18.
I FEEL AS IF SOMEONE HAS turned my life-dial up from its safe, predictable setting to high-voltage, scream-if-you-want-to-go-faster. The last few weeks have been both physically exhilarating and mentally exhausting, because keeping what’s happening between me and Gio secret isn’t as easy as it seemed in principle. The last thing I need in my life is an extra layer of subterfuge, I’ve got enough of that already around my relationship with the Belottis. I feel like two people inhabiting one body and, to be honest, it’s not the most robust machine to demand double duty of. My mornings have been spent gelato-making, stealing moments alone with Gio and helping Sophia with her experimental flavors before I hotfoot it home and become the girl who tosses noodles, glad of the Groundhog Day sameness of work to keep me stabilized.
Gio came to mine last Monday as Bella was home, and Bobby made sure to conveniently leave something in my apartment that he just had to call in and collect. He spent five minutes attempting to give off big-brother vibes and then another thirty just plain old schmoozing before I unsubtly sent him back upstairs. Seeing Gio in the confines of my apartment was strange—it was just too poky and plain to house such a gorgeous creature. Not that it mattered once he kissed me, we could have been in a broom cupboard or a five-star suite. The week-long tension between us overspilled its banks and submerged us for several spine-tingling hours. Something incredible happens when we’re alone: it’s as if Gio allows himself to wear his heart on the outside of his skin for a little while. He’s quick to smile, able to slay me with the slow, trembling emotion of his kiss. He’s buried this part of himself so thoroughly that no one gets to see it, and I find it deeply sexy that he allows me close enough that I do. There is strength in his vulnerability.
Tuesday found me steamrollered, sleeping in until after ten, unwilling to get up even though Gio had left just after one in the morning so as not to leave Bella alone all night. It was a lot to process—his head had been on my pillows, his body tangled in my sheets—and then I had to find a way out of my dream life and back into my real life.
* * *
—
“I’M GOING TO CANCEL the holiday bookings this afternoon.” Gio passes coffee to Sophia and me. “We are going to risk giving ourselves a bad name if we leave it too late.”
I’ve been dreading him saying this—I know the upcoming Christmas party orders have been on his mind. He fears damaging the gelateria’s reputation with commercial customers by canceling and has been holding off in the hope of us landing on the recipe in the nick of time.
“Yesterday’s test batch was really strong,” Sophia says.
“But not right,” he says.
“Delicious, though,” I say. I’ve slowly steered him really quite near to the exact recipe, and both Sophia and Gio had to test yesterday’s effort twice before being sure it wasn’t right.
“We could speak to them about shaking things up a bit with the guest flavors instead?” Sophia says. She didn’t waste any time taking Gio at his word with her experimental flavors, and to give credit where it’s due, they’ve proved to be something of a hit. It’s not really gelato weather, but even so, she’s sold out every day and it’s created enough buzz to have the till ringing with customers checking back in to see what today’s flavor is.
Gio sighs. “We’ve been booked for our vanilla,” he says.
“Would it be so bad to use the recipe from yesterday’s batch?” I say. “It was really excellent stuff.”
I can see from his expression that the answer is no.
“People will notice the difference.”
“Ah, come on, Gio.” Exasperation sharpens Sophia’s tone. “We’re talking about work parties and weddings, everyone will have taken advantage of the free bar by the time dessert comes out. No one will know.”
The atmosphere in the room chills to below gelato temperature.
“No one will know? I’ll know. You’ll know. And Papa would know. He might not know the recipe right now, but he’d know the taste.”
“But, Gio, Papa isn’t going to know a damn thing about it!” She slams her hand down on the glass counter. “We fulfill our orders, our customers will be happy, and Papa returns to business as usual when he’s good and ready.”
“More than a hundred years trading in this city, and you don’t think our recipe is distinctive enough for people to recognize when it changes? How many other shops do you know that only need one flavor to be successful?” Gio throws his hands up, and his ancestors behind him on the wall seem to do the same.
I sip my coffee and stay out of it. This is between them. It’s about the recipe, for sure, but it’s also about their fiery love for the family business and their overriding fear for Santo’s health. They’re an anxious family just now, and their stress spills from them in the form of heated clashes of opinion. Thankfully, I’ve also seen the flip side of the coin and they’re good at rebuilding the bridges they’ve blown up, quick to apologize and pull together again. It’s not a dynamic I’ve ever really witnessed before—they’re like a dangerous but beautiful box of fireworks.
“That’s not what I’m saying and you damn well know it,” she says.
He folds his arms over his chest, and she juts her chin in the air and does the same.
Gio looks at me. “What would you do, Iris?”
I sigh inwardly. So much for staying out of it.
“Well,” I say, playing for time as they both stare at me and expect me to take their side. “Obviously, the ideal thing would be to have the exact recipe.” I try not to see my mother’s ripped napkin with Santo’s handwriting across it.
They both nod.
“And protecting the Belotti brand is paramount.”
They wait, and I cast around for a diplomatic answer. God, I’d never make a politician. My eyes fall on the Thanksgiving closure notice.
“Given that everywhere is closing for Thanksgiving in less than a week, I’d maybe leave things until afterward before making a decision. I mean, who wants a problem thrown in their lap right before shutting up shop for a few days, right? You’d pretty much be doing them a favor by waiting, and there’s always the outside chance something might change here in the meantime.” I glance from one to the other, trying to encourage them to lay their swords down on the middle ground I’ve created for them.
Sophia throws a sidelong look at Gio, who narrows his eyes, thinking. They may be equally passionate about the business, but he’s Santo’s second-in-command.
He shrugs, and she drops her arms and mutters in Italian.
“Fine,” he concedes. “But the minute we open that door again after the break, I’m making those calls.”
I feel a sense of having temporarily staved off the inevitable. The only person who can truly resolve this problem is me. My eyes linger on the closure notice, dully aware that it’s putting the clock on me to call time on the recipe hunt too. I don’t know what I’ll do without my gelato experiment mornings, but this has gone on long enough.
19.
“I THINK WE’VE NAILED IT,” I say, high-fiving my phone screen. “You played out of your skin that time.”