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“Why didn’t you just tell the truth?” I ask. “You were with the wrong person. That’s no crime.”

“The truth has no place in matters of love.”

“Non è vero,” I tell Beppe.

“È vero.Truth is truth.” Beppe looks at me. “I am not a good husband. Boyfriend. None of it. I am in love with gold. She is my lover. I explained this to your father, and he didn’t disagree. So we went for dinner and drank wine and became friends. Now I have two problems. I am friends with your father and enemies with his wife. And then your father went to heaven, and I only have oneproblem. Your mother. Now you know everything about me. I want to know about you, Giuseppinabella.” Beppe pinches my cheek.

“I came here to see what you do.” I sit on the work stool and look at him. “Not to get pinched.”

Beppe sighs. “Work. Work. Work. What I do is simple. But only if you have done it for forty-eight years.”

Beppe lifts a small square of marble off the pile. It is carved with cherubs and rosebuds in relief. In its raw state, it is a lovely block of Carrara blue. “I show you.”

Beppe opens a sleeve of gold leaf sheets. He picks up a knife and, using the same motion one might when slicing a very thin piece of cheese, lifts the gold off the sheet and applies it to the carving, the stem of one rose. He taps the knife and returns it to the table. He picks up a brush and caresses it against the gold and marble.

“Why didn’t you brush the bristle against your cheek?” I ask. “Like Angelo. You taught him, didn’t you?”

“I am a bad teacher!” Beppe throws his hands in the air. “It’s an old technique. Sometimes I use it, sometimes I don’t.”

“In America, we use a machine to gild stone.”

Beppe makes a face. “In America you eat out of Styrofoam. I don’t recommend that either. I have changed my technique over time. Maybe another artist chooses another way. We learn.” He shrugs.

“But I would hope we hold on to tradition,” I say.

Beppe shakes his finger at me. “Tradition can only exist in a state of change.”

Could that be true? I thought tradition and change had nothing to do with each other. Haven’t I learned that the tighter the grip I have on my life, the less I control it? It seems, from the old master himself, that change is the key to moving forward, not holding on to what once served me.

Beppe cannot be convinced to attend Midnight Mass with us; he says he would spontaneously combust and turn to ash if he entered a church. But he wished us abuon Natalebefore crossing the piazza to spend Christmas Eve with his new girlfriend. Lucrezia is forty-two and abombolona. His word.

Once Angelo and I are outside the shop, on our way to his car, he takes my hand.

When I came up this mountain with Angelo, I thought he was in a serious relationship, and now I know he’s not. This doesn’t change anything, I tell myself. I live in Carrara. Angelo lives in Milan. We are miles apart.

20

Midnight Mass in Vilminore

As Angelo drivesup the mountain on the Passo della Presolana through the Italian Alps, small stars sneak through the winter clouds, making pinpoints of silver light on the black velvet sky.

Angelo swerves off the road and enters Vilminore di Scalve, a village with narrow cobblestone streets that twist through rows of two-story houses built of cross timbers and stucco. The shutters on the windows are painted shades of caramel and licorice, draped in white Christmas lights that twinkle in the dark.

Angelo parks outside the Parrocchia Santa Maria Assunta e Santo Pietro Apostolo, a baroque cathedral. The stucco is painted a soft gold; in the dark, it looms against the black mountains like a fortress. The steep steps of the entrance are lit by squat candles, whose flames sway in the winter wind. I snap a photo of Angelo climbing the church steps; his wool scarf unfurls behind him in the wind. I post it quickly with the messageBuon Natale. I put my phone in my coat pocket before my mother can post her reaction.

Inside the cathedral, braided garlands of fresh fir are drapedalong the pews. The scents of frankincense, beeswax, and pine saturate the air. The inlaid marble floor is apietra duramasterpiece of carnelian, black, and turquoise stone. The side altars that line the outer aisles had been added over centuries by families of the village. These artful alcoves honor their patron saints. They are filled with statues carved of Calacatta marble.

The frescoes create a backdrop behind the main altar, depicting the life of Jesus. They are lit by crystal chandeliers that throw light on the mosaic of gold.

The main altar shimmers with the flames of candles set among branches of fresh pine. But tonight, it is the crèche that creates an intimacy in all the grandeur that surrounds it. A primitive, wooden stable filled with straw with characters depicting the Holy Family is set off to the side. A family welcomes a new baby. A simple idea that has inspired artists for centuries.

“It reminds me of home,” I whisper as Angelo guides us to our seats. We kneel. “One difference. I’m starving.” Evidently, no Feast of the Seven Fishes north of Rome.

Angelo smiles. “Tonight, we fast. Tomorrow, we have a banquet.”

Christmas Day in New Jersey was an open house. Cousins stopped in, Grandpop Cap was at one end of the dining room table, and Grandpa B on the other, equal in stature and power. The women worked in the kitchen, while their husbands tended the fires, smoked cigars, ate, and napped afterward. The roles were easily assigned, and no one questioned them.

Mom prepared a buffet with roast turkey, platters of salami, capicola and prosciutto (from Bilancia Meats, of course), focaccia, hot rolls, and salads. There were cookies for dessert; whatever we didn’t deliver up and down the street, we saved for Christmas Day. Mom made coffee in a silver urn that she received as a wedding gift. It was the only time of year she used it, because the brass spout wasdelicate and she wanted the urn to last her entire lifetime. My parents, for all their flaws, anchored us in the importance of making memories. I long for our traditions, but I hope to reinvent them too. If only it were as easy as the eraser I use when I draw. I take away what doesn’t work and draw what I believe might. Mistakes are part of the process, so we fix them and move on, if we can. What would Christmas be without regret?