He looks at me. “All those mornings together at the gelateria, and you knew the recipe all along.”
“It wasn’t my secret to share,” I whisper. “I just wanted to help, not cause any discord in your family.”
“You should have trusted me sooner,” he says.
“It was never about trust,” I say. “It was about loyalty to my mother, at first, at least. And then to Santo too, because the more you told me about him the more I understood how big a deal what’s written on this napkin was. And the lie I told you about Adam…it made my skin crawl with shame. I just dug myself a hole I had no idea how to get out of. I’m so sorry.”
Gio stares at the napkin. “Mamma has told me to give this back to you.”
My heart aches at the memory of Maria just now, taking her place in the line to defend me. “How is she?”
Gio sighs softly. “She’s been amazing, as always. They’ve been through too much together over the years for this to break them. Too much history. Too much love. This was a long time ago and, in the end, I think she’s grateful it brought you to us, recipe and all.”
“But she has every right to hate me,” I say, miserable at the thought because Maria’s warmth and generosity of spirit has wrapped itself around me like a winter coat.
“But she doesn’t,” Gio says. “Mamma has a heart the size of a lioness and, like it or not, you’re one of her own now.”
One of her own. I felt like one of her own today, protected in a way that’s been missing from my life since my mother died.
“And Santo?” I say. “Is he okay?”
Gio glances up toward Bobby’s apartment. “Stoic, as usual. A little relieved, a little ashamed, I think.”
“He has nothing to feel ashamed about,” I rush in. “They were little more than kids. Shall I try to say something to make things better? This is all my fault.”
“It’s not your fault,” Gio says. “He’s lived with the weight of his choices from back then, you just tried to put things right. This is private, between them now. They need to deal with things in their own way, and they will.”
I understand what he’s saying. It’s not my narrative to control from here on in.
He kisses my forehead. “You tried your best. What’s done is done now, everything is out in the open where it belongs.”
I feel the weight of the last few months lift from my shoulders, lead into feathers. He knows everything. He knows about Adam, and about my mother, and about the recipe. He knows all of my secrets and he’s still standing here.
“Iris,” he says, his hand warm on the back of my neck when I look into his eyes.
“I love you,” I say, because after everything that’s happened, I want to be the one to say it first. “I love you so much, Gio.”
He slides his thumb over my bottom lip as I say it. “Ti amo.”
I smile and say it back, and the sounds feel new and precious in my mouth.
“She speaks Italian,” he murmurs, and I hear the choke of emotion in his throat.
Smirnoff grumbles on the front step. It could be appreciation of my new foreign language skills, or it could be a threat of impending violence, it’s difficult to tell. Either way, he’s getting a whole can of tuna today. I might even serve it in a pink melamine bowl.
* * *
—
THERE’S A PARTY ATMOSPHERE going on in Bobby and Robin’s apartment when we finally head inside. They might be fresh back from holiday with their cases lined up in the hallway, but they’ve slipped straight into consummate host mode and cracked open the champagne. There’s crooner music on in the background, chosen for Santo’s pleasure I suspect, and Sophia and Bobby are laughing at something on the sofa, already thick as thieves.
“I feel as if I’ve walked into a Christmas card,” I murmur. Smirnoff shoots past my ankles as everyone turns to look our way.
Sophia jumps up and hugs us both tight, pressing the back of her hand against my cheek. “You’re freezing,” she says. “Come and get by the fire.”
“I’m fine.” I hold on to her fingers until she looks at me. “Thank you for everything,” I whisper. “You were bloody brilliant.”
“Oh, I just wish I’d landed a punch on him,” she says.
“Not worth breaking your nails over,” I say, making light of the heaviest thing I’ve carried in my heart.
Sophia glances at Gio. “I’ve never seen him quite like that,” she says, love and admiration for her brother written all over her face. I glance at Gio and remember the way he stood up to protect me, but also the way he stepped back to allow me the space to stand up for myself.
Bobby joins us and holds his hand out to Gio. I see the look of acknowledgment and respect pass between them as they shake hands, Gio’s other hand resting on Bobby’s shoulder.
“Just so you know, I’d pretty much got the situation under control by the time you arrived,” Bobby preens. “I had the asshole on the floor.”
“I heard about that,” Gio says. “Iris said you were heroic.”
Bobby looks my way, his eyes suspiciously watery as he mouths the word “heroic.”
“Iron Man has nothing on you,” I say, kissing his cheek, deliberately choosing his favorite superhero for maximum effect.
Robin comes over and ushers us farther into the living room, and we are enveloped by warmth and Belotti love. I kiss Maria and hug Santo and Felipe, and then I sit on the sofa between Sophia and Gio and hold their hands.
I close my eyes and listen to Frank Sinatra croon his famous love song to New York, and I smile because I know that somewhere, somehow, my mother put in this special request just for me.
I came to New York in search of a fresh start, alone and unsure if I’d be able to make it here. I’m not unsure anymore. This heart-racingly wonderful, chaotic, neon city is my forever home, if it’ll have me.
I’m not alone anymore either. I’ve been invisibly connected to the Belotti family my entire life, by a painted glass door and a torn green napkin and endless bowls of comforting vanilla gelato. How lucky I am to have somehow, miraculously, joined the dots, that the stars aligned and led me to that exact same glass door. It’s wishful thinking to imagine my mother has somehow had a guiding hand—but if such things were possible, I know she would have moved heaven and earth to lead me to Belotti’s. The gelateria on Mulberry Street was her safe place here in this city, and now, three decades later, it has become mine.
Back then, she had the choice to stay and she didn’t. We were similar in so many ways, my mother and I, but my New York story ends differently, and that’s not because of fate or the stars or even because of my mother. It’s because of me. It’s because of the strength I found to get myself on a plane to New York with just my beloved gelato maker and a battered suitcase. At the time I felt as if I was running away, but now, with the benefit of hindsight, I can finally see the whole messy, beautiful picture.
I was coming home.
Epilogue
…
SIX WEEKS LATER, VALENTINE’S DAY
“I THINK I JUST SAW ONE,” I say, pointing at the sky. “Right there.”