A Winter in New York(62)
I file that information away for examination when I’m alone later. All of Gio’s sisters and their various partners and children are packed into the gelateria, plus Maria of course, all waiting for the guest of honor.
“She’s coming,” he says loudly so everyone hears. “Quiet!”
Sophia knocks off the lights and a hush falls over the jittery gathering, excited whispers from the smallest family members. Gio’s hand finds mine in the dark, a momentary connection.
“Shush,” someone says, as we see Bella’s silhouette move into the doorway and hear her key in the door. Sophia flicks the lights on as the door swings open and everyone leaps from their place, shouts of surprise and “Happy Birthday!” filling the gelateria with noise and excitement. Bella’s double-take makes everyone’s clandestine effort worth it: she lights up like the star on top of the Rockefeller tree when she realizes this is all for her.
This is family, I think. This is what it’s like.
The kids break into a rendition of “Happy Birthday” and the family join in, English with a smattering of Italian, and Gio moves forward to hug his daughter so tight that her feet leave the ground. She’s laughing as he sets her down and pulls her bobble hat off, and for a moment they are a bubble of two contained within the snow globe of their family.
“Let her through, we all need a hug,” Maria says, a prettily wrapped parcel clutched in her hands.
There’s holiday music on the radio in the background and the gelateria has been decorated for Christmas, white fairy lights glowing around the family gallery on the wall, a festive wreath on the kitchen door. It feels as much like a holiday party as a birthday, until someone shouts for cake and Sophia cranes her neck to look for me. I follow her into the kitchen where the cake stands ready to go. The family left the design up to me, and after much deliberation I went for a huge, double-layered rich chocolate cake laced with Bella’s favorite cherry filling skimmed with white chocolate frosting. I’ve piled chocolate truffles and plump fresh black cherries high on top with a dusting of gold glitter for the birthday girl.
I am pretty pleased with it, and nervous too now it’s time to carry it out to the waiting family. We lift the board between us and someone dims the lights as we crab carefully sideways to place it down on the counter, resplendent with its lit candles.
The family sing again, and I feel Gio’s eyes on me as everyone exclaims at the sight of the blazing cake.
“Buon compleanno, mia nipote,” Maria says, her arm around her granddaughter’s shoulders. The candles illuminate Bella’s face as she holds her curls back to lean forward and blow out all the candles on one long breath, earning herself a ripple of applause, and Sophia’s phone flashes as she captures the moment.
“Iris made the cake,” she says. “Isn’t it amazing?”
I feel heat creeping up my neck as everyone looks at me.
“I like to cook,” I say, shrugging away their effusive praise. My mother would be deeply unimpressed to hear me reduce my years of training and kitchen experience to “I like to cook,” but here it’s accepted on face value.
“I like to cook too but it never turns out like that,” Francesca says, her eyes on the cake.
Pascal, her husband, nods sagely but doesn’t dare say a word.
A knife appears, the cake is cut, and champagne flutes are found and filled. There’s a groan of horror when Pascal produces a bottle of his lethal limoncello, but he just smiles and shrugs, nonchalant as he tips a little into everyone’s champagne.
I find myself beside Bella, and I reach down into my bag and dig out the small gift-wrapped box.
“Happy birthday,” I say, and she grins, excited.
“You shouldn’t have,” she says, pulling the string bow open. “But I’m glad you did!”
I chew the inside of my bottom lip as she unwraps it, hoping I’ve got it right. I know I have when she opens the box and touches her fingertip lightly against the little silver piano charm.
“I love it,” she whispers, lifting the silver link bracelet from the box.
I help her fasten it and she holds her wrist out for us to admire it.
“Perfect,” I say.
She looks at me, and then back at the bracelet and smiles. She’s about to say something when one of the kids starts banging the piano keys, a discordant, out-of-tune clatter that makes people wince.
“Bella, stop them, I beg you,” Pascal says. “Play something for us?”
She looks wrong-footed. “I don’t—”
“Something Christmassy?” Maria chips in, overhearing.
Sophia helps her niece out. “I’ll sing if you play. And you too, Iris?”
I sensed that was coming and knock back half of my lemon-laced champagne for courage. “Of course.”
Bella lifts one shoulder and sighs, but the sparkle in her eyes suggests she’s actually quite happy to be in musical demand. She takes a seat on the piano stool and tucks herself in, then glances up at Sophia and me.
“Umm, I played ‘Jingle Bells’ for the school concert a few years ago?” she says, the upward inflection at the end of her sentence turning the statement into a question.
Sophia looks at me and laughs, and I pull up the lyrics on my phone. “Got it.”
Bella begins to play, her quick fingers conjuring instant Christmas spirit with the chirpy introduction. Sophia’s voice is every bit as clear and confident as she is when she starts to sing, and I find myself happy to join in, because I’m not the only one. Everyone knows the words and joins in to more or less a degree. Enthusiasm from the little ones, a shoulder jiggle from Maria, and Gio’s sisters have the kind of blend to their voices that only comes from decades of singing together. Gio has his back braced against the wall nearest to the door, and for a second I catch his eye among the noisy bonhomie and he gives me a look that whisks me straight to the Monday Night Motel. It sears me. And then he looks away, distracted by movement outside the glass door. Most people don’t notice that there’s someone out there in the doorway, but I do and panic ices over my vocal cords. I’m singing but there’s no sound coming out, because there’s a hooded guy outside and Gio is frowning as he unlocks the door. Don’t open it. Please, Gio, don’t open the door. I put a hand out on a nearby table to steady myself, unsure how everyone else is still singing with this happening, how Bella’s speed is getting quicker and quicker to make the children laugh, a crazy spinning-top whirling faster and faster. I want to scream at everyone to shut up because it’s all white noise as Gio takes a surprised step backward and the stranger walks into the gelateria and throws his fur-lined parka hood back.