Love & Gelato Read online

  May 31

  This morning I showed Petrucione some of the photos I’ve taken at the cemetery. There’s one spot in the northwest corner that gives a perfect view of the grounds, and I’ve been taking pictures there at different times of day. It’s amazing to see the change in light and color as the day progresses.

  I guess it makes sense, but living in a cemetery has me thinking often about death. There’s an order here that doesn’t exist in real life, and I find it strangely comforting. Maybe that’s the beauty of death. Nothing is messy anymore. Everything is sealed up and final.

  Sealed up and final.

  “Ugh,” I said aloud. She was so wrong about that. How could anything be final when you left people behind and didn’t even tell them your secrets?

  “What’s up?” Ren asked. “Anything new?”

  “She moved in with Howard at the cemetery. But they’re just friends. She had to have been pregnant by then.” I shook my head. “Matteo has to be the one.”

  “Can I catch up?”

  I handed him the journal, then leaned back, watching the scenery fly past our window. We were driving through a postcard of green countryside and rolling hills, and it was so pretty and picturesque I wanted to scream.

  Why had she told me this way?

  Chapter 19

  BY THE TIME THE TRAIN came to a stop I had enough adrenaline running through me to power a small island. Not that any of the other passengers cared. They were taking their sweet time gathering up their magazines and laptops, and I stood blocked in the aisle, jiggling nervously.

  Ren nudged me with his shoulder. “You sure you want to do this?”

  “I have to.”

  He nodded. “When we get out let’s head straight for the curb. If we beat the rush we can get a cab and be there in like ten minutes.”

  Ten minutes.

  Finally the line started moving and Ren and I hurried off the train. The station had a high ceiling and was even more crowded than the one in Florence.

  “Which way?” I asked.

  He turned around in a circle. “I think . . . that way. Yeah.”

  “You up for running again?”

  “Let’s do it.”

  He grabbed my hand and we sprinted toward the exit, dodging people like they were pitfalls in a video game. Ten minutes. Ten minutes. My life was about to change. Again. What happened to normal, boring days?

  There were a bunch of cabs waiting out on the street next to the taxi stand, and Ren and I jumped into the first one available. Our cabdriver had a thick mustache and a cologne problem.

  Ren read him the address.

  “Dieci minuti,” the cabdriver answered.

  “Ten minutes,” Ren translated.

  Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. He was still holding my hand.

  Word to the wise. Unless you have no choice—like maybe you’re being chased by a pack of rabid spider monkeys, or you’ve run away to a foreign city to track down your mysterious father—never, ever get into a cab in Rome. Ever.

  “Ren, I think this guy is going to kill us,” I whispered.

  “Why? Because we almost just got into our second head-on collision? Or because he keeps trying to pick fights with other drivers?”

  “Dove hai imparato a guidare?” our driver yelled at another driver. He leaned out the window and made a gesture that I’d never seen but definitely got the gist of.

  “I think my life is flashing before my eyes,” I said.

  “How is it?”

  “Exciting.”

  “Mine too. Although I have to admit, it got way more exciting five days ago when you ran up to me on the hill.”

  “I didn’t run up to you. I was actually trying to avoid you.”

  “Really? Why?”

  “I thought it would be awkward. And then it was.”

  He grinned. “And look at us now. Spending our last few minutes on earth together.”

  The driver swerved over to a curb, then threw the car into park before coming to a complete stop. Ren and I flew into the seats in front of us.

  “Ow!” I rubbed my face. “Do I have a nose anymore?”

  “A flat one,” said Ren. He was crunched up on the floor like a balled-up piece of paper.

  “Siamo arrivati,” the cabdriver said pleasantly. He glanced at us in the rearview mirror, then pointed to his meter. “Diciassette euro.”

  I dug some money out of my purse and passed it forward, and then we climbed out onto the sidewalk. The second I closed the door, the cab screeched back into traffic, causing about four other cars to slam on their brakes and contribute to what was basically a grand orchestra of honking.

  “That guy shouldn’t be allowed to drive.”

  “Pretty standard. He’s actually one of the better cabdrivers I’ve had. Look, there’s the gallery.”

  I whirled around. We were standing in front of a gray stone building with gold lettering on the door:

  ROSSI GALLERIA E SCUOLA DI FOTOGRAFIA

  ROSSI GALLERY AND PHOTOGRAPHY SCHOOL

  Rossi. Lina Rossi. Was that actually my name? Crap. It had an Italian R. I wouldn’t even be able to pronounce it.

  “Come on.” Before my nerves could get the better of me, I marched over to the door and pressed the buzzer.

  “Prego,” a man’s voice said through the speaker. Matteo? The door unlocked with a loud click.

  I looked at Ren. “You ready?”

  “Who cares about me? Are you ready?”

  “No.”

  Before I could think, I shoved the door open, launching myself into a large, circular-shaped foyer. The room was made of shiny tile, and there was a huge light fixture with about ten different pendant lights jutting out of it like jellyfish tentacles. A blond man wearing a dress shirt and tie sat behind a curved silver desk. He was young and American-looking. Definitely not Matteo.

  “Buon giorno. English?” he said in a bored voice.

  “Yes.” My voice echoed.

  “I’m afraid you’ve missed the class. It started more than a half hour ago.”

  Ren stepped up next to me. “We’re not here for the class. I called a couple of hours ago about meeting with Matteo? My name is Lorenzo.”

  “Lorenzo Ferrara?” He studied us for a moment. “I guess I didn’t realize that you were quite so young. Unfortunately, Mr. Rossi is upstairs teaching a class. His class times vary, and I can’t promise that he’ll have the time to meet with you afterward.”

  “We’ll wait anyway,” I said quickly. Mr. Rossi. For all I knew he was standing right above me.

  “And what is your name?” the man asked me.

  “Lina . . .” I hesitated. Would Matteo recognize my last name? “My name is Lina Emerson.”

  Ren shot me a look, but I just shrugged. The point was to tell Matteo who I was, right?

  “Very well. I can’t make any promises, but I’ll let him know you’re here.”

  His phone rang with a loud brrrrnng, and he snatched it from the desk. “Buon giorno. Rossi Galleria e Scuola di Fotografia. Good morning, Rossi Gallery and Photography School.”

  “Let’s look around,” I said to Ren. I was crazy jittery. Maybe a tour of the gallery would keep my mind off of what was about to happen.

  “Sure.”

  We walked under an arched doorway into the first room. The room was made of exposed brick, and all four walls were covered with framed photographs. A large one caught my eye and I walked over to it. It was a shot of an old graffiti-covered building in a big city, like New York City or somewhere, and one wall read, TIME DOESN’T EXIST, CLOCKS EXIST. There was a big looping handwritten signature in the bottom right corner: M. ROSSI.

  “That’s pretty cool,” Ren said.

  “Yeah, my mom would have loved his style.” Correction. She had loved his style. My sweat glands immediately went into overdrive.

  Ren wandered ahead a few feet, and I headed in the other direction. Most of the photographs were by Matteo, and they were really good. Like really g
ood.

  “Lina? Could you come here for a second?” Ren’s voice was purposely calm, like when you need to tell someone they have a massive spider on their back but don’t want them to freak out.

  “What?” I hurried over to him. “What is it?”

  “Look.”

  It took me a second to realize what I was looking at, and then I practically jumped out of my skin. It was a photograph of me. Or at least, the back of me, and I even remembered when my mom had taken it. I was five years old and I’d piled up a stack of books so I could watch out the window for our neighbor’s pony-size dog, with whom I’d had an intense love/fear relationship. I was wearing my favorite dress. I looked at the tag. Carolina, by Hadley Emerson.

  “How did he get this?” Suddenly I felt light-headed. “He knows about me. This isn’t going to be a surprise.”

  “Are you sure you want to stay?”

  “I don’t know. Do you think he’s been waiting for me to show up?”

  “Excuse me.” It was the man from the foyer. He was looking at us like he thought we might try to shove one of Matteo’s massive photographs into my purse. “Do you two have any questions?”

  About a million. “Um, yeah. . . .” I gave the room a desperate glance. “Are all of these . . . for sale?”

  “Not all of them. Some are part of Mr. Rossi’s private collection.”

  “Does he have anything else by Hadley Emerson?” I pointed to the photograph.

  “Hmm.” He walked over and took a look at Carolina. “I can check, but I believe this is the only one. Are you familiar with Hadley Emerson’s work?”

  “Uh, yeah. Sort of.”

  “Let me check our system and I’ll let you know.”

  He walked out of the room and Ren raised his eyebrows. “Not exactly the most observant, is he?”

  “What am I going to say to Matteo? Do I just tell him straight out who I am?”

  “Maybe you should wait to see if he recognizes you.”

  A door opened overhead and suddenly there was a thundering of voices and footsteps. Class was out. My breathing went into overdrive. This was a mistake. It was too fast. What if he didn’t want to be a part of my life? What if he did? Would he be as awful as the guy in my mom’s journal?

  I grabbed Ren’s arm. “I changed my mind. I don’t want to meet him. You’re right. We should talk to Howard first. At least I know my mom trusted him.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yes. Let’s get out of here.”

  We raced out of the room. About a dozen people were making their way into the foyer, but we quickly skirted around them, and I reached for the doorknob.

  “You two. Wait there!”

  Ren and I froze. Oh, no. Part of me wanted to walk right out onto the street, but another even bigger part wanted to turn around. So I did. Slowly.

  A middle-aged man stood at the top of the staircase. He wore an expensive-looking shirt and slacks, and was shorter than I’d thought, with a carefully groomed beard and mustache. His dark eyes were fixed on me.

  “Come on, Lina, let’s go,” Ren said.

  “Carolina? Please come up to my office.”

  “We don’t have to go,” Ren said quietly. “We can just walk out of here. Right now.”

  My heart was pounding in my ears. Not only had he called me “Carolina,” but he’d pronounced it right. I grabbed Ren’s hand. “Please come with me.”

  He nodded. Then we slowly made our way toward the staircase.

  Chapter 20

  “PLEASE, HAVE A SEAT.” MATTEO’S voice was polished, with only a hint of an accent. He walked behind a half-moon desk and gestured to two chairs that looked exactly like hard-boiled eggs. Actually, come to think of it, everything in his office looked like something else. A large clock shaped like a cog ticked noisily in the corner, and the rug looked like it was supposed to be a map of the human genome or something. The whole room had this overly colorful modern vibe that didn’t seem to mesh with the man standing in front of us.

  I lowered myself uneasily into one of the hard-boiled eggs.

  “What can I do for you?”

  Okay. Just tell him? How do I start?

  “I—” I made the mistake of glancing at Ren, and suddenly my throat sealed up like a Ziploc bag. He gave me a worried look.

  Matteo cocked his head. “You two speak English, correct? Benjamin told me you wanted to meet me. I’m assuming you have questions about my programs?”

  Ren cast a glance at my frozen expression, then jumped in. “Uh . . . yes. Questions about your programs. Um, do you have any classes for beginners?”

  “Of course. I teach several entry-level courses throughout the year. The next one begins in September, but I believe it is already full. All of that information is available on my website.” He leaned back. “Would you like to be put on the waiting list?”

  “Yeah, that sounds good.”

  “All right. Benjamin can help you with that.”

  Matteo slid his eyes at me, and suddenly I could feel every nerve ending. Was he pretending not to know, or did he not see it? I felt like I was standing in front of a mirror. An older, male mirror, but a mirror just the same. His eyes lingered on my hair for a moment.

  “Can you recommend a good camera for a beginner?” Ren asked.

  “Yes. I prefer Nikons. There are several good camera shops in Rome, and I’d be happy to give you the owners’ contact information.”

  “Nice.”

  Matteo nodded and there was a long silence.

  Ren cleared his throat. “So . . . those must be pretty pricey.”

  “There’s a range of prices.” He crossed his arms and glanced at the cog clock. “Now if you’ll excuse me . . .”

  “Do you collect a lot of photographs from other photographers?” I blurted out. Both of them looked at me.

  “Not many. But I travel a lot, and I make it a point to visit studios and galleries everywhere I go. If I find something especially moving, I buy it and display it in my gallery, along with mine and my students’ work.”

  “What about the Hadley Emerson photograph? Where did you buy that?”

  “That one was a gift.”

  “From who?”

  “Hadley.” He looked straight into my eyes. Like a challenge.

  All of the air whooshed out of me.

  He pushed back from his desk. “Lorenzo, why don’t we go to the reception area and ask Benjamin about placing you on the waiting list. Carolina, before you leave I’d be happy to show you the other Emerson photograph I have in my possession.”

  I rose clumsily from my chair and Ren grabbed my arm. “Why isn’t he recognizing you?” he whispered.

  “He is. He knew my real name and he’s saying it right.” No one ever said my name right. Unless they’d heard it before.

  We followed him down the stairs, my heart pounding in my throat, and Matteo stopped at the desk. “Benjamin, will you please assist Lorenzo in being added to the wait list for the next beginners’ course?”

  “Of course.”

  “Carolina, the photograph is in the next room. Lorenzo, we’ll meet you back here.”

  We looked at each other. Okay? he mouthed.

  Okay.

  Okay, okay, okay.

  “Right this way.” Matteo walked briskly into the next room and I followed after him, my mind scrambling like a bad TV connection. What was happening? Did he just want to talk in private?

  He walked up to the far wall, then pointed to a photograph of a young woman, her face half in shadow. Definitely my mom’s.

  “You see?”

  “Yes.” I took a deep breath, keeping my eyes focused on the photograph for courage. “Matteo, I’m here because I’m—”

  “I know who you are.”

  My head snapped up. He was looking at me like something that had attached itself to the bottom of his shoe. “You’re your mother in a pair of skinny jeans and Converse sneakers. The real question is, what are you doing here?”


  “What am I . . . doing here?” I took a step back, fumbling to pull the journal out of my purse. “I read about you in my mom’s journal.”

  “So?”

  “She was . . . in love with you.”

  He laughed bitterly. “In love. She was a stupid child, in love with her instructor. She’d had no exposure to life outside of that small town she came from, and when she got here she thought her life would be transformed into some sort of fairy tale. But regardless of what her fantasies were, I was her teacher, nothing more. And whatever ideas you have in your mind, you’d better erase them immediately, Carolina.” He spat out my name like a rotten piece of fruit.

  Heat spread through my body. “It wasn’t nothing. You dated. You kept it a secret from everyone and then you broke up with her when she went to visit you in Rome.”

  He shook his head slowly. “No. Those are lies. She spun an elaborate fantasy about us being in a relationship and then went so far as to believe it herself.” His lips curled in an ugly smile. “Your mother was unbalanced. A liar.”

  “No, she wasn’t.” My voice echoed through the room. “She wasn’t delusional. She didn’t make up your relationship.”

  “Oh, really.” His voice rose. “Ask anyone who was there. Did any of them ever see us together? Have you ever spoken with anyone who confirmed her story?”

  “Francesca Bernardi.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Francesca. She was your mother’s best friend. Of course she believed her. But did she ever actually see us together? Did she have anything more to go on than your mother’s ridiculous fairy tale?”

  Did she? A merry-go-round of thoughts started whirling through my head. Francesca had sounded sure. . . .

  “I didn’t think so. But since you’ve made the effort of coming here, I’ll tell you exactly what happened. Your mother was struggling with her course work and asked if I would tutor her outside of school. At first I was happy to help, but then she started calling me at strange hours. During class she would stare at me, then leave things on my desk for me to find. Sometimes it was lines of poetry; other times it was photographs of herself.” He shook his head. “At first I thought it was just a crush, harmless. But then she became more intense. One night she came to my apartment and told me she’d fallen in love with me. She said her life would have no meaning if we weren’t together. I tried to be kind. I told her that as her teacher a relationship simply would not be allowed. I told her she’d be happier dating people closer to her own age. Like that Howard Mercer.”