Felipe is behind him, both of them in heavy cashmere coats and fedoras, Santo leaning heavily on a wooden walking stick.
I don’t know what to do. He isn’t supposed to be here for hours. I’ve been dreading this moment ever since Felipe put the pieces of my identity together so easily. Panicky, I surreptitiously remove my mother’s ring from my finger and push it into the pocket of my jeans.
Santo is absolutely still, leaning on his stick as he stares at me.
I wish I wasn’t wearing a Belotti’s apron, I feel like a fraud.
Felipe touches his brother’s arm. “Santo?”
Still he doesn’t speak, still he doesn’t move, so Felipe pulls out a chair at the nearest table and guides his brother into it.
“Coffee,” Felipe nods to me, and I spring into action, all fingers and thumbs.
“Everyone’s out,” I say. “But they’ll be back soon, I’m sure, one of them will anyway. Both of them probably, in fact. Any minute, I shouldn’t wonder.” I’m aware I’m gabbling but I can’t seem to stop the words frothing from me.
I close my eyes for a second and lean my forehead against the coffee machine as it brews, desperately trying to gather myself together. I’d hoped that Santo wouldn’t find the same familiarities as Felipe—he won’t have heard me sing and my mother’s ring isn’t on my finger. I swallow hard as I carry the hot coffee to their table, the cups shaky in their saucers as I set them down. Santo catches hold of my hand and stares up into my eyes.
“Vivien.” His voice is barely more than a whisper.
I sit down beside him at the table.
“You weren’t supposed to be here until later,” I say, stalling as I try to think of the right things to say.
“Santo wanted to give it a try without any fanfare—you know how Maria fusses,” Felipe says, watching his brother closely.
Felipe and I hold this logistics conversation without looking at each other, because Santo’s dark eyes are searching my face and he’s still holding my hand.
“Vivien,” he says again, stronger this time.
“I’m Iris, her daughter,” I say, as steadily as I can.
He’s shaking his head slowly, as if he’s seen a ghost. I wait, give him the time he needs.
“Is she here?” I can’t decide if the expression in his eyes is hope or fear.
I glance at Felipe, who just shrugs his shoulders and gazes down at his coffee. I reach across the table and hold Santo’s other hand too, which for two people who’ve only just met, feels strangely right.
I steel myself and look him straight in the eyes, keeping my voice as steady and calm as I’m able. “She isn’t. I’m sorry to tell you this, Santo, but my mother, Vivien…she died three years ago.”
His hands tighten in mine as he takes a sharp intake of breath, his eyes misting with tears.
“Cancer,” I say. “She was fifty-two.”
He lets go of my hands and pulls a cotton handkerchief from his pocket to dab his eyes. He takes a few sips of his coffee as he steadies himself, and I can only imagine the thoughts that must be racing through his mind.
“I came to New York to see the places she loved,” I say, trying to make my story as simple as possible.
“Do they all know who you are? Maria?”
Felipe puts his hand on Santo’s shoulder. “No one knows anything, brother.”
Santo nods. “And you work here now?”
I smooth my clammy hands on my apron. “I’ve been helping out some mornings, here and there.”
He falls quiet again, making sense of things.
“It was all so long ago,” he says.
“A lifetime,” Felipe agrees.
“So similar,” Santo says. “Uncanny.”
Felipe pulls a hip flask from his inside pocket and tips a nip of whiskey in each of their coffees.
“My tablets,” Santo says, but reaches for the cup anyway.
“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.