Gelato Shop: A Short Story

“Ciao, bellissima!” I say to my wife, Cara. I take my forefinger and brush the hair, more salt than pepper, out of her face and kiss her. 

She is as beautiful today, as she was thirty-nine years ago at our wedding. Her hair had been dark brown then, but had begun its transition around the time of our silver anniversary.

She returns to the dinner she has begun cooking as I head out the door. I walk down the front stairs and to the wrought iron gate in front of the house. I look back up at the house that we bought twenty years ago. It hadn’t been much of anything when we bought it, but Cara and I have put time and love into it. We have made it into a home together.

I continue down the uneven street made of mismatched granite pieces, which look like giant cobblestone. I pass in front of my shop, a small gelateria, as I enter the square and see my church looming. San Giovanni Battista e Lorenzo has been my parish since I was born sixty-three years ago. It is such a magnificent building outside and in. Right now it casts a shadow over the square.

I walk up the steps and a blonde woman is holding her son. She looks to be about thirty-five. She has very delicate features, and looks very peaceful holding her son, who resembles her in coloring only. I smile at her and she returns the sentiment. Her hazel eyes look back at me, and I think she looks angelic, dressed in her nice white church clothes. I pass her and enter the church.

The church is dark except for little wisps of light flickering from the candles. The stained-glass windows reflect the miniature flames, most visibly in the first station of the cross. As I walk up the aisle, I see a boy that I would guess is eleven, dressed in a shirt and tie, making his way towards the entrance. He must be heading towards the woman out front.

I genuflect and slide into the second pew from the front. I make the sign of the cross and kneel. “Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name…” I keep my eyes closed, “…and lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.” Once more I make the sign of the cross, rise to a half standing position, and lift the kneeler back into its place. I slowly and quietly walk to the confessional at the right of the altar. I close the door behind me as I enter.

“Father forgive me for I have sinned, it has been nearly forty years since my last confession.” I stop for a moment. I know that this number is probably coming as a shock to Father Bianchi, the young priest who hasn’t even been alive that long. “I attend church every week, and I have my whole life, but confession seemed too much. I didn’t know if I was able to say aloud what I have done. I didn’t know if I could be granted absolution. I didn’t know if I deserved forgiveness.” I close my eyes, I know that through the shroud he can’t see me, but he must recognize my voice and he, being human, must be judging me.

“What has given you the courage today, my son?” he asks with what sounds like genuine concern, to my relief.

“I must. It isn’t a matter of courage, just a matter of finally needing that forgiveness. Needing the burden lifted.”

“What are your sins?” His voice sounds kind, and nonjudgmental.

“I have been unfaithful to my wife, who has stood by me for the past four decades. She raised my children, she loved and cared for me.” There is so little light in the confessional that I can’t see much anyway, but the little slivers of light now look like twinkling stars through the tears forming in my eyes. “It began when I was a young man just opening my shop. My wife and I had only been married a couple of months, and she wasn’t even with child yet.”

“Adreana had come into my shop to help me in the afternoons. She was a little bit younger than me, and needed a job when she was off from school. I would work making sure that the different tubs were filled and she would scoop gelato for the children. Adreana was beautiful and had in her pale blue eyes such kindness. When the kids weren’t coming in to buy gelato, she would often read while I worked. I didn’t mind, I knew that she was a student, and was trying to be scholarly. Often I would be mopping or neatening up the buckets and I would find myself staring. I loved my wife but there was something about this girl that had me enchanted. She would often come to work with a skirt on, and while her skirts always fell at least to the knee, I would find myself looking at her legs.”

“One afternoon after we closed the shop, we had made such good money that I had given her a little more than usual—it was nearly Christmas and I wanted for her to get a bonus. While I was cleaning up, she turned on the radio, and a beautiful slow song came on. It was beautiful and mesmerizing, much like her. I looked up with a soft smile and she was dancing while she swept. Her long silken brown hair flowed gently over her shoulders.”

“‘Dance with me, Giuseppe!’ she demanded as she caught my gaze. I walked over, embarrassed that I had been caught. She propped the broom up next to the counter, and we danced for the rest of the song. My hand was on the small of her back, and my other held hers. I was so nervous that both hands would have been sweating, had I not been handling the cold carts of gelato a moment earlier. The feel of her hand in mine was soft, but she held my hand firmly. She stared back into my eyes and it was as though the world had stopped. She had such an innocence in her smile, and I knew that part of me was in love with her.”