“Fired?” So much for “creative space.”
“Yes. But that’s all old news.” Her voice lifted. “Do you know who would be a great person for you to talk to? Howard Mercer. He was another classmate of ours, and he works at a cemetery just outside of Florence. He and your mother were very close. Would you like his phone number?”
“No, that’s okay,” I said quickly. “So, Matteo Rossi. Any idea where he is these days?”
“None whatsoever. And I like it best that way. But how old are you, Lina? I have a daughter as well.”
“I’m sixteen.”
“Sixteen? Hadley was hardly old enough to have a daughter your age. So let’s see, that means you were born in . . .” She trailed off. “Aspetta. Sixteen years old?”
“Um, yes.”
Her voice sharpened. “Lina, are you calling because—”
“Got to go,” I said hastily. “Nice talking to you.” I quickly pressed END.
Ren was leaned up against me, his ear a couple of inches from the speaker. He stepped back. “What was that all about?”
“She was putting together who my dad is. Sounds like they might still be in touch, and I don’t want this to get back to Howard.”
“What did she say X’s name is?”
I smiled triumphantly. “Professor Matteo Rossi. We are so going to find him.”
Ren and I ran to the nearest Internet café, which apparently is a thing. I was expecting a bunch of trendy cappuccinos or at least a case full of those giant sugar-dusted muffins, but all the café consisted of was a bunch of ancient-looking desktop computers and a group of angry people waiting in line for a turn to delete their junk mail. It was crazy disappointing.
Ren shifted from one foot to the other. “Sure you don’t want to just go home and use my computer?”
“No. I want to find Matteo right away.” My phone chimed and I pulled it out of my purse.
Want to go to a party with me tomorrow night?
It’s for a girl who graduated last year. Band, bar, fireworks . . .
—Thomas
I braced myself for a stampede of stomach butterflies, but nothing happened. In fact, I think a tumbleweed might have blown by. I looked at Ren furtively. Lina, you’ve got to pull it together. Why did he look so good to me today? Was it just because he was the only person I knew who’d be willing to join me on a wild-goose chase for my mom’s ex-boyfriend?
“Who is it?” Ren asked.
“No one.”
“So, Lina . . .” His mouth drew down in a cute worried look. No, not cute. “Petrucione obviously didn’t want to talk about Matteo, and Francesca wasn’t a fan of him either. Do you really think it’s a good idea to track him down? What if he’s a jerk?”
“He was definitely a jerk. But yes, I want to meet him. He was a huge deal in her life, and she must have wanted me to know about him—otherwise, why would I have her journal? I just feel like finding him is a big part of figuring all this out.”
He nodded, still looking unconvinced. “Okay. But ‘Matteo Rossi’ is a pretty common name. It’s like looking for Steve Smith in the States.”
“We’ll find him,” I said confidently. “Think: We’ve already been pretty lucky today. Number one, we found the school—”
“That was a miracle.”
“. . . And number two, once we were in there, you thought to mention Petrucione. If you hadn’t, I think Violetta would have thrown us out on the street.” On the other side of the room a woman stood up from her computer. “Hey, look! I think one just opened up.”
I sprinted over to the computer, Ren at my heels, and we both squished into the chair.
“Want me to search sites in Italian?” he asked.
“Yes. Last we know he moved to Rome, so he’s probably still here.”
“What should I search for?”
I pulled the journal out of my purse and started flipping through it. “Matteo Rossi Fine Arts Academy of Florence? Matteo Rossi photographer Rome? Just mash up everything we know about him. ”
He typed it all in, then started scrolling down the screen, pausing every few seconds to read. I tried to read too, but none of my five Italian phrases made an appearance.
“Nothing. Nothing. Nothing . . . Something? What about this?”
“What?”
He clicked one of the search results. “Looks like an ad. In English.”
COMBINE YOUR LOVE OF TRAVEL WITH YOUR PASSION FOR PHOTOGRAPHY.
Join renowned photographer and gallery owner Matteo Rossi on a journey through Rome that will change the way you see the world. Offering several photography workshops throughout the year, Rossi will take your hobby to the next level.
“Ren, you found him! That’s got to be him.”
“Let’s look at his website.” He clicked on the link at the bottom of the ad and the website loaded piece by excruciatingly slow piece.
“Ugh. This is taking forever,” I groaned. It was like watching the ice age in slow motion.
“Pazienza,” Ren said.
Finally the website dragged itself onto the screen. It was monochromatic with a big gold banner at the top that read ITALY THROUGH THE LENS.
I grabbed the mouse from Ren, then scrolled down to read the huge amount of text on the site. Every paragraph was translated into both English and Italian, and it was pretty much all a bunch of mumbo jumbo about how unbearably happy and successful you’d be once you paid Matteo a bunch of money for the opportunity to sit at his feet. This guy was unbelievably annoying.
Ren pointed to a link at the bottom. “Bio page. Try that.”
I clicked. Then we waited. And waited. Another full ice age came and went. Finally a black-and-white headshot of Matteo loaded and I leaned in to take a look.
And that’s when I stopped breathing.
Chapter 18
THE ROOM SUDDENLY FELT EXACTLY like the wool sweaters that my great-aunt used to send me every Christmas. Hot. Itchy. Asphyxiating.
My hands were shaking, but I managed to click on the image to make it bigger. Olive skin. Dark eyes. Hair that had been cut short and then gelled within an inch of its life, because otherwise he was going to have to spend half his day trying to keep it under control.
I would know.
“Oh my gosh. Ohmigoshomigoshomigosh. I think I’m going to throw up.” I started to stand up, but the room whirled around and Ren grabbed me and pulled me back into the chair.
“Lina, it’s okay. Everything’s okay.” His voice sounded like it was coming from underwater. “This is probably just a coincidence. I mean, you look a lot like your mom, too. Everyone says so.”
“Ren, she never said that he was my father.”
“What?”
I spun around. “My mom never said that Howard was my father. All along she talked about him like he was just her best friend.”
His eyes widened. “Davvero? So why did you think he was?”
“Because of my grandma. She said that Howard’s my father, and my mom never told me that because she wanted me to give him a chance without being mad at him.” I put my hand to my heart—it was trying to knock down my ribs. “Obviously I don’t look anything like Howard, and Ren, look.” We both looked at the screen again.
“There’s got to be some kind of explanation. Maybe . . .” He trailed off.
There was absolutely no room for “maybe.”
“And ever since I got here people have been telling me I look Italian. You said so when we met on the hill. Oh my gosh. I’m Italian. I’m Italian!”
“Half-Italian. And, Lina, calm down. Being Italian isn’t the end of—”
“Ren, do you think he knows? Do you think Howard knows?”
He hesitated, looking at the picture again. “I don’t know. He has to, right?”
“Then why is he going around introducing me to people as his daughter? Oh, no.” I doubled over. “The night we went to Elena’s he had people over and I overheard one of them ask if I was ‘the photographer’s daughte
r’ and he said yes. He didn’t say I was his, too.”
“But he told me he’s your dad. That first time we talked. And Sonia says he is too, right?”
“So either they’re all lying or they believe it.” I put my head in my hands. “Ren, what if only my mom knew? What if that’s the reason she sent the journal? So that I would know the truth even if no one else did?”
Ren grimaced. “Would she do that? That seems pretty . . .”
Mean? Insensitive? Pick one.
I shook my head. “I don’t know anymore. Ever since I started reading the journal I’ve been wondering if I even really knew her.” I looked at the screen again. “Just last night I was thinking that she and Howard had to get together really soon, because my birthday is in January. But I guess there’s no rush. She must have already been pregnant when she moved in with him.”
“So now what?”
I took a deep breath. “We have to call Matteo. I have to go meet him.”
“Whoa, Lina, that sounds like a bad idea. Why don’t we go talk to Howard first? Or at least finish the journal.”
“Ren, please! I think it’s what my mom wanted me to do. And I can’t face Howard like this. I can’t. Is that Matteo’s number at the bottom?” I grabbed my phone and tried to dial it, but my hands were shaking too badly.
“I’ll do it.” He took the phone from me. “Should I just call the number to his gallery?”
“Yes. See when it’s open. And where it is. How will we get there? Can we drive your scooter to Rome?”
“No, we’ll take a train. They run all day.” He leaned forward, the phone pressed to his ear. It was ringing.
Ren drove as fast as he could all the way to the train station, me clinging to him like a lunatic monkey. We’d looked up the train schedule online and had found an express train leaving in twenty-six minutes. We’d made it there in twenty-four.
“We made it. We made it,” I panted.
Ren collapsed into an empty seat. “I’ve . . . never . . . run . . . that fast.”
I pressed my fingers into my ribs. I had a horrible side ache. “What . . . were the chances . . . that a train . . . was running right now?”
He took a second to catch his breath. “They go all day, but this is one of the fast ones. And we need fast. Because if my parents find out I’m taking you to Rome to meet some random guy, they’ll kill me. And Howard will drop me in a boiling vat of oil.”
“Matteo isn’t some random guy. And Howard . . .” I groaned. “This is so awful. He’s already had his heart broken by my mom, and now he’s going to find out he doesn’t have a daughter, either.”
Just then the intercom came on at an earsplitting decibel, and we both clamped our hands over our ears as a man made a long announcement in Italian. Finally the announcement stopped, then there was a screeching sound, and the train slowly began to move out of the station. This is happening. This is really happening.
“You have the journal, right?” Ren asked.
“Right.” I pulled it out of my purse. “I’m going to read the whole way. How long until we get there?”
“Ninety minutes. Read fast.” He propped his feet up on the seat across from us, then leaned back, shutting his eyes.
“Ren?”
He opened his eyes. “Yeah?”
“I promise I’m normally boring.”
“I doubt that.”
MAY 9
The semester is wrapping up. Simone and Alessio finished early. They managed to get jobs working together at a museum in Naples, and we’re all just relieved they won’t have to split up. Who would they fight with? Adrienne finished early too, but she left without saying good-bye.
Now that our group has dwindled to just the three of us, Francesca, Howard, and I spend so much time together that we joke that Howard should just save money and move in with us. Classes are done, but we technically have a couple of weeks before we have to turn in our final projects, and I’ve already started assisting Petrucione.
I feel like I’ve come to the end of an era. The past year has held some of my best moments but also some of my worst. I haven’t heard a single word from X since that day in the train station, and now that the sharp edges of that day have dulled, I keep asking myself the same question: How could our relationship have meant so much to me and so little to him?
May 12
For the past few weekends Howard and I have been renting a car and dragging Francesca on outings to Tuscan hill towns. We have very specific roles: Howard drives and DJs, I read aloud from a travel book, and Francesca sits in the back and complains. We have so much fun, and I’m so glad to have them for a distraction. Sometimes I even forget about X for a while.
MAY 13
Francesca was just offered a position as an assistant to a prominent fashion photographer in Rome. If she takes it (and she will) she’ll start in less than a month. Howard has been interviewing for jobs too. He told me he’ll do whatever it takes to stay in Italy. Janitor with a PhD in art history, anyone? We’ve always been kindred spirits about Florence. While the rest of our friends sat around complaining about the city’s tourists and how expensive everything is, we were the ones pointing out stained glass windows and trying every strange flavor of gelato we came across.
I hate to admit it, but even though I still love Florence with my whole heart, it has become a sad place to me as well. Everywhere I go I see places I went with X, and it’s like I can hear echoes of our conversations. I spend hours wondering why our breakup was so sudden. Did the school find out? Did he meet someone else? But it’s useless to think about. I could wonder forever.
MAY 14
Only about a week left on my project. Petrucione has recommended a few art schools for portrait photography, and he said that if I can round out my portfolio I’ll have my pick of any program I want. Trying to feel as enthusiastic as I should about it. Part of me is ready for the next phase, and part of me wishes I could just stay in this city forever.
MAY 15
Howard must be sick of me blowing him off to work on my portfolio, because he blindsided me on my way out of the studio and told me he was taking me to see the Florence American Cemetery and Memorial. He’s been working there as a volunteer for the past few months (add WWII history to his long list of interests) and was recently approached about applying for the position of live-in superintendent. The current superintendent had a stroke earlier this month, and they’re scrambling to find someone to replace him. I can’t imagine a more perfect person for the job—or a more perfect place for Howard. He said it’s a long shot and tried to act nonchalant about it, but I could tell how badly he wants the job.
MAY 18
What is wrong with me?? One day I feel like I’m moving along just fine, and other days I’m so weepy and emotional I may as well be standing in that train station in Rome. I stay up late working most nights, but even if I don’t I still can’t sleep. Every time I close my eyes I just think about X. I know I should be getting over him by now, but I just wish we could have one more conversation. In a moment of weakness I tried his phone number, but it had been disconnected. I know it was for the better, but I was still so disappointed.
MAY 20
Howard was offered the job! Francesca and I took him out to his favorite pizza place to celebrate, and when we got back to our apartment, Francesca scurried up the stairs, leaving Howard and me standing outside. I was about to say good night, but he started hemming and hawing and then out of nowhere invited me to stay with him at the cemetery for the rest of the summer. He made it sound so easy: Finish up your grad school applications. Stay in my spare bedroom. Spend a little more time in Florence. What an offer! I said yes before he even finished asking.
MAY 22
Today was my last official day as a student at FAAF. I’m planning to take the weekend off. Then I’ll start assisting Petrucione on Monday. Francesca and I spent the afternoon packing up our apartment. I never thought I’d say this, but I’m going to miss my cardboard m
attress and all those noisy bakery customers. So many good things happened to me here!
Francesca left an hour ago. Her internship starts in two weeks, and she’s going to visit her parents first. I helped drag all nine of her bags down to the street, and then we just hugged. She claims she never cries, but when she pulled back her eyeliner was a tiny bit smudged. Hopefully she makes good on her promise to visit Howard and me soon.
MAY 24
Well, it’s official. I am now a resident of the Florence American Cemetery and Memorial. All the stress of ending the school year must have hit me, because yesterday I was so exhausted that I could barely even get out of bed. The previous superintendent left the place fully furnished, so Howard’s been able to jump right into the job. The spare bedroom is perfect for me, and Howard said he doesn’t mind if I cover the walls with photographs.
MAY 26
The cemetery is gorgeous, and even though I should be spending all my free time working on my grad school applications, I keep taking breaks to wander through the headstones. The Wall of the Missing is especially interesting. How is it that they were living, breathing people and all of a sudden they were just gone? This morning I was photographing it and the assistant superintendent, Sonia, joined me and we had a nice long talk. She’s a lovely woman. Smart, like Howard, and so dedicated to working here.
MAY 30
This has been such a great week. After we’re done working for the day, Howard and I cook, watch old movies, and go for long walks, and it just feels so perfect. Sometimes Sonia joins us, and we sit around playing cards or watching movies or just talking. I don’t know how to explain it exactly, but for years I’ve felt like I was looking for something—like I wasn’t quite in the right place. But here with Howard, that feeling has evaporated. I don’t know if it’s the city, or the peacefulness of the cemetery, or having so much time to work on my photography, but I’ve never felt more at ease. There’s something very healing about this place.
Love & Gelato Page 17
