Love & Gelato Read online

  I looked out over the cemetery and sighed. It’s not like I needed any more reminders that things had changed.

  Chapter 4

  AS SOON AS I GOT inside I headed straight for the kitchen. I had a feeling that if asked, Howard would give the standard mi casa, su casa speech—probably with Italian pronunciation—so I skipped the asking and went straight to raiding the fridge.

  The top two shelves of the refrigerator were packed with things like olives and gourmet mustards—stuff that makes food taste good, but isn’t actually food—so I rifled through the drawers, finally coming up with a carton of what looked like coconut yogurt and a thick loaf of bread. I was pretty much devastated to not find any lasagna leftovers.

  After devouring half the bread and practically licking the bottom of the yogurt carton (hands down the best yogurt I’ve ever had), I looked through the cupboards until I found a box of granola that said CIOCCOLATO. Jackpot. Chocolate spoke to me in any language.

  I ate a huge bowl of the granola, then cleaned the kitchen like a crime scene. Now what? Well, if I were still in Seattle I would probably be getting ready to go to the pool with Addie or maybe pulling my bike out of the garage and demanding we go get one of those triple chocolate shakes I pretty much lived on. But here? I didn’t even have the Internet.

  “Shower,” I said aloud. Something to do. And besides, I really needed one.

  I went upstairs and grabbed the stack of towels from my bedroom, then went into the bathroom. It was incredibly clean, like maybe Howard scrubbed it every week with bleach. Maybe that was the reason he and my mom hadn’t worked out. She’d been unbelievably messy. Like once I’d found a Tupperware of pasta on her desk that had been sitting so long it had turned blue. Blue.

  I pulled back the shower curtain but had no idea what to do next. The showerhead was tiny and flimsy-looking and underneath it were two nozzles that read C and F.

  “Cold and frigid? Chilly and frosty?”

  I turned on the F and let it run for a few seconds, but when I put my hand under the stream it was still ice-cold. Okay. So maybe C?

  Exact same results, maybe half a degree warmer. I groaned. Were freezing showers part of what Howard had meant when he’d said Italy wasn’t on the cutting edge of technology? And what choice did I have? I’d traveled for a full day and then done one of the hardest speed workouts of my life. I had to shower.

  “When in Rome.” I gritted my teeth and jumped in. “Cold! Cold! Ahh!”

  I grabbed a bottle of something off the edge of the tub and rubbed it over my hair and body, rinsing and jumping out of there as fast as I could. Then I grabbed the entire stack of towels and started wrapping myself up like a mummy.

  There was a knock on the door and I froze. Again. “Who is it?”

  “It’s me, Sonia. Are you . . . all right in there?”

  I grimaced. “Um, yeah. Just having some water issues. Does this place not have hot water?”

  “We do, it just takes a while. At my house I sometimes have to let the water run for a good ten minutes before its ready. C stands for ‘caldo.’ It means ‘hot.’ ”

  I shook my head. “Good to know.”

  “Listen, I’m sorry to bother you again, but I just wanted to tell you that I left the journal on your bed.”

  I froze. The journal ? Wait, I’d probably just misheard her. Maybe she’d said “the gerbil.” A gerbil would be a totally thoughtful gift. And if I were giving someone a gerbil I would definitely put it—

  “Lina . . . did you hear me? I brought you a journal that—”

  “Just a minute,” I said loudly. Okay, she’d definitely said “journal.” But that didn’t mean it was any journal in particular. People gave each other journals all the time. I quickly dried off and got dressed. When I opened the door Sonia was standing in the hallway holding a potted plant.

  “You got me a new journal?” I asked hopefully.

  “Well, an old one. It’s a notebook that belonged to your mother.”

  I slumped against the doorway. “You mean like a big leather one with lots of writing and photographs?”

  “Yes. That’s exactly what it’s like.” Her forehead scrunched up. “Is it something you’ve already looked at?”

  I ignored her question. “I thought you were just going to give me one of her photographs or something.”

  “I actually do have a photograph of hers, but it’s hanging on the wall in my guest bedroom and I don’t have any plans to part with it. It’s a close-up of the Wall of the Missing. Quite a beautiful shot. You should come see it sometime.”

  Apparently the Wall of the Missing was a big deal around here. “Why do you have one of her journals?”

  My voice came out kind of bad-cop-sounding, but she just bobbed her head. “She sent it to the cemetery back in September. There wasn’t a note, and the package wasn’t addressed to anyone, but when I opened it I recognized it right away. When she was living at the cemetery she carried that journal around everywhere.”

  Living at the cemetery?

  “Anyway, I thought about giving it to your dad, but your mom had always been kind of a taboo subject. Whenever I brought her up, he got . . .”

  “What?”

  She sighed. “It was hard on him when she moved out. Really hard. And even after all these years, I was nervous about bringing her up. Anyway, I stalled for a couple of days, and then your dad told me about the plan for you to come stay here. That’s when I realized why she’d sent the journal.”

  She gave me a funny look and suddenly I realized that I’d been slowly gravitating toward her. We were only like five inches apart. Oops. I sprang back, and questions started flying out of my mouth.

  “My mom lived at the cemetery? For how long?”

  “Not very long. Maybe a month or so? It was right after your dad got the job. He’d just barely moved into this house.”

  “So they were like, together together? It wasn’t like a one-night stand between friends or something?” That was Addie’s theory.

  Sonia cringed. “Uh . . . no. I don’t think it was . . . that. They seemed very in love. Your dad adored her.”

  “So then why did she leave? Was it because she was pregnant? Howard wasn’t ready to be a dad?”

  “No. Howard would have been a great dad—I thought . . .” She put her hands up. “Wait a minute. Haven’t they talked to you about what happened? Your mom didn’t explain things?”

  I dropped my head. “I don’t know anything. I didn’t even know Howard was my dad until after my mom died.” Great. Now I was going to cry. Losing my mom had turned me into a human faucet. The regular hot/cold kind.

  “Oh, Lina. I didn’t know. I’m so sorry. I assumed they’d talked to you about what happened. To be honest, I don’t even really know what went wrong. It seemed like their relationship ended pretty suddenly, and then your dad never wanted to discuss it.”

  “Did he ever talk about me? Before now?”

  She shook her head, her long dangly earrings swinging back and forth. “No. I was pretty surprised when I heard about you coming to live here. But you really need to talk to Howard. I’m sure he’ll answer all of your questions. And maybe the journal will too.” She held the flower pot out to me. “I went into town early this morning and your dad asked me to pick these up for you. He said your room was missing flowers and that violets were your mother’s favorite.”

  I took them from her and studied them suspiciously. The flowers were deep purple and had a subtle scent. I was ninety-nine percent sure my mom hadn’t had any special feelings for violets.

  “Would you rather I keep the journal for a while? It sounds like it’s a lot to process. Maybe you should spend some time talking to your dad first.”

  I shook my head. Slowly at first, and then more forcefully. “No, I want it.”

  Technically a lie. I’d packed up the rest of her journals several months earlier when I’d finally given up on the idea that I’d ever be able to read them without falling ap
art. But I had to read this one. She’d sent it to me.

  I blinked a couple of times, then put on my best I’m in control now smile for Sonia, who was looking at me with the expression of a hapless bystander trapped in a hallway by an emotionally unstable teenager. Which she was.

  I cleared my throat. “It’ll be nice. I can read about what she did while she was in Italy.”

  Her expression softened. “Yes, exactly. I’m sure that’s why she sent it. You’ll be experiencing Florence just like she did, and maybe it will be a nice connection.”

  “Yeah, maybe.”

  If I could make it past the first page without falling apart.

  “Lina, it really is great having you here. And stop by anytime to see that photograph of your mother’s.” She walked to the top of the stairs and then looked back. “I meant to tell you, it’s best to water violets from the bottom. Just fill up a saucer and set the whole pot in there. That way you won’t overwater. They could probably use a drink right away.”

  “Thanks, Sonia. And I’m, uh . . . sorry for all those questions.”

  “I understand. And I really liked your mother. She was pretty special.”

  “Yeah. She was.” I hesitated. “Would you mind not mentioning this conversation to Howard? I don’t want him to think I’m . . . uh . . . mad at him or something.” Or instigate any awkward conversations that aren’t strictly necessary.

  She nodded. “My lips are sealed. Just promise me you’ll talk to him. He’s a great guy, and I’m sure he’ll answer any questions you have.”

  “Okay.” I looked away and there were a long few seconds of silence.

  “Have a nice day, Lina.”

  She went down the stairs and out the front door, but I just stood there staring at my bedroom door. It was practically glowing with urgency. Cue panic.

  It’s just one of her journals. You can do this. You can do this. I finally started making my way down the hall, but at the last minute veered toward the stairs, the violets teetering dangerously.

  I had some seriously thirsty violets on my hands. Sonia had said so. I’d just take care of that first. I plummeted down the stairs, then looked through the cupboards twice before finding a shallow dish big enough for the flower pot.

  “Here you go, buddy.” I filled the dish with an inch of tap water (F) and set the pot inside. My violets didn’t seem particularly interested in having company, but I sat down at the kitchen table and watched them anyway.

  I wasn’t stalling. Really.

  Chapter 5

  JOURNALING WAS KIND OF MY mom’s thing. Well, a lot of things were kind of her thing. She also liked hot yoga and food trucks and really terrible reality TV shows, and once she’d gotten really into the idea of homemade beauty products and we’d basically spent a month with coconut oil and mashed avocado all over our faces.

  But journaling . . . that was a constant. A couple of times a year she’d splurge on one of these thick artists’ notebooks from our favorite bookstore in downtown Seattle, and then she’d spend months filling it with her life: photographs, diary entries, grocery lists, ideas for photo shoots, old ketchup packets . . . anything you could think of.

  And here was the strange part: She let other people read them. And even stranger? People loved to. Maybe because they were creative and hilarious and after you read one you felt like you’d just taken a trip through Wonderland or something.

  I walked into my bedroom and stood at the foot of my bed. Sonia had left the journal right in the center of my pillow, like maybe she was worried I wouldn’t notice it otherwise, and it was weighing down the bed like a pile of bricks.

  “Ready?” I said aloud. I was definitely not ready, but I walked over and picked it up anyway. The cover was made of soft leather and had a big gold fleur-de-lis in its center. It didn’t look anything like her journals back home.

  I took a deep breath, then cracked open the cover, half expecting confetti to come shooting out at me, but all that happened was a bunch of brochures and ticket stubs fell out onto the floor and I got a whiff of something musty. I picked up all the papers, then started flipping through the pages, ignoring the writing and focusing on the photographs.

  There was my mother standing in front of an old church with her camera slung over her shoulder. And there she was grinning over a gigantic bowl of pasta. And then . . . Howard. I practically dropped the book. Okay, of course he was in her journal. It’s not like I’d appeared out of thin air, but still. My mind totally resisted the idea of the two of them together.

  I studied the picture. Yep, it was definitely him. Younger, longer-haired (and was that a tattoo on his upper arm?), but definitely Howard. He and my mom were sitting on stone steps and she had short hair and Old Hollywood lipstick and this I’ve been swept off my feet kind of look.

  I sat down on my bed with a thud. Why hadn’t she just told me her and Howard’s story herself? Did she think that her journal would do a better job? Was she worried I wasn’t ready to hear their story?

  I hesitated for a moment, then shoved the journal in the drawer of my nightstand and shut it with a loud slam. Well, I wasn’t ready.

  Not yet.

  A car alarm burst into full vibrato somewhere in the cemetery and the sound rained down on my head like a thousand tiny Glorias. This headache brought to you by Jet Lag & Stress. Thanks, Italy.

  I rolled over and looked at the clock on the wall. Three p.m. Which left me with so much time to kill, it was ridiculous.

  I slowly got out of bed, then went over to my suitcase and made a halfhearted attempt at organizing my things—shirts in the right-hand corner, pants in the left, pajamas over there. . . . I’d done a horrible job packing, and it was all basically a jumble. Finally I settled on putting a couple of pictures of my mom and me into my room’s empty frames, then laced up my shoes and headed for the front porch.

  I didn’t have a plan of where to go, so I just sat on the porch swing and rocked for a while. I had a good view of the memorial. It was a long, low building with a stretch of engravings that I would bet money went by the name of Wall of the Missing. Out in front of it was a tall post with a statue of an angel holding an armful of olive branches. Two men stood taking pictures in front of it, and one of them noticed me and waved.

  I waved back but jumped up and headed for the back fence. I really didn’t have it in me to handle another Jorgansen situation.

  The back gate was easy to find, and as I headed out I realized that Sonia hadn’t been kidding—the hill behind the cemetery was steep. For the second time that day, sweat dripped down my back, but I forced myself to keep running. I will conquer you, hill. Finally I reached the top, my legs and lungs on fire. I was just about to keel over when a thud-thud noise made my neck snap up. I wasn’t alone.

  There was a boy playing with a soccer ball. He was my age, maybe a little older, and he was at least three months overdue for a haircut. He wore shorts and a soccer jersey and was juggling the soccer ball back and forth from knee to knee, singing quietly in Italian to whatever was playing on his headphones. I hesitated. Could I sneak away without him noticing me? Maybe a tuck-and-roll-type escape?

  He looked up at me and we made eye contact. Great. Now I had to keep going or look like a weirdo. I nodded at him and walked quickly along the path, like I was late to a meeting or something. Totally natural. People were probably always hurrying off to important meetings on the top of Italian hills.

  He pulled off his headphones, his music blaring. “Hey, are you lost? The Bella Vita hostel is just down the road.”

  I stopped. “You speak English.”

  “Just a little bit-a,” he said with an exaggerated Italian accent.

  “Are you American?”

  “Sort of.”

  I studied him. He sounded American, but he looked about as Italian as a plate of meatballs. Medium height, olive skin, and a distinct nose. What was he doing here? But then again, what was I doing here? For all I knew, the Tuscan countryside was crawling with dis
placed American teenagers.

  He crossed his arms and scowled. He was imitating me. Rude.

  I dropped my stance. “What do you mean by ‘sort of American’?”

  “My mom’s American, but I’ve lived here most of my life. Where are you from?”

  “Seattle. But I’m living here for the summer.”

  “Really? Where?”

  I pointed in the direction I’d come from.

  “The cemetery?”

  “Yeah. Howard—my dad—is the caretaker. I just got here.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Spooky.”

  “Not really. It’s more of a memorial. All the graves are from World War II, so it’s not like there are burials going on.” Why was I defending the cemetery? It was spooky.

  He nodded, then put his headphones back on.

  Guess that was my cue.

  “Great to meet you, mysterious Italian-American. Guess I’ll see you around.”

  “I’m Lorenzo.”

  I blushed. Apparently Lorenzo had sonic hearing. “Nice to meet you, Lo-ren—” I tried to repeat his name but got stuck on the second syllable. He’d made this rolling sound with the R that my tongue refused to do.

  “Sorry, I can’t say it right.”

  “That’s okay. I go by ‘Ren’ anyway.” He grinned. “Or ‘mysterious Italian-American,’ that works too.”

  Argh. “Sorry about that.”

  “What about you? Do you go by ‘Carolina,’ or do you have a nickname too?”

  For a second I felt like I was in a dream. A weird one. No one but my mother or teachers on the first day of school ever called me by my full name. “How do you know my name?” I said slowly. Who was this guy?

  “I go to AISF. Your dad came in to ask about enrollment. Word spread.”

  “What’s AISF?”