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WHITE LIGHTS AND GARLANDS line the steps up to the Belotti family brownstone, a huge fresh holly wreath hanging on the double doors.
“Iris, you look so pretty,” Bella says, throwing the door wide before I can ring the bell. A scurry of kids fill the hall around her and she shoos them away so I can step inside with my bag of presents. Maria’s house has taken on Disney-esque holiday glamour, the kind of dressing that must have come from one of those specialist companies Gio told me about because it would have taken a normal person weeks to achieve this look on their own. The staircase garlands, the lights, the baubles, the fireplace…it’s glitzy but tasteful, homey but sophisticated. Whoever did it has matched the holiday decor to the homeowner seamlessly—it’s Maria to a tee, and I love it.
“This place looks…” I gaze up at the giant tree in the hallway, lost for words.
“I know, right?” Bella grins. She’s wearing a Minnie at Christmas sweatshirt and has red glittery mouse ears on her head.
“I like your ears,” I laugh, and she touches them, self-conscious.
“Sophia made me do it,” she says. “She has some for you too.”
“I should hope so,” I say as she leads me into the grand, twinkling living room.
It’s exactly as I’d imagined it would be. Fire crackling in the hearth, everyone dressed to impress, Santo in his armchair with one of his grandkids on his knee. He didn’t have any success with remembering the recipe when he spent time at the gelateria the other morning; they plan to try again after Christmas, maybe load some ingredients into his favorite old machine to see if going through the motions helps. That’s a worry for another day, though, not on anyone’s mind right now. The Belotti women seem to have cornered the market in red lipstick—I chew my rose-glossed lower lip and wish I’d thought of it because it looks so festive. I’m hugged, passed around like a long-lost family member, and finally I reach Gio, who has been leaning in the kitchen doorway watching me.
“You look nice,” he says, kissing me on both cheeks. He smells so good when he leans in close, of warm spice and familiarity, and I long for him to hold me in his arms. I sense the family watching us expectantly and step away to hand my present bag to Sophia.
“Ears, non-negotiable,” she says, taking the bag in exchange for a set of glittered ruby Minnie ears. She must have cleared the shelf of them because all of her sisters have them, plus Maria, of course, and I laugh and put them on my head as Felipe appears wearing some too.
“Better than cracker hats,” I say.
Sophia frowns. “Cracker hats?”
“You know, Christmas crackers?” I glance at the dining table. “Are they not a thing here? You pull them and they go bang, and a paper hat flies out with a terrible joke and a tacky gift?”
They’re looking at me as if I’m speaking a different language as I make the motion of pulling an imaginary cracker, and I wish I’d never mentioned it because the glitter ears are so much nicer anyway.
“Billy’s brother told me a funny joke last week.” One of the kids skids across the wooden floor in his Christmas socks, unintentionally coming to my rescue. “But it has a curse in it so I’m not allowed to say.”
Felipe rubs his hands together and bends down, almost losing his mouse ears. “Whisper it to me, it sounds like my kind of joke.”
“I don’t think so,” Maria says, bustling everyone out of the way to hug me. It breaks the moment, as she no doubt knew it would, and someone presses a glass of champagne into my hand. I catch Santo’s eye and he gives me a nod, the ghost of a complicated smile. I know it must be strange for him to have me here. I’d like to spend a few quiet minutes with him this afternoon if I get the chance—there’s something I’d like to give him back.
I let myself be absorbed into the family atmosphere, and I don’t feel awkward as gifts are given or as if there are in-jokes I don’t understand, because they include me easily in everything. Bella hands my gifts out and I’m given pretty things in return: a turquoise bracelet from Maria and Santo, a vintage champagne saucer from Sophia. It’s overwhelming, really, sitting among them as they give and receive, watching the kids rip paper from new toys and the dog mosey around everyone. Gio is beside me on the sofa, and the urge to touch him is so strong it hurts my fingers to not curl them around his. My glass seems to refill itself, and I’m…I’m really, truly happy.
Lunch is a slowly savored feast: antipasto platters heaving with cured meats and wooden boards laden with Italian cheeses, briny stuffed olives and marinated mushrooms, slippery peppers alongside braised artichoke hearts—and that was just the beginning. Gio has been seated beside me with calligraphed name plates, Sophia on my other side, Santo at the head of the table.
Maria’s pasta is featherlight and her beef ragù tastes as if she’s been simmering it for the last week straight, rich with Barolo and so delicious I tell her I could eat it every day for the rest of my life and not get bored.
“Salute!” Santo raises his glass when the roast is placed center-stage, and Felipe springs from his seat beside his brother and reaches for the carving knife and fork.
“Would you mind, Santo?” he says, gamely brandishing the implements. “I’ve never carved for the family before.”
He makes it sound as if his brother is bestowing the favor by allowing him the honor of carving, a simple act of generosity that I find I have to look away from.
“So much food,” I murmur as the meat is surrounded by all manner of vegetables and roast potatoes, and beneath the table Gio puts his hand briefly on my knee. I cover it with my own, a fleeting moment of connection, of us, within this busy festive scene.
“Do you miss London, Iris?” I look up as Francesca spoons garlic-coated green beans onto her son’s plate while she chats to me across the table.
“I don’t anymore, really,” I say, picking through the bones of my previous life to find something positive to say. Without mentioning my mother, there’s nothing. “I’m pretty settled here now and I’ve barely scratched the surface of New York.”
“I miss Paris,” Pascal says, mournful, but I could have kissed him for the ease with which he has rerouted the conversation from London Underground to Paris Metro in one swift stop.
Francesca rolls her eyes. “We were just there, Pascal.”
The conversation ebbs and flows around the table as plates are filled and refilled, gravy boats replenished and wineglasses topped up. There’s no hurry, no sense of anyone wanting to move proceedings along. Felipe has many stories to tell of far-flung places, and he doesn’t seem to have any particular guilt about the way he’s chosen to live his life. Equally, there seems no animosity from the family toward him; Gio is a gift bestowed upon Santo and Maria, their only and much-beloved boy. How fortunate he is to have so many people who adore him—but then, as I’ve learned in recent months, he is an incredibly easy person to love.
“I don’t think I’ve ever eaten this much in my life,” I say, laying down my cutlery. “I’m admitting defeat.”