Okay, maybe not down to me. I expected Gio to avoid talking about it, but here we are.
“It’s okay,” I say, neutral. “I didn’t intend to overstep the mark with Bella.”
He sighs and shakes his head, polishing the already spotless counter. “You didn’t, Iris, you really didn’t. It caught me off guard, that’s all, and reminded me of what she’s lost,” he says, then brightens. “She passed her piano test, by the way.”
“She did? I’m really glad,” I say, biting the inside of my lip as I think about what he said just now. “Was her mum musical?”
His hands still. “Penny? No,” he laughs. “Brilliant at so many things, but totally tone deaf.”
I fold my hands around my mug and draw it in toward myself. “Bella’s full of talent,” I say. “Where does she get it from?”
“The Belottis are a giant bunch of show-offs,” he says. “My sisters all play instruments and sing.”
“And you?”
He frowns. “Guitar for a while as a moody teenager,” he says. “Nothing these days.”
I suddenly wonder if he’s seen that video doing the rounds of me singing in the park, and change the subject, embarrassed.
“So, the gelato,” I say. “How’s it going?”
“I’ve been trying to get the hang of your machine,” he says. His accompanying hand motions suggest it’s about the size of a thimble rather than capable of turning out a perfectly respectable three pints.
“And?”
“I think it likes you better,” he says.
I mentally high-five my good old gelato maker. “There’s a knack to it.”
The bell over the door rings.
“Oh my God, it’s freezing this morning!” Sophia flings herself inside the warm gelateria and lights up when she spots me at the counter. I find myself hugged, her cheek cold against my warm one. “I’m hanging on to you to steal your warmth,” she says, lingering.
“Maybe you could wear a coat?” Gio says what I was thinking.
She rolls her eyes. “Yeah, okay, Dad.”
“Don’t you start, one grouchy teenager is enough for anyone,” he says, chucking Sophia’s work apron at her before turning into the kitchens.
She pulls a face behind his retreating back and then leans into me.
“I saw the video of you singing,” she stage whispers, her eyes dancing. “I was like ‘I know her!’ And no one believed me.”
I don’t know why I don’t want Gio to see it, but I don’t. “Oh God, Sophia, can we not talk about it?” I say, equally quiet. “It was just something that happened in the moment, I didn’t know anyone filmed it.”
“That’s what makes it so cool,” she says, clutching my arm. “It’s obvious you didn’t go there to sing, and then you shut the place down.” She mimes dropping the mike.
“Don’t show Gio?” I ask, not even sure why I don’t want him to see it.
She narrows her eyes and then shrugs. “Okay, I won’t. But don’t be surprised if someone else does.”
By someone else I suppose she means Bella. I can only cross my fingers and hope that a thirty-odd-year-old British woman randomly singing eighties power hits in the park will be of little interest to her.
Gio sticks his head around the kitchen door, looking for me. “Coming?”
I shoot Sophia a quick “thank you” as I pick up my personalized mug and follow him through.
* * *
—
I NUDGE GIO CLOSER to the recipe than I’ve dared to yet, even though the demand for gelato is at its lowest now the cold weather is coming in earnest. It’s unseasonably chilly in New York this week, the first frost of the season evident on the sidewalk when I left the building this morning. All the same, I can’t legitimize stringing things out too much: there are December weddings and corporate bookings over the holiday period that will be jeopardized if they can’t get back into production.
We’re standing around the corner of the wooden workbench, the gelato in front of us as he passes me one of two spoons.
“I’ve got a good feeling about this one,” he says.
I swallow. “You try first.”
“I’m worried I’ve forgotten exactly how it tastes,” he says quietly, staring at the gelato in front of him.
“You’ll know when it’s right.” I set my expression to steel. “You just will.”
He nods and then tests it, not meeting my eye. He goes in a second time and then lays his spoon down carefully beside the dish.
“It’s closer than most. It might even be our best yet, but it’s not exactly right.”
We’ve gotten into the habit of giving each new batch a score, recording the recipe in a blue leather journal Gio keeps in one of the drawers that line the back wall. I flick back through the pages.
“Our highest score up to now is seven point eight,” I say, chewing the end of my pen. “What do you think for this one?”
He picks up his spoon and swirls it in the gelato. “Color and consistency excellent. Taste is good.” He stops and tastes again and is about to give his verdict when the kitchen door opens.
“Mamma.”
He breaks into a smile that changes his entire posture, his arms outstretched and welcoming.
“Come, come,” he says, beckoning her toward us as she hesitates in the doorway. “Iris, this is my mamma, Maria.”
I get to my feet, nervous out of nowhere. Maria is nothing short of fabulous, an older, curvier version of Sophia with a single thick grey streak through her otherwise raven-wing waves. She smells of expensive perfume counters and jewels glitter on her fingers and in her ears. Put together, I guess you’d say, but the hug she gives me is a bone crusher and the hand on my cheek unexpectedly welcoming. Fundamentally, to me, Maria married the man my mother thought might have been the love of her life, but I’m instantly drawn in by her aura and her presence.
“I’ve heard about you, Iris,” she says as she sets me at arm’s length, her soft accent a perfect match with her appearance.
“I’ve heard about you too,” I say, smiling. “These guys talk about you and Santo all the time, it’s so nice to meet you.”
She looks at Gio. “They’re moving him,” she says. “To the rehabilitation center.”
He frowns. “Is that a good thing?”
Maria nods slowly, resting on the stool beside me. “It’s a step toward coming home,” she says. “They can work harder on his mobility there, it’s more specialized.”
“And his memory?” Gio says.
Maria shrugs and shakes her head. “I don’t know, Gio. They don’t know either.”
Gio sighs, and they share a look full of worry and uncertainty.
“Would you like to try our latest gelato attempt?” I nod toward the dish in front of us, because maybe a slight change of mood will help lift their spirits.
She nods and Gio passes her a spoon. I watch him watch her, his breath caught as she tests it.
We both know it isn’t exactly right, but even so, Maria’s verdict feels important.