“This is very, very bad,” he whispers.
“I know,” I say, utterly miserable. “What am I going to do?”
He shakes his head very slowly, staring at me. It’s not helpful. I wait.
“Okay,” he says, laying one hand on my knee. “So you either fess up, which would be an unmitigated disaster and most probably scar you both for life, or just keep mum about the asshole being alive and stick to plan A: drip feed the recipe and run.”
“I just feel so shoddy for lying,” I say. “Of all the people in all the world, why did it have to be him?” Bobby looks alarmed by the uncontrollable shake in my voice.
“Don’t even, Iris—God knows you’re an ugly crier.” He quickly tucks me back under his arm. I feel like a baby bird sheltering under its mamma’s wing, and it makes me feel both better and worse. There are no words for how much I wish my mother was still here—she’d know exactly what to say and do. But then, if she was here, none of this would have happened. I wouldn’t have been taken in by Adam, because I wouldn’t have felt exposed and alone and desperate to be one of two again. I’d still be living and chefing in London now, maybe getting closer to my forever dream of seeing my name over the door of my own restaurant. My heart shivers at the thought of having never met Bobby, though, he’s my silver lining. I slump into him when he plants a kiss on the top of my head, and finally untense my shoulders for the first time since walking out of Belotti’s this morning.
“We’ll figure everything out,” he says, and because it’s late and I’m knackered and it’s Bobby, I tell myself to believe him.
* * *
—
MY GELATO MACHINE MIGHT not be heavy to carry across my matchbox kitchen, but it turns out that lugging it around the neighborhood is a lot more effort than I imagined. By the time I reach Belotti’s I’m huffing like a carthorse, the box balanced in my arms, on the verge of hurling my bag in the nearest bin because it keeps sliding down my shoulder and dragging my scarf with it, almost strangling me.
I bump the door open with my backside and stumble in, depositing the box on the counter and my bag on the nearest stool, panting like an expectant mother.
“Help,” I half shout. “I need coffee. And a defibrillator.”
Gio comes through, flanked by Sophia, and then three more women follow in quick succession. They form a row behind the counter and smile at me; there is no question that these are the Belotti sisters, their similarity is striking. And intimidating.
“Francesca,” says the one on the end.
“Elena,” says the next one along.
“Viola,” says the third.
“Sophia.” Gio’s youngest sister bobs a curtsy.
For his part, Gio looks testy, his jaw set stiff. “Contrary to what it might look like, we’re not auditioning for The Sound of Music,” he says. “My sisters were just leaving.”
“Do you sing, Iris?” Sophia says, ignoring him. “You can be our new governess.”
I laugh as I unwind my scarf. “I do, actually.” I don’t know why I admitted that. I haven’t sung in years, not in front of people, anyway. I inherited my mother’s voice as well as her blue eyes, but she was the performer in the family. “I’m afraid I’d be a terrible governess, though. I can’t sew clothes from curtains or throw puppet shows. The only thing I’m any good at is cooking.”
“Please let me apologize for my sisters,” Gio says, his hand on his heart.
“Always so grumpy,” Sophia mutters and, beside her, Viola looks at the floor to hide her laugh.
Francesca, on the far end, takes charge. “Enough, girls. Iris, I’m sorry if this looks like an ambush.”
“Because that’s exactly what it is,” Gio says.
“We just came by on our way to the hospital,” Francesca says, and they all nod, wide-eyed.
“Even though visiting hours don’t start until noon and you all really ought to be at work?” Gio adds, earning himself dirty looks down the line from his sisters.
“This is my work,” Sophia says, raising her hand as if she’s in class. “I don’t know what everyone else is doing here.”
“That’s it, Soph,” Elena says, in the middle. “Throw us under the bus after you texted us all to say Gio’s dating a dead ringer for Jess from New Girl. You know how much I loved that series.”
Sophia throws her hands up, laughing. “Was I wrong, though?”
“You’re wrong, and you’re being rude,” Gio says, cutting in. They all shrug, unapologetic, and he opens the door on to the street. “Out. All of you.”
His sisters file out, murmuring variants of “nice to meet you” and “good luck putting up with him” as they pass me.
He snags Sophia’s hood at the back of the line. “Not you. You work here, remember?”
“I thought you might prefer me to leave you to it,” she says, smiling sweetly.
“And I thought you might prefer me to leave you to it,” he says, pulling his apron over his head and handing it to her. “Iris, shall we? I have an idea.”
I glance uncertainly at my beloved gelato maker on the counter.
“You can leave your tiny machine there, it’s safe.”
I pick up my bag and scarf. “Umm, okay. Lead the way.”
7.
“SORRY, I JUST NEEDED TO get OUT of there,” he says, steering me through the sidewalk cafés and busy last-day-of-festival preparations. “I swear, when they get together like that they’re just…” He shakes his head, searching for the right words.
“A lot?” I suggest.
“Too much,” he says. “Way, way too much.”
We lapse into silence as we walk, awkward now we’re alone and his sisters have thrown their spin on things.
“They were just kidding around,” I say, trying to get us back on track. “Forget what they said. I will. In fact, I already have. I can’t remember at all.”
He glances down at me and I see the tenseness in his face ease. “Thank you,” he says. “Because I’d hate for them to scare you away, you’re the best hope I have.” He pauses, and then hurriedly adds, “For the recipe, obviously. Not for anything…oh, for God’s sake.”
I press my lips together, because he’s tying himself up in knots and making it worse. I veer into the nearest brightly lit store, feigning distraction as much to change the mood as anything else.
“Really?” he says, coming to an incredulous standstill.
I stand beside him, momentarily taken aback. It’s a rainy autumn morning outside in New York, but in this place it’s wall-to-wall, in-your-face, jolly-holly Christmas with jingle bells on.
“Oh my word,” I say, backed up by the dulcet tones of Mariah Carey. “It’s only September.”
“Not in here,” deadpans a passing store assistant wearing a “Christmas in New York!” T-shirt, his deely boppers flashing red and green.
“He doesn’t seem that thrilled to be here,” I say, still acclimatizing to the riot of glitter, revolving trees, and nodding reindeer heads on the walls. The store is huge and stuffed to the rafters with all things festive, like we took a wrong turn and ended up at the North Pole.