“Yes, but no. You’re the busiest man in New York.” I put my shoulders back. “I think I need to do this on my own.”
5.
IN PRACTICE, DOING IT ON my own feels a lot harder than it sounded. It’s raining again, battleship-grey skies overhead as I approach Belotti’s a couple of hours later. I’ve still got no clear plan what I’m going to say or do—I’m showing up because I said I would and because Gio looked like someone hanging on by a thread yesterday. I linger in the doorway, my hand resting on the brass handle. It’s empty inside again, the stained-glass Tiffany lamps splashing red and green light pools across the floor, that same welcoming sense of timelessness. It probably looked almost the same back in the thirties, the fifties, and in the eighties when my mother came here. Different behind the scenes maybe, but the same holy decorating trinity of aged wood, polished brass, and oxblood leather up front. It’s old school but not old-fashioned, the kind of place you might go when you need your nerves soothed and the security of knowing that some things will always stay the same. I’m sure it’s different on a busy summer’s day when they actually have gelato to sell, but today there’s a library kind of calm when I push the door open and step inside.
“Iris, you came back.”
Gio appears, summoned by the traditional brass bell above the door. He doesn’t look as if he slept any better than I did. Framed as he is by the gallery of family pictures behind him, I mentally add him to the list of timeless things about this place. Generations of dark-haired men flank him, all dressed in the same uniform of long-sleeved white shirt and black tie covered with a Belotti’s apron, all similarly tall, ink-dark eyes staring straight into the camera. Gio’s hair is longer, perhaps, and his shirt cut closer to his body, definitely, but the theme is strong.
“You didn’t think I would?”
“I hoped you would,” he says, coming round the counter. “Let me grab your coat.”
I unwind my scarf and dump my huge, battered hobo bag on one of the leather bar seats, letting him take my rain-soaked jacket as I shrug out of it. He heads back behind the counter to hang it over a radiator, and I school myself to take it as a simple act of kindness rather than feeling as if my choice to easily leave has been taken away from me. I refuse to let shadows of my old life with Adam keep a grip on me here, but it’s something I have to consciously remind myself of at times like this. An act of kindness can be simply that: kindness, without ulterior motive or underlying threat.
Gio wrangles with the coffee machine and I perch on the same bar seat as yesterday, lying my blue-striped bobble hat on the counter and unwinding a scrunchie from around my wrist to pull my damp hair back from my face.
“Did you have to come far?” he asks when he turns round, setting coffee down in front of me.
There it is again, the instinct to not reveal too much of myself. I push it down firmly. “No,” I say. “Ten minutes walk.”
He doesn’t reply—in fact, I don’t think he registered my words at all. He’s frowning, his head slightly on one side, his gaze fixed on my hat. His expression is quizzical when he lifts his eyes to mine again.
“I knew we’d met somewhere before,” he says.
I place a hand over my hat, unsure what he means.
“Logan’s Bookstore? Valentine’s Day?” he says.
My hand moves to my throat as dread settles low in my gut. Oh jeez, no.
“Lapin,” I mutter, as it all comes back to me in one hot panicky rush. I’ve done a good-enough job of trying to scour last Valentine’s Day from existence that it’s probably vanished off my kitchen wall calendar. I twitch just thinking about it.
“Did you ever read the book?” he says.
I pass my hand over my hot face. “No.”
I bought a copy the following day, but I haven’t even been able to open it since, and I really burned to read that damn thing. Every time I reach for it I’m reminded of the lie I told about my “dead husband,” the shame I felt for snapping just to try and make someone feel bad, the embarrassment of having made an unnecessary exhibition of myself. And now I’m here with that same guy, telling yet another lie, even if this time it’s because I’m trying to help him. I’d quite like the floor of the gelateria to open up and swallow me whole right now.
He winds a dish towel around in his hands. “Look, I’m sorry for putting my foot in it, about your husband, Iris, I really am. You kind of hit me in my weak spot when you mentioned my wife, I had no right to speak to you like that.”
I flash back and see myself as I was that day, my furious eyes snagging on his wedding ring, his offended gaze bouncing to my mother’s ring on my finger.
“Oh God. I should never have said —” I start, but he cuts across me.
“Please don’t.” He holds his hands up. “I understand. More than you know.” He flicks his gaze toward the ceiling. “Penny, my wife…she died seven years ago.”
My heart constricts at the measured way he delivers this information without meeting my eyes, at the flinch in his voice that tells me it hurts to even say the words out loud. I’m bereft of any words of my own, absolutely in hell. I can’t believe I didn’t place him as bookstore guy earlier. I didn’t think I could be any more mortified about the lie I told that day, but knowing that he, a widower, thinks that a） I had a husband and b） he passed away has me absolutely shamefaced for so many more reasons than I can even process.
Gio watches me silently, then nods. “A pact to never speak about that day ever again?”
“Never,” I agree hastily, taking the life raft he offers, unable to come up with a way to pull back my lie.
“Drink your coffee.” He nudges my saucer toward me. “Then we can talk about gelato.”
He looks over at the door as someone flings it open, and his face lights up. For my part, I feel saved by the bell.
“Sophia,” he says. “You’re late.”
The library atmosphere in here dissipates with Sophia’s arrival, a clatter of bangles as she battles to tame her inside-out umbrella.
“My dramatic youngest sister,” he says, looking back to me.
She laughs as she slides behind the counter and drapes her wet coat beside mine over the radiator.
“And prettiest,” she says. “And smartest. And not really his sister.”
Gio rolls his eyes, obviously used to this line. “You might as well be,” he says. “Sophia is Santo’s youngest, noisiest, and most obnoxious daughter. The other three are much nicer.”
Sophia is completely unfazed by the insult. There is palpable sibling warmth between them, their verbal sparring underscored with familiarity. “I’ve just talked to the hospital. No change. Although the nurse said he asked for cannoli so one of them brought him some from the festival last night.”
Gio nods.
“This is Iris,” he says.
Sophia’s eyes slide to me, curious.
“She’s a chef,” he tells her. “She’s going to try to help us with the recipe.”
“Excellent,” she says, hooking a Belotti’s apron over her head. “We need all the help we can get.”