Sophia rolls her shoulders, making her bell jingle. “Not too bad. Everyone’s thrilled to have Papa home, of course, but Mamma’s routines have all had to go out of the window, you know? She’s cooking for Christmas, Felipe is there a lot of the time…I think it’s all driving her a little crazy but you know what she’s like, always calm and collected on the outside. I’m glad to be out of the way for a while.”
Sophia has her own apartment a couple of blocks away but she’s been staying at the family home to help her parents for the last week or so and I know she’s been finding it stressful. She’s had me drinking mini shots of limoncello at ten in the morning, a tiny plastic glass of Christmas sanity.
“Papa’s coming here later,” she says, biting the side of her fingernail.
I nod, putting a hand up to steady the reindeer antlers Sophia has me wearing. “Gio said.”
They’re all quietly worried about Santo’s return to the gelateria, more for his health’s sake than the forgotten gelato recipe. There’s a weight of expectation, pressure mostly applied by Santo himself. He’s coming over with Maria later once the shop’s closed up for the afternoon. Everyone is hopeful that Santo’s memory will be jolted by his return to the kitchens, even if the doctors have said it’s a long shot.
“Will you be okay here if I nip down to the market?” she says. “I promised Mamma I’d grab a few things for tomorrow night’s dinner.”
“Sure, carry on,” I say.
Gio’s out this morning too, last-minute Christmas shopping, but business has all but dried up now so I’m not overly worried. Sophia replaces the elf hat with her coat and bobble hat before dashing out, and I stand behind the counter with just the festive radio for company. I wipe the coffee machine down, buff the glass counter to a shine, line up the few remaining cookies in the cabinet. This is the first time I’ve been completely alone in the gelateria and it’s an unexpectedly strange feeling, as if the photographs of the Belotti ancestors are holding an emergency meeting as they scrutinize me from the walls.
I pour myself a glass of water and try to tune my ear into the quiz on the radio but I just can’t shake the discombobulated feeling. I empty the dishwasher for something to do, my back turned to the door as I stack the clean cups on the shelf beside the coffee machine, studiously avoiding the Belotti eyes on the walls. Had I been facing the other way I might have spotted the yellow cab pulling up outside, and the two men climbing carefully out and stepping into the doorway. I’m humming along to “White Christmas,” oblivious until the bell over the door jangles and I turn around and find myself face-to-face with Santo Belotti.
Felipe is behind him, both of them in heavy cashmere coats and fedoras, Santo leaning heavily on a wooden walking stick.
I don’t know what to do. He isn’t supposed to be here for hours. I’ve been dreading this moment ever since Felipe put the pieces of my identity together so easily. Panicky, I surreptitiously remove my mother’s ring from my finger and push it into the pocket of my jeans.
Santo is absolutely still, leaning on his stick as he stares at me.
I wish I wasn’t wearing a Belotti’s apron, I feel like a fraud.
Felipe touches his brother’s arm. “Santo?”
Still he doesn’t speak, still he doesn’t move, so Felipe pulls out a chair at the nearest table and guides his brother into it.
“Coffee,” Felipe nods to me, and I spring into action, all fingers and thumbs.
“Everyone’s out,” I say. “But they’ll be back soon, I’m sure, one of them will anyway. Both of them probably, in fact. Any minute, I shouldn’t wonder.” I’m aware I’m gabbling but I can’t seem to stop the words frothing from me.
I close my eyes for a second and lean my forehead against the coffee machine as it brews, desperately trying to gather myself together. I’d hoped that Santo wouldn’t find the same familiarities as Felipe—he won’t have heard me sing and my mother’s ring isn’t on my finger. I swallow hard as I carry the hot coffee to their table, the cups shaky in their saucers as I set them down. Santo catches hold of my hand and stares up into my eyes.
“Vivien.” His voice is barely more than a whisper.
I sit down beside him at the table.
“You weren’t supposed to be here until later,” I say, stalling as I try to think of the right things to say.
“Santo wanted to give it a try without any fanfare—you know how Maria fusses,” Felipe says, watching his brother closely.
Felipe and I hold this logistics conversation without looking at each other, because Santo’s dark eyes are searching my face and he’s still holding my hand.
“Vivien,” he says again, stronger this time.
“I’m Iris, her daughter,” I say, as steadily as I can.
He’s shaking his head slowly, as if he’s seen a ghost. I wait, give him the time he needs.
“Is she here?” I can’t decide if the expression in his eyes is hope or fear.
I glance at Felipe, who just shrugs his shoulders and gazes down at his coffee. I reach across the table and hold Santo’s other hand too, which for two people who’ve only just met, feels strangely right.
I steel myself and look him straight in the eyes, keeping my voice as steady and calm as I’m able. “She isn’t. I’m sorry to tell you this, Santo, but my mother, Vivien…she died three years ago.”
His hands tighten in mine as he takes a sharp intake of breath, his eyes misting with tears.
“Cancer,” I say. “She was fifty-two.”
He lets go of my hands and pulls a cotton handkerchief from his pocket to dab his eyes. He takes a few sips of his coffee as he steadies himself, and I can only imagine the thoughts that must be racing through his mind.
“I came to New York to see the places she loved,” I say, trying to make my story as simple as possible.
“Do they all know who you are? Maria?”
Felipe puts his hand on Santo’s shoulder. “No one knows anything, brother.”
Santo nods. “And you work here now?”
I smooth my clammy hands on my apron. “I’ve been helping out some mornings, here and there.”
He falls quiet again, making sense of things.
“It was all so long ago,” he says.
“A lifetime,” Felipe agrees.
“So similar,” Santo says. “Uncanny.”
Felipe pulls a hip flask from his inside pocket and tips a nip of whiskey in each of their coffees.
“My tablets,” Santo says, but reaches for the cup anyway.
“I’m sorry I shocked you,” I say, feeling terrible for the distress I’ve caused. It’s the last thing my mother would have wanted. “I didn’t mean to upset you. Shall I go? I can lock the door on my way out, Gio or Sophia will be back soon.”
“Stay.” Santo reaches for my hand. “You have her eyes.”
“You should hear her sing,” Felipe says. “It feels like a time machine.”
The two brothers sit across the table from me drinking their whiskey-laced coffee, and I feel as if I’m waiting for them to make a decision.
“There’s more,” Felipe says, grave. “Gio loves her.”
I open my mouth and close it again. Gio hasn’t used the word himself, it’s an assumption on Felipe’s part. Santo huffs softly and shakes his head.
“Of course he does.” He absorbs his brother’s words, and then adds, “Does he know about Vivien?”
We both shake our heads.