“Have you tried to recreate it yourself?” I say, still thinking.
“Day and night,” he sighs.
“That explains the dark circles,” I say.
He shakes his head. “I can’t believe this has happened. Papa was on the verge of retiring. He only comes by to load the machines in the morning.”
The most fragile of ideas begins to form in my head. “Look, I’m not saying I’d be able to even get anywhere near to it, but I could try to help, if you’d like me to? I’m a trained chef. Well, I used to be, in London. Here, I toss noodles, but I still have my skills and anything’s worth a go, right?”
He looks at me, blinks a couple of times in that way people do when they’re not sure what to say or do.
“I have some gelato in the freezer,” he says. “What was left over on the day of Papa’s stroke. You could try it? It won’t be perfect since it wasn’t made fresh today, but it’s —”
“Better than nothing,” I finish, and he nods.
“Who are you?” he asks, a question that feels overdue. “I don’t even know your name.”
“I’m Iris,” I say.
“Iris,” he says. “Like the Goo Goo Dolls.”
“And my mother’s favorite flowers,” I say.
He studies me. “Have we met somewhere before?”
We look at each other across the counter, and I feel that prickle of déjà vu again. Vibrations of the past, possibly, or maybe he’s a noodle kind of guy and has been by the restaurant. It’s not impossible. I briefly wonder if he’s seen a photograph of my mother, the way I have of Santo, but I can’t imagine why there would be any record of her here.
“I don’t think so,” I say softly.
“Giovanni Belotti,” he says. “Gio.”
We regard each other. Iris and Gio, no longer strangers.
“I’ll go get the gelato,” he says, disappearing into the back.
Alone in the gelateria, I slump into my seat and sigh. Am I doing the right thing? Would my mother want me to interfere? There’s nothing but the hum of the coffee machine and the muffled sound of the outside world. Belotti’s feels like the kind of place a time-slip could occur in a movie, a secret doorway to years and people past. How dearly I wish that could be true, that I could open that painted door and see if my mother sat on this exact same seat. I place my hand on the low back of the chair beside mine, the smooth grain of the polished red leather supple beneath my fingers. There’s an inexplicable feeling of safety in here, a sense of timelessness and peace.
Gio returns and sets a small silver pail down in front of me.
“Best to give it a little while to come up to temperature.”
I nod. “Looks good.” What I actually mean is it looks exactly the same color as my own gelato.
“We’re usually busy with the festival right now,” he says, shaking his head. “I hate that we’re missing out this year.”
I’m not sure what I can say that’s helpful. “Is it seasonal, generally? Gelato, I mean?”
“Yeah, it is.” He pauses, nods. “Obviously spring and summer are our busiest times, and March through September we run five mobile carts around the city and supply events—parties, weddings, that kind of thing. It gets quieter after San Gennaro, and people start to come more for coffee and pastries once the weather turns, but if I can’t work this thing out soon…” He trails off, but I hear the words he doesn’t want to say. If he can’t work the recipe out, Belotti’s gelateria might not see next spring.
“Maybe Santo will remember soon,” I say. I don’t add that his globe-trotting father might find his copy of the recipe, because I get the impression there isn’t a hope in hell.
His smile is thin. “Maybe.”
I watch the gelato soften around the inside edges of the metal, wanting and at the same time not wanting to taste it. Until I know for certain, there’s still an outside chance I’m wrong.
Gio cups his hands around the cold metal.
“Help it along a little,” he murmurs.
I half smile, imagining Bobby’s face if he was here. He always grouches about the metal beaker I make gelato in, says it takes his fingerprints off whenever he holds it. I notice Gio has capable hands and look away quickly. I’m a bit weird about men’s hands. It’s just my thing. Some people go weak for a peachy bum or bulging biceps, but for me it’s all about strong hands. And shoulders, for that matter. Watching Gio warm the gelato for me with his hands has me unexpectedly flustered, so I pick up a spoon and suggest it might be time.
He looks into the tub, assessing, then stirs it to amalgamate the milky edges with the middle before pushing it toward me, raising his gaze to mine. I’m nervous out of nowhere, prickles of sweat breaking out along my hairline.
“Okay,” I say, sliding the spoon into the smooth gelato. “Here goes.”
I instinctively close my eyes when I put it in my mouth, concealing my reaction in case I give myself away. It’s just as I knew it would be. Elevated a little from being scaled up and diminished ever so slightly because it’s not freshly made, but the oh-so-familiar taste throws me back to all my yesterdays. I’m a toddler with dirty hands digging for treasure in a rental-house back garden somewhere in the north of England. I’m eleven years old in London, doing my homework at a table, which has one damaged leg propped on a stack of books. I’m fifteen in Cardiff, crying over my first broken heart. I’m twenty in Birmingham, celebrating my success at catering college. I’m twenty-nine in London, trying not to show my absolute panic as I listen to my mother telling me of her bleak diagnosis. I’m all of those versions of myself, accompanied every time by our—by Belotti’s—secret recipe vanilla gelato served in a pink melamine dish. This gelato and that dish were the only constants in the ever-shifting landscape of my childhood, and tasting it here throws up a whole gamut of unexpected emotion.
I open my eyes to find Gio staring at me, fragile flints of hope in his worried eyes.
“It’s…it’s really something special, isn’t it?” I say, struggling to keep my voice steady.
He nods. “My great-grandparents’ recipe, never deviated from.” Picking up a spoon, he helps himself, then sighs deeply. “It’s not possible to recreate, is it? It’s too special.”
I take a little more. “I don’t know, Gio,” I say. “Let me have a think, play around with some ideas.” I wrap my scarf around my neck and he loads one of their green-and-white-striped tubs with gelato.
“For the journey,” he says, adding a spoon and a cherry on the side.
“I’ll come back again tomorrow,” I say, sliding down from the stool.
He nods, and I pick up the tub, noticing how it’s the painted door come alive in my hands.
“I’ll be here.” Gio lays his hands flat on the counter. “I always am.”
Vivien
…
LOWER EAST SIDE, NEW YORK, SUMMER 1985
“VIV, OVER HERE!”
Vivien turned toward the sound of her name, shouted loud enough for her to hear over the bohemian crowd packed into the late-night, smoky, backstreet club. She squinted into the gloom and caught sight of a grinning, shirtless Charlie Raven, both arms raised over his head to catch her attention, a lit cigarette dangling between his long fingers.