Love & Gelato Page 16

  Chapter 16

  “I NEED YOUR HELP.” I’D woken that morning with a brilliant idea, and even though I’d waited until a socially acceptable hour, I’d still had to practically drag Ren out of his bed. Now we were sitting on his front porch and he looked only about thirty percent awake.

  “Couldn’t it have waited?” He was wearing black sweatpants and a faded T-shirt and, like usual, had to keep shaking his hair out of his face. It was probably just the morning light, but he looked cute. Like way cuter than someone with bed head should.

  He caught me staring. “What?”

  I quickly looked away. “Nothing. I just need your help with one last thing.”

  “Listen, you know I’m all about this Howard-Hadley mystery. But can’t I take a nap first?”

  “No! Ren, why are you so tired?”

  “I was on the phone with Mimi until like three.”

  The sun was suddenly way too bright. “Was she really mad about what I said last night?”

  “Yeah. It was pretty ugly.” He sighed. “But let’s not talk about that. What do you need help with?”

  “Could you give me a ride to FAAF?”

  “Your mom’s school?”

  “Yes. I called them this morning. They moved to a new location a few years ago, but I want to go and see if I can get any info on Francesca.”

  “Fashion police Francesca?”

  “I think she’s my best bet for tracking down X. Turns out she knew about him all along.”

  “Whoa, slow down. We’re tracking down X? Why?”

  “Because my mom had this whole life I didn’t know about, and I want to know what was so great about X that she couldn’t get over him and had to break Howard’s heart.”

  “But wait. That’s still just a theory, right? What if that isn’t the reason she left Italy?”

  I groaned. “Ren, come on. Don’t you want to know who the mysterious X is? He was so awful when he broke up with her. It totally destroyed her. I just want to know what the big deal was. I think it will help me understand it all better.”

  “Hmm.” He yawned and dropped his head onto my shoulder.

  “So will you help me?”

  “Of course I will. When do you want to go?”

  “As soon as possible.” His skin was warm and he had that puppy-dog sleeping boy-smell.

  “You smell good,” he said, echoing my thoughts.

  “No, I don’t. I ran six miles this morning and haven’t showered yet.”

  “You still smell good.”

  Apparently that tiny little butterfly was alive and well. And it was definitely making the rounds. I quickly moved away.

  Don’t. Think. About. Ren.

  I ran hard back to the cemetery. I had enough to think about without complicating things with some stupid crush on one of the best friends I’d ever had. Also, he was dating a Swedish supermodel. With anger issues. And let’s not forget that I’d just given my number to the best-looking guy I’d ever met.

  When I got to the house my heart practically fell out of my chest. Howard was sitting on the porch swing with a cup of coffee, looking like such a nice guy. It was cosmically unfair that the whole “Love Stinks” cycle had left him alone in a cemetery with his terrible muffins and old music. It made me want to buy him balloons or something.

  “Good morning, Lina.”

  “Morning.”

  He gave me a funny look. Probably because I was looking at him like he was an injured baby duck.

  “I was just at Ren’s,” I offered.

  “Do you two have any plans today?”

  “Yeah, he’s coming to get me in a little bit.”

  “For what?”

  “Uh, I think we’re just going to get some lunch or something.” Should I invite him? Wait. We weren’t actually going to lunch.

  “Fun. Well, I was thinking that if you two are up for it, we could go to a movie tonight. One of the nearby towns has an outdoor theater that plays films in their original language, and this week they’re showing one of my favorites.”

  “That sounds great!” I cringed. All I needed were pom-poms and a megaphone. Tone it down. It’s not like his heart was broken recently.

  He squinted at me. “Glad you like the idea. I’ll ask Sonia, too.”

  “Sure.”

  I hurried into the house, and when I snuck a glance back at him, pity welled up in me so fast it almost overflowed from my eyeballs. He’d loved my mom. Was it too much to ask that she just love him back?

  “You said ‘Piazzale Michelangelo,’ right?” Ren yelled to me.

  “Right. They said park there and then head south.”

  “Okay, it’s just up ahead.”

  It had been a quick scooter ride and I’d been careful to sit an extra inch or two back so we weren’t brushing legs or anything. Or at least not that often.

  “Someone’s going to meet with us at FAAF, right?” he asked.

  “Right. I didn’t tell them why we’re coming in, but they said someone from admissions would be in the office.”

  He started following behind a line of tour buses, one of them so big it probably moonlighted as a cruise ship. Piazzale Michelangelo was a whirlpool of tourists. They all looked hell-bent on getting their money’s worth.

  “Why are so many people here?”

  “Best view in the city. As soon as this bus gets out of our way you’ll see it.” The bus slowed and Ren zipped around it and suddenly we had this big panoramic view of Florence including Ponte Vecchio, Palazzo Vecchio, and the Duomo. I mentally patted myself on the back. Five days in and I already recognized half the city.

  Ren veered off the road and pulled into a parking spot roughly the size of my suitcase. We squeezed our way out.

  “Where to?” he asked.

  I handed him the directions. “The woman at the school said it’s easy to find.”

  Famous last words. We spent the next thirty minutes wandering up and down the same streets, mostly because everyone we asked gave us entirely different sets of directions.

  “First rule of dealing with Italians,” Ren growled, “they love giving directions. Especially if they have no idea what they’re talking about.”

  I was noticing that Ren sort of had an I’m only Italian when I feel like it policy.

  “And they use lots of hand gestures,” I added. “I thought the last guy was directing a plane. Or maybe an orchestra.”

  “You know how to get an Italian to stop talking, right?”

  “How?”

  “Tie their arms down.”

  “This is it!” I stopped walking and Ren plowed into me. We’d passed by the building at least five times already, but this was the first time I’d noticed the miniscule gold sign above doorway. FAAF.

  “Did they think people would be reading their sign with binoculars?”

  “You’re grumpy.”

  “Sorry.”

  I hit the buzzer and there was a loud ringing noise followed by a woman’s voice.

  “Pronto?”

  Ren leaned in. “Buon giorno. Abbiamo un appuntamento.”

  “Prego. Terzo piano.” The door unlocked.

  Ren looked at me. “Third floor. Race you.”

  We simultaneously tried to shove each other out of the way, then went pounding up the stairs, bursting into a large, well-lit reception area. A woman wearing a tight lavender dress startled and stood up from behind her desk. “Buon giorno.”

  “Buon giorno,” I answered back.

  She glanced at my sneakers and switched to English. “Did you call about meeting with our admissions officer?”

  “I beat you,” Ren said quietly.

  “No, you didn’t.” I caught my breath and took a step forward. “Hi. Yes, I did call. But I was actually hoping to ask you about one of your past students.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “My mom was a student here about seventeen years ago and I’m trying to track down one of her old classmates.”

  She raise
d her eyebrows. “Well, I certainly can’t give out any personal information.”

  “I just need to know her last name.”

  “And like I said, I really can’t help you.”

  Argh.

  “What about Signore Petrucione? Could he help us?” Ren asked.

  “Signore Petrucione?” She folded her arms. “Do you know him?”

  I nodded. “He was the director when my mom was attending.”

  She stared at us for a moment, then turned and skulked out of the room.

  “Wow. She was a real ray of sunshine,” Ren said. “Think she’s coming back?”

  “I hope so.”

  A moment later the woman walked back into the room, followed by an energetic-looking old man with wiry white hair. He was dressed stylishly in a suit and tie, and when he saw me, he did a double take. “Non è possibile!”

  I glanced at Ren. “Um, hi. Are you Signore Petrucione?”

  He blinked. “Yes. And you are . . .”

  “Lina. My mom was a student here and—”

  “You’re Hadley’s daughter.”

  “. . . Yes.”

  “I thought I was seeing things.” He crossed the room, extending his hand. “What a surprise. Violetta, do you know who this girl’s mother is?”

  “Who?” She looked determined to be unimpressed.

  “Hadley Emerson.”

  Her mouth dropped open. “Oh.”

  “Lina, come with me.” He glanced at Ren. “And bring your friend.”

  Ren and I followed Petrucione down a hallway into a small office cluttered with photographs. He sat down, then gestured for us to do the same. I had to move a box of negatives off of my chair.

  “Lina, I was so sorry to hear about your mother. It was so tragic. And not just because of her contributions to the art world. She was a wonderful person, too.”

  I nodded. “Thank you.”

  “Who is this?” He gestured to Ren.

  “This is my friend Lorenzo.”

  “Nice to meet you, Lorenzo.”

  “You too.”

  Petrucione leaned forward, resting his elbows on his desk. “How lovely that you’re here visiting Florence. And what a delight that you stopped at FAAF. Violetta said something about you asking for information about your mother’s classmates?”

  I took a deep breath. “Yes. Well, I’ve been trying to learn a little bit about my mom’s time at school, and I was hoping to get in touch with one of her old friends.”

  “Absolutely. Which one?”

  “Her name is Francesca. She was studying fashi—”

  “Francesca Bernardi. She’s another one who made quite a name for herself. Had a spread in Vogue Italia last spring.” He tapped his head with two fingers. “I never forget a name. Let me have Violetta check our alumni records. I’ll be right back.” He got up and rushed out of the office, leaving the door cracked a few inches.

  “How old is that guy?” Ren whispered. “Didn’t your mom say he was like two hundred years old? And that was back then.”

  “Yeah, she did. So I guess that makes him two hundred and seventeen?”

  “At least. And he’s superenergetic. He’d better slow down on the espressos.”

  “Should I ask him about X? They kept it a secret from the school, but I could ask if they had anyone quit their job partway through my mom’s second semester.”

  “Yeah, do it.”

  I glanced over at the wall and my eye snagged on a photograph of an old woman looking directly into the camera. I stood up and walked over to it. “My mom took this.”

  “Really? How do you know?”

  “I just do.”

  Petrucione bounded back into the room. “Ah, I see you found your mother’s photograph.”

  “I can usually recognize her work.” By the way it made my heart hurt.

  “Well, it’s certainly unique. She had a real gift for portraits.” He handed me a piece of paper, and we both sat back down. “I’ve written down Francesca’s full name and included the number to her company. I’m sure she’ll be very happy to talk to you.”

  “Thank you; this is really helpful.”

  “You’re so very welcome.” He beamed at me.

  I’d thought I’d just get the info and get out, but suddenly I didn’t want to leave. “What was my mom like? When she was here?”

  Petrucione smiled. “Like an exclamation mark in human form. I’d never seen anyone so excited to be doing what they were doing. This school is very selective, but even so we’ll occasionally have a floater slip through—that’s what we call students who are kind of lukewarm but have enough natural talent to get accepted. Your mother wasn’t like that. She was full of talent—drenched in it, really—but that’s only one part of the equation. You have to be talented and driven. I think she could have been successful by her drive alone.” He smiled. “All of the students liked her. I remember her being very popular. And once she played a joke on me. She took this very abstract photograph of a section of Ponte Vecchio and turned it in as an assignment. I’d seen enough photographs of Ponte Vecchio to last me a lifetime by then, and I’d warned the class that if anyone dared to use that bridge as their inspiration I’d fail them on the spot. But she did it, and of course I loved the photograph, and only afterward she told me what it was. . . .” He chuckled, shaking his head.

  A warm, gooey feeling bubbled up inside of me. I loved it when people who really knew my mom talked about her. It was like holding her hand for one tiny second.

  Ren met my gaze. X, he mouthed.

  “Oh.” I took a deep breath. “Mr. Petrucione? I have one more question.”

  “Prego.”

  “My mom mentioned that there was a . . . male faculty member or teacher or something who resigned partway through her second semester. Do you know who that could be?”

  The room’s happy vibe evaporated with a poof. Petrucione suddenly looked disgusted, like someone had just offered him a plate of dog poop or something.

  “No. I don’t.”

  Ren and I exchanged a look. “Are you sure?”

  “Positive.”

  I shifted in my seat. “Okay. Well, he might not have been around for long. I think he ended up taking another job in Rome and—”

  He stood, raising his arm to cut me off. “I’m sorry, but we’ve had a lot of faculty come and go. I don’t remember.” He nodded at us. “It was such a pleasure to meet you. If you’re ever in town again, please stop by and say hello.” His voice was still kind, but final. Definitely final.

  He wasn’t going to talk about X.

  “Thanks for your help,” I said after a moment, getting to my feet.

  As Ren and I passed by Violetta’s desk, she jumped up and gave us a smile as wide as the Arno. “It was such an honor meeting you, and I’m so happy we could help. Have a wonderful day.”

  “. . . Thanks.”

  As soon as the glass door sealed shut behind us, Ren raised an eyebrow. “What was that about?”

  Chapter 17

  “PETRUCIONE DEFINITELY KNEW WHO WE were talking about. Did you see that look he got on his face?”

  Ren nodded. “Yeah, couldn’t miss it. And he’d said like five seconds before that he doesn’t forget people’s names. He just didn’t want to tell us.”

  “Hopefully we’ll have more luck with Francesca.” I dialed her number, then pressed the phone to my ear. “It’s ringing.”

  “Pronto?” It was a man.

  “Um, Francesca Bernardi?”

  He answered in rapid Italian. “Um, Francesca?” I said again.

  He tsk-tsked. Then the phone started ringing again and a woman picked up. “Pronto?” Her voice was low and smoky.

  “Hello, Francesca?”

  “Si?”

  “My name is Carolina. You don’t know me, but you knew my mom. Hadley Emerson?”

  Silence. I made a face at Ren.

  “What?” he whispered.

  “Carolina,” she said slowly. “What a
surprise. Yes. I knew your mother. She was a dear friend.”

  My heart sped up. “I’m just trying to learn a little bit more about her . . . studies in Florence. You were her roommate, right?”

  “Yes. And a messier woman never lived! I thought I was going to be buried alive in her rubble.”

  “Yeah . . . that was always kind of an issue. Could you maybe answer some questions for me about her life in Florence?”

  “I’m sure I could, but why are you asking me? Hadley and I haven’t been in touch in ages.”

  “Well . . .” I hesitated. I never knew how to break the news to people. It was like opening a dam. You never knew what they were going to hit you with. “She died. A little over six months ago.”

  Francesca gasped sharply. “Non ci posso credere. How?”

  “Pancreatic cancer. It was pretty sudden.”

  “Oh, my poor dear. Era troppo giovane, veramente. I would be happy to talk about your mother. After she finished her program she dropped off the side of the world. None of us were able to get in touch with her.”

  “Do you . . . ?” I grimaced. “This will sound weird. But do you remember if she was dating anyone?”

  “Oh, the love life of Hadley Emerson. It was like a romance novel. Your mother was in love, yes, and I think half of Firenze was in love with her. I always knew who was right for her—we all did—but then there was that Matteo causing a mess and ruining things.”

  “Matteo?” I croaked. I hadn’t even had to push; she’d just dropped his name into my lap.

  Ren looked up sharply.

  “Yes. Our professor.”

  “Professor,” I whispered to Ren. Well, that cleared up the whole secrecy thing.

  “. . . He had her very confused, and I was so angry that she’d hurt our friend. . . .” She trailed off. “I feel like I’m telling old secrets.”

  “What’s Matteo’s last name?”

  She paused. “I believe it was Rossi. Yes, that sounds right. But I shouldn’t even mention him. That man was a waste of time for everyone, especially your mother.” She sighed. “We all wanted to save her from him. He was charming. Very handsome. But controlling. He thought he could find talent and take it on as his own. It was quite the scandal when he was fired.”