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The Gregorian chants, written by monks many centuries ago, fill the breadth of the cathedral with rich harmonies. The voices of the choir soothe me as the candlelight throws beams of soft light on the marble altar. I rest my head on Angelo’s shoulder and close my eyes. He takes my hand. We listen.

As Angelo andI drive back down the mountain to Milan, I am reminded the Passo della Presolana is no New Jersey Turnpike. There are only a few safety reflectors posted on the curves to illuminate the roads that turn off into the villages buried in the folds of the mountain. If I’m honest, I miss the wide lanes, glittery exits, neon signs, and rumble strips of our American highways. This is Alpine reality; you have to have grown up in this terrain to navigate it. Angelo spent his summers with the Strazzas on the mountain and it shows.

The road requires all of Angelo’s attention, so I try not to talk. He navigates the stone overpass fenced in by low guardrails with confidence. The beam of the headlights illuminates the road ahead, a black patent leather ribbon that hugs the side of the mountain. I resume our conversation once we make it to Clusone, a hillside town with A-frame houses and a wide main street.

“I just had the best Christmas Eve of my life,” I tell him. “And I’ve never had a bad one.”

“Did you miss your American Christmas Eve?”

“I miss the people.”

“Tradition,” Angelo says. “A gift and a noose.”

“For the first time, I wasn’t standing over a hot stove making shrimp scampi or boiling lobster tails to make sauce. I had nothing to do but pay attention to the Mass and listen to the music. Maybe my Italian is improving. I don’t know. I am beginning to feel at home in Italy, and more Italian than I did before I got here.”

“I like your American ways,” Angelo says. “Don’t change too much.”

“When I was growing up, I always thought whatever the Italians did was better than the Italian Americans. Maybe that was Uncle Louie’s influence, or Grandma Cap’s, who told me how much better everything tasted on the Montini farm. Blueberries were better in Italy, even though New Jersey is famous for its blueberries. This great Italian yearning in me was placed there by my elders, who knew better about everything.”

“Is Italy your dream or theirs?”

“It’s mine.” I say this with confidence because I believe it. “Definitely.”

“And your ex-husband? Is he part of your future?”

“I don’t know.” How do I explain to Angelo what Bobby Bilancia meant to me? We were once family.

“You had feelings for him once, and you could have them again?”

“Uncle Louie used to say a relationship is like a crab on the beach; it will either go forward or backward but never sideways.”

“Or they stand still.”

“Bobby and I are sideways.”

“I broke up with Dalia because I have feelings for you.” Angelo doesn’t take his eyes off the road.

“Oh no.” My stomach drops.

“You don’t like me?” he teases.

“I’m here.”

He ponders this and asks, “Has your time in Italy made you happy?”

“In so many ways.” My heart goes to the moments that have given me peace of mind. The sound of the trains. Riding through the Italian hills on those trains. The scent of bread baking on the piazza in the morning. The polenta served hot and sliced on a board. The white marble face of the mountain in the moonlight. Smokey when she’s curled up asleep in her basket. I turn to Angelo. “I slept through the sunrise when I went through the worst, and it was a mistake. I couldn’t find peace in the dark. Then I moved to the piazza to wake up to the light.”

Angelo shakes his head. His eyes remain on the road. “I was not expecting you,” he says softly.

To beunexpected, in a life where I have tried so hard to meet every expectation of me, is a gift. I lean across the seat and kiss Angelo on the cheek, breathing in the sweet scent of orange and pine. Angelo Strazza smells like Christmas.

We don’t talk after I kiss him. There doesn’t seem to be anything left to say.

Milan in the early hours of Christmas Day is tranquil, except for the crunch of the wheels on the ice as Angelo parks the car. It was snowing and cold in the Valle di Scalve, Vilminore, and Città Alta, but the light dusting in Milan will be gone by morning. We left the holiday magic behind in the Italian Alps. To be fair, there is a white Christmas every year in Milan because it’s built of Carrara marble. I squeeze Angelo’s hand and thank him for taking me to the mountain. Angelo gets out of the car, comes around, and opens the door. He helps me out. I dust a few drops of water—melted snowflakes—from the shoulder of his overcoat.

Angelo takes my hand as we climb the stairs to the entrance of his building. I like the feeling of my hand in his; sometimes I think holding a man’s hand is more intimate than a kiss. He unlocks the door, and we go inside. We tiptoe into his dark apartment. His mother is asleep in his room; the door is ajar, and we can see her in the shadows, asleep under the coverlet in the moonlight through the window. I put my finger to my lips and tiptoe into the guest room. Angelo will sleep on the pull-out sofa in the living room. Before I close the door, I return to the living room. I hold him close. “Buon Natale.” I let him go.

“Maybe for you,” he says.