A Winter in New York(79)

“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.

“I’ll tell him,” I say. “Please? He should hear it from me.”

Santo swallows, staring at me, and I belatedly remember I’m wearing flashing reindeer antlers.

“I’ll make up a reason not to come for Christmas, and then once it’s all over I’ll tell him, I promise.”

Felipe frowns and looks at Santo, and they share a quick-fire Italian exchange. I don’t feel excluded, it just feels as if they find it easier to express themselves in their mother tongue, so I look at my lap and pull at a loose thread on my apron.

“Come for Christmas,” Santo says eventually.

“We both think you should,” Felipe says.

“For Vivien,” Santo says, resolute. “Her child is welcome at my table.”

“And then, for everyone’s sake, you have to tell Gio. We can’t keep this secret from our family,” Felipe says, though Santo looks nervous.

“I know,” I say. I’d neither want nor expect it any other way. I know better than anyone how wearing secrets are on your soul.

We all glance up as Sophia bursts through the door, weighed down with shopping bags. She lowers them to the floor as soon as she catches sight of Santo.

“Papa!” She flings her arms around his neck from behind and presses her cold cheek against her father’s. “You’re too early!”

“Don’t fuss, Sophia, and for the love of God don’t call your mother,” he says, patting her hand.

I get up from the table and untie my apron.

“I’ll leave you guys to it,” I say, grabbing my coat off the stand.

“You can’t wait for Gio? He shouldn’t be long,” Sophia says, glancing at the clock.

“Something I need to do,” I say quickly. “Tell him I’ll call him later?”

Sophia pulls me into a quick hug and I cling to her, wishing she was anything but a Belotti so I could confide in her. I’m completely alone without Bobby and Robin. Smirnoff is a great secret keeper but not much use when it comes to sage advice.

“I’ll see you on the big day,” she says as she lets me go. “Come hungry, Mamma always makes enough food for a block party.”

“She’s Italian,” Santo huffs.

“I’ll be there,” I say, and then I make my quick farewells and leave, because I don’t think I can handle seeing Gio just now. I’m breathing heavily into my scarf as I push my way through the snowy streets toward home, the inevitable tears stinging my eyes because I’m unable to shake the feeling that this is the beginning of the end.





Vivien

…

MULBERRY STREET, MAY 1989

VIVIEN ADJUSTED THE SUNSHADE ON the thrift-store stroller to shield her baby daughter from the late Sunday afternoon sun.

“I’m nervous, Iris,” she whispered, safe in the knowledge that her nearly two-year-old child didn’t have the faintest idea what she was talking about. “What if he isn’t here anymore?”

But, in her heart, she knew Santo would be here. He’d said he’d be there forever. They hadn’t spoken a word since the day she’d walked out of the gelateria four years ago, her head too full of starry-eyed ambition to realize that she was walking away from her best chance at forever happiness. She knew it now, though, and she could only hope she wasn’t too late. Life on the road hadn’t quite panned out the way she’d expected: too many late nights and smoky backstreet clubs, the occasional brush with stardom that could so easily have sent them stratospheric yet somehow didn’t. Getting pregnant with Charlie Raven’s child didn’t feature anywhere in Viv’s life plan, yet there wasn’t a single moment when she regretted bringing her child into the world.

“My baby” quickly became her favorite words in the English language, closely followed by “my daughter.” Being a mother turned out to be more important than being a singer in a band, eclipsing everything and everyone, even when she found herself alone in L.A. trying to scrape together enough money to buy baby milk. As usual, her voice saved her—the cute busker with an even cuter baby strapped to her front was hard to pass by without dropping a few coins in her upturned hat.

“He might not even recognize me,” she whispered to Iris, who laughed, delighted as she waved her beloved plastic giraffe in the air. Viv couldn’t help but grin back; her daughter’s joy was infectious.