,” Bobby says. “Talk to me about fashion when you don’t buy your clothes at the grocery store. Bacon and a sweater. Who does that?”
I laugh into my wineglass because he’s right. “It’s not my fault if my boss doesn’t pay me Balmain wages.”
“I heard he’s awful to work for,” Robin says, always happy to tag team with me when it comes to rinsing Bobby. “You should probably report him.”
“They’d never catch him to arrest him,” I say. “He’s like the Scarlet Pimpernel.”
“Okay, I have no idea who that even is, but I hope he has a better handle on fashion than either of you,” Bobby says.
“He was a swashbuckling hero,” I say. “Definitely wore leather trousers.”
Bobby looks slightly mollified. “You’re going to miss us,” he says.
“What he means is he’s going to miss you.” Robin raises his glass to me from his armchair by the fire. “Because he’s being forced to spend the holidays in Bermuda with my family.”
“I don’t like boats,” Bobby says.
“Or my mother,” Robin says, and they both laugh, because Robin’s mother is incredibly hard work.
“I’ll miss you both,” I say. “Text me every day.”
Bobby puts his hand on my arm. “Call us if there’s an emergency. Make one up if you have to.”
I rest my head on his shoulder and watch the fire for a while.
“You’ll be back by New Year’s Eve?” I say, checking even though I know the answer.
“Home before the ball drops,” Robin says.
I finish my wine, relieved I’m going to have my friends around me come the New Year.
* * *
—
“I CAN’T BELIEVE IT’S Christmas Eve tomorrow,” Sophia says. She’s wearing an elf hat, a bell on the end that jangles every time she speaks. “I’m so ready for some time off, not thinking about anything but food.”
“How’s things at home?”
Santo finally came home a few days ago, and from what Gio has told me, it’s been a big change for everyone. His mobility on a stick is good enough for him to get around independently, especially with the subtle adaptations Maria has put in place to make sure he still feels like the vital head of the Belotti household rather than someone who needs taking care of. He does, of course, but they’ve made careful plans and surreptitious rotas to make sure Santo never feels less than the strong, respected man he’s always been.