Love & Gelato

by Jenna Evans Welch

  And I had to live the whole rest of my life without her. I really did.

  Chapter 3

  “LOOK, THAT WINDOW’S OPEN. SOMEONE must be here.”

  The voice was practically in my ear and I sat bolt upright. Where was I? Oh. Right. In a cemetery. Only now it was saturated with sunlight, and my bedroom was 890 degrees. Give or take a hundred.

  “Wouldn’t you think they’d have signs telling you where to go?” It was a woman’s voice, her accent as tangy as barbeque sauce.

  A man answered. “Gloria, this looks like a private residence. I don’t think we should be poking around—”

  “Yoo-hoo! Hello? Anyone home?”

  I pushed off my covers and got out of bed, tripping over a smattering of decorative pillows. I was still fully dressed. I’d been so tired that pajamas hadn’t even crossed my mind.

  “Hell-ooo,” the woman trilled again. “Anyone there?”

  I gathered my hair into a bun so I wouldn’t scare anyone, then went over to the window to see two people who matched their voices exactly. The woman had fire-engine-red hair and wore high-waisted shorts, and the man wore a fishing hat and had a massive camera around his neck. They were even wearing fanny packs. I stifled a giggle. Addie and I had once won a costume contest dressed as Tacky Tourists. These two could have been our inspiration.

  “Hell-o,” Real-Life Tacky Tourist said slowly. She pointed at me. “Do you speak-a the English?”

  “I’m American too.”

  “Thank the heavens! We were just looking for Howard Mercer, the superintendent? Where can we find him?”

  “I don’t know. I’m . . . new here.” The view caught my eye and I looked up. The trees outside my window were a rich, velvety green and the sky was maybe bluer than I’d ever seen. But I was still in a cemetery. I repeat: Still. In. A. Cemetery.

  Tacky Tourist looked at the man, then back up at me, settling her weight into one hip like You can’t get rid of me that easily.

  “I’ll check to see if he’s in the house.”

  “Now you’re talking,” she said. “We’ll be around front.”

  I unzipped my suitcase and changed into a tank top and running shorts, then found my shoes and headed downstairs. The main floor was pretty small and, besides Howard’s bedroom, the only room I hadn’t seen yet was the study. I knocked just in case, then pushed my way inside. The walls were lined with framed Beatles albums and photographs, and I stopped to look at a picture of Howard and a few other people throwing buckets of water on a huge, gorgeous elephant. Howard was wearing cargo pants and a safari hat and looked like the star of some kind of adventure nature show. Howard Bathes Wild Animals. He obviously hadn’t spent the past sixteen years sitting around missing my mom and me.

  “Sorry, Tacky Tourists. No sign of Howard.” I headed for the front, all ready to tell The Tackys I couldn’t help them, but when I walked into the living room I jumped like I’d stepped on a live wire. The woman was not only waiting for me out front, but she’d pressed her face up against the window and was peering in at me like an enormous bug.

  Over here. Over here! she mouthed, pointing to the front door.

  “You’ve got to be joking me.” I put my hand to my chest. My heart was going like a million beats per minute. You’d think life in a cemetery would be a lot more . . . dead. Ba dum tss! My first official cemetery joke. And first official eye rolling at own cemetery joke.

  I pushed the door open and the woman trundled back a couple of inches.

  “Sorry, darling. Did I startle you? You looked like your eyes were going to bug out of your head.” She was wearing one of those stick-on name tags. HELLO, MY NAME IS GLORIA.

  “I didn’t expect you to be . . . looking in.” I shook my head. “I’m sorry, but Howard’s not here. He said something about having an office; maybe you could go look for him there?”

  Gloria nodded. “Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Well, here’s the problem, doll. We only have three hours before the tour bus comes back for us, and we want to be sure we see everything. I just don’t think we have the time to be traipsing all over looking for Mr. Mercer.”

  “Did you see the visitors’ center? There’s a woman who works there who might know where he is.”

  “I told you we should try that,” the man said. “This is a home.”

  “Which one’s the visitors’ center?” Gloria asked. “Was it that building near the entrance?”

  “I’m sorry, I really don’t know.” Probably because the night before I’d been way too panicked to notice anything but the army of headstones staring me down.

  She raised an eyebrow. “Well, I hate to inconvenience you, darlin’, but I’m sure you know this place better than a couple of tourists from Alabama.”

  “Actually, I don’t.”

  “What?”

  I sighed, casting one more hopeful glance back into the house, but it was as quiet as a tomb. (Ack! Second cemetery joke.) Guess I was going to have to jump headfirst into this whole living-in-a-memorial thing. I stepped out onto the porch and pulled the door shut behind me. “I don’t really know my way around, but I’ll try to help.”

  Gloria smiled beatifically. “Grah-zee-aye.”

  I walked down the stairs, the two of them following after me.

  “They sure do keep this place up nice,” Gloria observed. “Real nice.”

  She was right. The lawns were so green they looked spray-painted, and practically every corner had a grouping of Italian and American flags surrounded by patches of Wizard of Oz–worthy flowers. The headstones were white and sparkly and didn’t look nearly as creepy in the daylight. But don’t get me wrong. They were still creepy.

  “Let’s go this way.” I marched toward the road Howard and I had driven in on.

  Gloria nudged me with her elbow. “My husband and I met on a cruise.”

  Oh, no. Was she going to tell me their life story? I slid a quick glance at Gloria and she smiled engagingly. Of course she was.

  “He’d just lost his wife, Anna Maria. She was a nice lady, but real particular about how she kept house—one of those who puts plastic on all the furniture? Anyway, my husband, Clint, had passed a few years earlier, so that’s why we were both there on the singles cruise. They had great food—just mountains of shrimp and all the ice cream you could eat. You remember that shrimp, Hank?”

  Hank didn’t appear to be listening. I sped up and Gloria did too.

  “There were a bunch of horny old dogs on that boat, just nasty things, but lucky for me, Hank and I were assigned the same table for dinner. He proposed before the ship had even docked—that’s how sure he was. We got married just two months later. Of course, I’d already moved in, but we really rushed things because we didn’t want to be, you know . . .” She paused, looking at me meaningfully.

  “What?” I asked hesitantly.

  Her voice fell an octave. “Living in sin.”

  I looked desperately around the cemetery. I either needed to find Howard or someplace to vomit. Maybe both.

  “First order of business was ripping all the plastic off that furniture. A person’s got to live without their buttocks sticking to the darn sofa. Right, Hank?”

  He made a guttural noise.

  “This is sort of like a second honeymoon for us. I’ve wanted to visit Italy my whole life, and now here I am. You sure are a lucky duck, living here.”

  Quack, quack, I thought.

  The road curved and a small building appeared just ahead of us. It was right next to the main entrance and had a giant sign that said, VISITORS CHECK IN HERE. Easy to confuse with VISITORS, FIND THE NEAREST HOUSE AND THEN YELL THROUGH THE WINDOWS.

  “I think this is it,” I said.

  “Told you,” Hank said to Gloria, breaking his silence.

  “You didn’t tell me anything.” Gloria sniffed. “You just followed me around like a lost puppy dog.”

  I practically ran for the building’s entrance, but before I could reach for the handle, the door swung open and Howard
stepped out. He was wearing shorts and flip-flops, like he planned to catch a flight to Tahiti later.

  “Lina. I didn’t think you’d be awake yet.”

  “These two came looking for you at the house.”

  Gloria stepped forward. “Mr. Mercer? We’re the Jorgansens from Mobile, Alabama. You probably remember my e-mail? We’re the ones who wanted a private, special tour of the cemetery? You see, my husband, Hank, has a real love for World War II history. Tell them, Hank.”

  “A real love,” Hank said.

  Howard nodded thoughtfully, but the corners of his mouth twitched. “Well, there’s just the one tour, but I’m sure Sonia would be happy to take you. Why don’t you two head inside and she’ll get you started.”

  Gloria clapped her hands. “Mr. Mercer, I can hear you’re a Southerner yourself. Where are you from? Tennessee?”

  “South Carolina.”

  “That’s what I meant. South Carolina. And who is this lovely young woman who came to our aid? Your daughter?”

  He paused for a nanosecond. Just long enough for me to notice. “Yes. This is Lina.”

  And we just met last night.

  Gloria shook her head. “Glory be. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a daddy and his daughter look quite so different. But sometimes it’s like that. I got this red hair from my great-aunt on my mother’s side. Sometimes the genes just skip a few generations.”

  We both looked at her skeptically. There was absolutely no way Gloria’s red hair had come from anywhere but a box, but you had to admire her commitment.

  She squinted at me, then turned to Howard. “Is your wife Italian?” She pronounced it “Eye-Talian.”

  “Lina’s mother is American. She looks a lot like her.”

  I shot him a grateful look. Present tense keeps things a lot less complicated. But then I remembered his and Sonia’s conversation on the porch, and I turned away, sucking my grateful look right back into my eyeballs.

  Gloria put her hands on her hips. “Well, Lina, you just fit right in here, don’t you? Look at those dark eyes and all that gorgeous hair. I’ll bet everyone thinks you’re a local.”

  “I’m not a local. I’m just visiting.”

  Hank finally found his voice. “Gloria, let’s shake a leg. If we keep chatting like this, we’re going to miss the whole dang-blasted cemetery.”

  “All right, all right. No need for strong language. Come on, Hank.” She gave us a conspiratorial look, like her husband was a little brother we were all being forced to hang out with, and then she opened the door. “You two have a good day now. A-river-dur-chee!”

  “Wow,” Howard said when the door had closed behind them.

  “Yeah.” I folded my arms.

  “Sorry about that. People don’t usually go to the house. And they’re usually a little less . . .” He paused, like he thought he could come up with a polite word to describe the Jorgansens. Finally he just shook his head. “Looks like you’re headed out for a run.”

  I looked down at what I was wearing. It was such a habit to get dressed this way I hadn’t even thought about it. “I usually go first thing.”

  “Like I said, you’re welcome to run through the cemetery, but if you want to get out and explore, just head out those front gates. There’s only one road, so you shouldn’t get lost.”

  The visitors’ center door opened again and Gloria poked her head out. “Mr. Mercer? This woman in here says the tour only lasts thirty minutes. I specifically requested two hours or longer.”

  “I’ll be right in.” He glanced at me. “Enjoy your run.”

  As he walked away I impulsively stepped forward so I could see both our reflections in the glass door. Gloria may be ridiculous, but she hadn’t been afraid to point out the obvious. Howard was well over six feet tall with strawberry blond hair and blue eyes. I had dark features and had to buy all my clothes in the petites section. But sometimes genes just skip a few generations.

  Right?

  I jogged out the front gates of the cemetery and crossed through the visitors’ parking lot. Right or left? I guess it didn’t matter. I just needed to get away from the cemetery for a while. Left. No, right.

  The road that ran past the memorial was only two lanes, and I stuck to the strip of grass along the side, picking up my pace until I was almost at a sprint. I could usually outrun disturbing thoughts, but this one was pretty hard to shake. Why don’t I look anything like Howard?

  It was probably just one of those things—I mean, lots of people look nothing like their parents. Addie was the token blonde of her family, and there was this guy I’d grown up with who was taller than both his parents by the sixth grade. But still. Shouldn’t Howard and I look at least a little bit alike?

  I kept my eyes glued to the ground. You’ll adjust in no time. He’s really a nice man. That from my grandmother, who as far as I knew had never even met Howard. At least not in person.

  An enormous blue bus went whooshing past, sending a blast of hot air into my face, and when I looked up, I gasped. What the . . . ? Was I running through a scene from an Olive Garden menu? It was so idyllic. The road was lined with trees and curved gently past rustic-looking houses and buildings painted in soft, buttery colors. Patchwork hills stretched out into the distance and there were honest-to-goodness vineyards behind half the houses. So this was the Italy people were always talking about. No wonder people were always losing their minds over it.

  Another vehicle came roaring up behind me, honking loudly and jolting me from my Italian moment. I sprang away from the road and turned to look back. It was a small red car that looked like it was really, really trying to come across as more expensive than it was and as it neared me it slowed down. The driver and his passenger both had dark hair and were in their early twenties. When we made eye contact, the driver grinned and started honking again.

  “Calm down. It’s not like I’m in your way,” I said under my breath. The driver slammed on his brakes, like he’d somehow managed to hear me, then came to a stop right in the middle of the road. Another guy, maybe a year or two older, rolled down the window of the backseat, a big grin on his face.

  “Ciao, bella! Cosa fai stasera?”

  I shook my head and started running again, but the driver just pulled ahead a few yards, coming to a stop on my side of the road.

  Great. After four years of running I knew all about this breed of guy. I don’t know who told them that “out running alone” was code for “please pick me up,” but I’d learned that telling them you weren’t interested wasn’t enough. They just thought you were playing hard to get.

  I crossed to the other side of the road and turned toward the cemetery, taking a second to tighten my shoelaces. Then I inhaled deeply, hearing an imaginary starting pistol in my mind. Go!

  There was a shout of surprise from the car. “Dove vai?”

  I didn’t even look back. If properly motivated I could pretty much outrun anyone—even Italian men in cheap red cars. I’d scale a fence if I had to.

  By the time I got back to the cemetery the guys had passed me twice more and then given up, and I’m pretty sure even my eyelids were sweating. Howard and Sonia were standing with their backs to the gate, but they both turned quickly when they heard me. Probably because I sounded like an asthmatic werewolf.

  “You weren’t gone long. Are you okay?” Howard asked.

  “I . . . got . . . chased.”

  “By who?”

  “A car . . . full of guys.”

  “They were probably just smitten,” Sonia said.

  “Wait a minute. A car full of guys chased you? What did they look like?” His jaw tightened and he looked toward the road like he was considering charging out there with a baseball bat or something.

  It kind of made up for the She’s so quiet comment.

  I shook my head, finally catching my breath. “It wasn’t really a big deal. I’ll just stay inside the cemetery next time.”

  “Or you could run behind the cemetery,” Sonia
said. “There’s a gate that leads out behind the grounds. Those hills would probably give you a great workout, and it’s beautiful back there. And there’d be no cars to chase you.”

  Howard still had steam curling out of his nostrils, so I changed the subject. “Where are the Jorgansens?”

  Sonia grinned. “There was a bit of a . . . conflict. They opted for the self-guided tour.” She pointed across the cemetery to where Gloria was marching Hank past a row of headstones. “Your dad was just telling me he wants to take you into Florence for dinner tonight.”

  Howard nodded, his face finally decompressing. “I was thinking we could walk around the Duomo and then get some pizza.”

  Was I supposed to know what that was? I shifted from one foot to the other. If I said yes, I’d be agreeing to what was sure to be an awkward dinner alone with Howard. But if I said no, I’d probably be stuck here in the exact same scenario. At least this way I’d get to see the city. And the Duomo. Whatever that was. “All right.”

  “Great.” His voice was enthusiastic, like I’d just told him I really really wanted to go. “It will give us a chance to talk. About things.”

  I stiffened. Shouldn’t I be allowed some sort of grace period before I had to deal with whatever big explanation Howard had in store for me? Just being here was already putting me into overload.

  I turned to wipe the sweat off my forehead, hoping they wouldn’t see how upset I was. “I’m going back to the house.”

  I started to walk away, but Sonia hurried after me. “Would you mind stopping by my place on your way? I have something that belonged to your mother, and I’d really love to give it to you.”

  I stepped sideways, putting an extra six inches between us. “Sorry, but I really need to take a shower. Maybe some other time?”

  “Oh.”  The space between her eyebrows creased. “Sure. Just let me know when you have a minute. Actually, I could just—”

  “Thanks a lot. See you around.”

  I broke into a jog, Sonia’s gaze heavy on my back. I didn’t want to be rude, but I also really didn’t want whatever it was she had for me. People were always giving me things that belonged to my mother—especially photographs—and I never knew what to do with them. They were like souvenirs of my previous life.