Love & Gelato Page 6

  Odette waved her hand at me. “Well, we’re so glad to have you in town. I’m pretty sure Ren has been having the most boring summer of his life. I told him just this morning that he needs to get out more.”

  “Come on, Mom. It’s not like I just sit home all day.”

  “All I know is that once a certain ragazza went out of town, you suddenly had no interest in going out.”

  “I go out when I feel like it. Mimi has nothing to do with it.”

  “Who’s Mimi?” I asked.

  “His crush,” Odette said in a stage whisper.

  “Mooom,” Ren growled. “I’m not nine.”

  A phone started ringing, and Odette began pulling papers and art supplies off the table. “Where in the . . . ? Pronto?”

  A little girl appeared in the doorway wearing a pair of ruffled underpants and black dress shoes. “I pooped!”

  Odette gave her a double thumbs-up and then walked into the house, speaking on the phone in rapid Italian.

  Ren groaned. “Gabriella, that is so embarrassing. Get back in the bathroom. We have company here.”

  She ignored him, turning to me instead. “Tu chi sei?”

  “She doesn’t speak Italian,” Ren said. “She’s American.”

  “Anch’io! Are you Lorenzo’s girlfriend?” she asked.

  “No. I just met him when I was out for a walk. My name’s Lina.”

  She studied me for a minute. “You’re kind of like a principessa. Maybe like Rapunzel because of your crazy hairs.”

  “It’s hair, not hairs, Gabriella,” Ren said. “And it’s not nice to tell someone their hair is crazy.”

  “My hairs are crazy,” I confirmed.

  “Do you want to see my criceto?” Gabriella ran over and grabbed my hand. “Come now, principessa. You will really like him. His furs are so soft.”

  “Sure.”

  Ren put his hand on her shoulder. “Carolina, no. And, Gabriella, she doesn’t want to. She has to leave soon.”

  “I don’t mind. I like kids.”

  “No, seriously, trust me. Going into her room is like stepping into a time warp. Before you know it, you’ll have been playing Barbies for like five hours and you’ll be answering to Princess Sparkle.”

  “Non è vero, Lorenzo. You’re so mean!”

  Ren answered in Italian, and Gabriella gave me a betrayed look and then ran out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

  “What’s a criceto?”

  “In English . . . a hamster, I think? Little annoying animal, runs on a wheel?”

  “Yep. Hamster. She’s cute.”

  “Sometimes she’s cute. Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

  “No. But I used to babysit a lot for a family in my apartment building. They had triplet boys who were five.”

  “Whoa.”

  “Whenever their mom left, she’d say, Just keep them alive. Don’t worry about anything else.”

  “So you tied them up or something?”

  “No. The first time I babysat I wrestled them, and after that they loved me. Also, I always came over with my pockets full of fruit snacks.” At my mom’s funeral, one of the boys asked where I’d been and his brother said, Her mom is sleeping for a really long time. That’s why she can’t play with us anymore.

  My throat tightened at the memory. “I’d better get going. Howard might wonder where I am.”

  “Yeah, sure.” We walked back through the living room and Ren stopped at the front door.

  “Hey, do you want to go to a party with me tomorrow?”

  “Um . . .” I looked away, then quickly bent to tie my shoelace. It’s just a party. You know, the things normal teenagers go to? Losing my mom had somehow made social events feel like a quick jaunt up Mt. Everest. Also, I was doing an alarming amount of self-talk these days.

  “I’ll have to ask Howard,” I finally said, straightening back up.

  “Okay. I can pick you up on my scooter. Around eight?”

  “Maybe. I’ll call you if I can go.” I reached for the doorknob.

  “Wait. You need my number.” He grabbed a pen from a nearby table, then cupped my hand in his, writing his number quickly. His breath was warm, and when he finished, he held my hand for just a second longer.

  Oh.

  He looked up at me and smiled. “Ciao, Carolina. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Maybe.” I stepped out of the house and left without looking back. I was afraid he’d see the sparkly smile plastered across my face.

  Chapter 6

  THE WHOLE REN-HAND-HOLDING THING HAD launched a teeny butterfly in my stomach, but all it took was two minutes in the car with Howard for the butterfly to fall flat. It was just so awkward.

  Howard had these big comb marks in his freshly showered hair, and he’d changed into a pair of slacks and a nicer shirt. I’d missed the memo on dressing up and was still wearing my T-shirt and sneakers.

  “Ready?” he asked.

  “Ready.”

  “Well, then off to Florence. You’re going to love the city.” He popped a disc in his CD player (who was still using CDs?) and AC/DC’s “ You Shook Me All Night Long” filled the car. You know, the official soundtrack of Ignore How Uncomfortable Your First Father-Daughter Outing Is.

  According to Howard the city was only about seven miles away, but it took us like thirty minutes to get there. The road into town was packed with scooters and miniature cars and every building we passed looked old. Even with the weird atmosphere in the car, excitement started building up in me like steam in a pressure cooker. Maybe the circumstances weren’t ideal, but I was in Florence. How cool was that?

  When we got to the city Howard pulled down a narrow, one-way street, then pulled off the most impressive feat of parallel parking I’d ever witnessed. Like he would have made a great driver’s ed teacher, if he weren’t so into the whole cemetery thing.

  “Sorry about the long drive,” he said. “Traffic was bad tonight.”

  “Not your fault.” I practically had my nose pressed against the window. The street was made of gray crisscrossing square stones and there was a narrow sidewalk on either side. Tall pastel-colored buildings were smashed close together and all the windows had these adorable green shutters. A bike flew past on the sidewalk, practically clipping my side mirror.

  Howard looked at me. “Want to take the scenic route? See a little bit of the city?”

  “Yes!” I unclicked my seat belt and then jumped out onto the street. It was still hot out, and the city smelled slightly of warm garbage, but everything was so interesting-looking that it was completely okay. Howard started up the sidewalk and I trailed after him.

  It was like walking through a scene from an Italian movie. The street was lined with clothing stores and little coffee shops and restaurants, and people kept calling to one another from windows and cars. Halfway down the street a horn beeped politely and everyone cleared out of the street to make way for an entire family crowded onto a scooter. There was even a string of laundry hanging between two buildings, a billowy red housedress flapping right in the middle of it. Any second now a director was going to jump out and yell, Cut!

  “There it is.” We turned a corner and Howard pointed to a sliver of a tall building visible at the end of the street.

  “There’s what?”

  “That’s the Duomo. Florence’s cathedral.”

  Duomo. It was like the mother ship. Everyone was funneling into it and we had to slow down even more the closer we got. Finally we were in the middle of a large open space, and I was looking up at a gargantuan building half-lit by the setting sun.

  “Wow. That’s really . . .” Big? Beautiful? Impressive? It was all that and more. The cathedral was easily the size of several city blocks and the walls were patterned in detailed carvings of pink, green, and white marble. It was a hundred times prettier and more impressive and grander than any building I’d seen before. Also, I’d never used the word “grander” in my life. Nothing had ever required it b
efore.

  “It’s actually called the Cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore, but everyone just calls it the Duomo.”

  “Because of the domed roof?” One side of the building was capped with an enormous orange-red circular roof.

  “No, but nice catch. ‘Duomo’ means ‘cathedral,’ and the word just happens to sound like ‘dome’ in English, so a lot of people make that mistake. The cathedral took almost a hundred and fifty years to build, and that was the largest dome in the world until modern technology came around. As soon as I get a free afternoon, we’ll climb to the top.”

  “What’s that?” I pointed to a much smaller octagonal building across from the Duomo. It had tall gold doors with carvings on them, and a bunch of tourists were taking pictures in front of them.

  “The baptistery. Those doors are called the Gates of Paradise, and they’re one of the most famous works of art in the whole city. The artist’s name was Ghiberti, and they took him twenty-seven years to make. I’ll take you on a tour of that, too.” He pointed to a street just past the baptistery. “Restaurant is right over there.”

  I followed Howard across the big open space (piazza, he told me) and he held the restaurant’s door open for me. A man wearing a necktie tucked into his apron looked up from behind his stand and stood a little straighter. Howard was like two feet taller than him.

  “And tonight, how many?” he asked in a nasally voice.

  “Possiamo avere una tavolo per due?”

  The man nodded, then called to a passing server.

  “Buona sera,” the server said to us.

  “Buona sera. Possiamo stare seduti vicino alla cucina?”

  “Certo.”

  So . . . apparently my father spoke Italian. Fluently. He even rolled his Rs like Ren. I tried not to stare at him as we followed our server to our table. I literally knew nothing about him. It was so weird.

  “Can you guess why I like it here?” Howard asked as we settled into our seats.

  I looked around. The tables were covered in cheap paper cloths and there was an open kitchen with a wood-fire pizza oven blazing away. “She’s Got a Ticket to Ride” was playing in the background.

  He pointed up at the ceiling. “They play the Beatles all day every day, which means I get two of my favorite things together. Pizza and Paul McCartney.”

  “Oh, yeah. I noticed the framed Beatles records in your office.” I gulped. Now he was going to think I’d been snooping. Which technically I guess I had been.

  He just smiled. “My sister sent those as a gift a few years ago. She has two boys, ten and twelve. They live in Denver and they usually come out every other summer or so.”

  Did they know about me?

  Howard must have had a similar thought, because there was a moment of silence, and then we both suddenly got superinterested in our menus.

  “What do you want to order? I always get a prosciutto pizza, but everything here is good. We could get a few appetizers or—”

  “How about just a plain pizza. Cheese.” Simple and quick. I wanted to get back out in Florence. And keep this dinner as short as possible.

  “Then you should order the Margherita. It’s pretty basic. Just tomato sauce, mozzarella, and basil.”

  “That sounds good.”

  “You’re going to love the food here. Pizza here is in a whole different category from the stuff back home.”

  I set my menu down. “Why?”

  “It’s really thin and you get your own large pizza. And fresh mozzarella . . .” He sighed. “There’s nothing like it.”

  He honestly had a dreamy look in his eyes. Did my more-than-a-friend love for food come from him? I hesitated. I guess it would be a good idea to at least sort of get to know him. He was my father after all.

  “So . . . where’s ‘back home’?”

  “I grew up in a small town in South Carolina called Due West, if you can believe it. It’s about a hundred and fifty miles from Adrienne.”

  “Is Due West where you rearranged all the traffic barricades and caused a traffic jam?”

  He looked at me in surprise. “Your mom told you?”

  “Yeah. She told me lots of stories about you.”

  He chuckled. “There wasn’t a lot to do in Due West, and unfortunately, I made the whole town pay for it. What other stories did she tell you?”

  “She said you used to play hockey and that even though you’re pretty even-tempered, you used to get in fights on the ice.”

  “Proof.” He turned his head and ran his finger across a scar that disappeared under his jawline. “This was one of my last games. I couldn’t seem to keep it under control. What else?”

  “You guys went to Rome and the owner of a restaurant thought you were a famous basketball player and you guys got a free meal.”

  “I forgot about that! Best lamb I ever had. And all I had to do was take pictures with the kitchen staff.”

  Our server came over and took our order, then filled our glasses with fizzy water. I took a big swig and shuddered. Was it just me, or did carbonated water feel like liquid sparklers?

  Howard crossed his arms. “Forgive me for stating the obvious, but I can’t believe how much you look like Hadley. Did people tell you that all the time?”

  “Yeah. People sometimes thought we were sisters.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me. You even have her hands.” My elbows were resting on the table, one arm crossed over the other, and Howard suddenly jerked forward a couple of inches, like he’d gotten snagged on a fishing hook.

  He was staring at my ring.

  I shifted uncomfortably. “Um, are you okay?”

  “Her ring.” He reached out and almost touched it, his hand hovering an inch above mine. It was an antique, a slim gold band engraved with an intricate scrolling pattern. My mom had worn it until she’d gotten too thin to keep it on. I’d been wearing it ever since.

  “Did she tell you I gave her that?”

  “No.” I pulled my hand to my lap, my face heating up. Had she told me anything? “Was it like an engagement ring or something?”

  “No. Just a present.”

  There was another long silence, which I filled with unprecedented interest in the restaurant’s décor. There were signed photographs of what were probably very famous Italian celebrities hanging all around the restaurant, and several aprons had been tacked to the wall. “We All Live in a Yellow Submarine” was playing overhead. My cheeks were boiling like a pot of marinara sauce.

  Howard shook his head. “So do you have a boyfriend at home who is missing you?”

  “No.”

  “Good for you. Plenty of time to break hearts when you’re older.” He hesitated. “This morning I was thinking I should make a call to the international school to see if anyone in your grade is around for the summer. It might be a good way to see if you’re interested in going to the school.”

  I made a noncommittal sound, then took a special interest in a nearby photograph of a woman wearing a tiara and a thick sash. Miss Ravioli 2015?

  “I wanted to tell you, if you ever need someone to talk to here—someone other than me or Sonia, of course—I have a friend who lives in town. She’s a social worker and she speaks English really well. She told me she’d be happy to meet with you if you ever need, you know . . .”

  Great. Another counselor. The one I’d seen at home had pretty much just said mm-hmm, mm-hmm, over and over and asked me, How did that make you feel? until I thought my ears were going to melt. The answer was always “terrible.” I felt terrible without my mom. The counselor had told me that things would slowly start to feel better, but so far she was wrong.

  I started tearing up the edges of the paper tablecloth, keeping my eyes off the ring.

  “Are you feeling . . . comfortable here?”

  I hesitated. “Yeah.”

  “You know, if you need anything, you can always just ask.”

  “I’m fine.” My voice was gravelly, but Howard just nodded.

 
After what felt like ten hours, our server finally walked out and set two steaming pizzas in front of us. Each of them was the size of a large dinner plate, and they smelled unbelievable. I cut a piece and took a bite.

  All weirdness evaporated immediately. The power of pizza.

  “I think my mouth just exploded,” I said. Or at least that’s what I tried to say. It came out more like “mymogjesesieplod.”

  “What?” Howard looked up.

  I shoveled in another bite. “This. Is. The. Best.” He was right. This pizza belonged in a completely different universe from the stuff I was used to.

  “Told you, Lina. Italy is the perfect place for a hungry runner.” He smiled at me and we both ate ravenously, “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds” filling in for conversation.

  I had just taken an enormous bite when he said, “You’re probably wondering where I’ve been all this time.”

  I froze, a piece of crust in my hand. Is he asking what I think he is? This couldn’t be the big unveiling moment—you don’t go around telling your children why you weren’t around while stuffing your face with pizza.

  I snuck a glance up. He’d set his fork and knife down and was leaning forward, his mouth set in a serious line. Oh, no.

  I swallowed. “Um, no. I haven’t really wondered.” Lie with a capital L. I stuffed the piece of crust into my mouth but couldn’t taste it.

  “Did your mother tell you much about our relationship?”

  I shook my head. “No. Just, uh, funny stories.”

  “I see. Well, the truth is, I didn’t know about you.”

  Suddenly it seemed like the whole restaurant got quiet. Except for the Beatles. “The girl that’s driving me mad, is going awaaaayyyy . . . ,” they sang.

  I swallowed hard. I had never even considered that possibility. “Why?”

  “Things were . . . complicated between us.”

  Complicated. That was exactly what my mom had said.

  “She got in touch with me around the same time she started getting tested. She knew she was sick, just not with what, and I think she had a feeling. Anyway, I want you to know I would have been there. If I’d known. I just . . .” He rested his hand on the table, palm-side up. “I guess I just want a chance. I’m not expecting miracles. I know this is hard. Your grandmother told me you really didn’t want to come here, and I understand that. I just want you to know that I really appreciate having this chance to get to know you.”