Love & Gelato (25 page)

“Mom,” I whispered. Her sadness was smeared across the journal like paint that had never had the chance to dry. How was it possible that she'd had her heart smashed to smithereens in a Rome train station and never even
mentioned
it to me? Had I even known this woman?

I scanned through the last few entries again. No doubt about it, X had been a serious jerk. I especially hated that he'd told her he needed “new creative space.” What kind of a line was that? And it was
awful
that she hadn't seen the end coming, especially when it was so obvious from the outside that the relationship wasn't going anywhere. Reading those last few entries had been like watching a train wreck in slow motion.

And then there was Howard. I rested my finger on the entry about him and Adrienne. He'd definitely had something going on behind the scenes too. Had he and Adrienne been dating and broken up just before my mom and X? Had both my parents been interested in other people and just sort of fallen together for a while? Is that why they hadn't lasted? And what had been so special about X, anyway?

I wanted to keep reading, but my eyelids insisted on doing this slow downward drag. Finally I gave up, tucking the journal into the nightstand and switching out the light.

“I NEED YOUR HELP.” I'D
woken that morning with a brilliant idea, and even though I'd waited until a socially acceptable hour, I'd still had to practically drag Ren out of his bed. Now we were sitting on his front porch and he looked only about thirty percent awake.

“Couldn't it have waited?” He was wearing black sweatpants and a faded T-shirt and, like usual, had to keep shaking his hair out of his face. It was probably just the morning light, but he looked cute. Like way cuter than someone with bed head should.

He caught me staring. “What?”

I quickly looked away. “Nothing. I just need your help with one last thing.”

“Listen, you know I'm all about this Howard-Hadley mystery. But can't I take a nap first?”

“No! Ren, why are you so tired?”

“I was on the phone with Mimi until like three.”

The sun was suddenly way too bright. “Was she really mad about what I said last night?”

“Yeah. It was pretty ugly.” He sighed. “But let's not talk about that. What do you need help with?”

“Could you give me a ride to FAAF?”

“Your mom's school?”

“Yes. I called them this morning. They moved to a new location a few years ago, but I want to go and see if I can get any info on Francesca.”

“Fashion police Francesca?”

“I think she's my best bet for tracking down X. Turns out she knew about him all along.”

“Whoa, slow down. We're tracking down X? Why?”

“Because my mom had this whole life I didn't know about, and I want to know what was so great about X that she couldn't get over him and had to break Howard's heart.”

“But wait. That's still just a theory, right? What if that isn't the reason she left Italy?”

I groaned. “Ren, come on. Don't you want to know who the mysterious X is? He was so awful when he broke up with her. It totally destroyed her. I just want to know what the big deal was. I think it will help me understand it all better.”

“Hmm.” He yawned and dropped his head onto my shoulder.

“So will you help me?”

“Of course I will. When do you want to go?”

“As soon as possible.” His skin was warm and he had that puppy-dog sleeping boy-smell.

“You smell good,” he said, echoing my thoughts.

“No, I don't. I ran six miles this morning and haven't showered yet.”

“You still smell good.”

Apparently that tiny little butterfly was alive and well. And it was definitely making the rounds. I quickly moved away.

Don't. Think. About. Ren.

I ran hard back to the cemetery. I had enough to think about without complicating things with some stupid crush on one of the best friends I'd ever had. Also, he was dating a Swedish supermodel. With anger issues. And let's not forget that I'd just given my number to the best-looking guy I'd ever met.

When I got to the house my heart practically fell out of my chest. Howard was sitting on the porch swing with a cup of coffee, looking like
such a nice guy
. It was cosmically unfair that the whole “Love Stinks” cycle had left him alone in a cemetery with his terrible muffins and old music. It made me want to buy him balloons or something.

“Good morning, Lina.”

“Morning.”

He gave me a funny look. Probably because I was looking at him like he was an injured baby duck.

“I was just at Ren's,” I offered.

“Do you two have any plans today?”

“Yeah, he's coming to get me in a little bit.”

“For what?”

“Uh, I think we're just going to get some lunch or something.”
Should I invite him?
Wait. We weren't actually going to lunch.

“Fun. Well, I was thinking that if you two are up for it, we could go to a movie tonight. One of the nearby towns has an outdoor theater that plays films in their original language, and this week they're showing one of my favorites.”

“That sounds great!” I cringed. All I needed were pom-poms and a megaphone.
Tone it down. It's not like his heart was broken recently.

He squinted at me. “Glad you like the idea. I'll ask Sonia, too.”

“Sure.”

I hurried into the house, and when I snuck a glance back at him, pity welled up in me so fast it almost overflowed from my eyeballs. He'd loved my mom. Was it too much to ask that she just love him back?

“You said ‘Piazzale Michelangelo,' right?” Ren yelled to me.

“Right. They said park there and then head south.”

“Okay, it's just up ahead.”

It had been a quick scooter ride and I'd been careful to sit an extra inch or two back so we weren't brushing legs or anything. Or at least not that often.

“Someone's going to meet with us at FAAF, right?” he asked.

“Right. I didn't tell them why we're coming in, but they said someone from admissions would be in the office.”

He started following behind a line of tour buses, one of them so big it probably moonlighted as a cruise ship. Piazzale Michelangelo was a whirlpool of tourists. They all looked hell-bent on getting their money's worth.

“Why are so many people here?”

“Best view in the city. As soon as this bus gets out of our way you'll see it.” The bus slowed and Ren zipped around it and suddenly we had this big panoramic view of Florence including Ponte Vecchio, Palazzo Vecchio, and the Duomo. I mentally patted myself on the back. Five days in and I already recognized half the city.

Ren veered off the road and pulled into a parking spot roughly the size of my suitcase. We squeezed our way out.

“Where to?” he asked.

I handed him the directions. “The woman at the school said it's easy to find.”

Famous last words. We spent the next thirty minutes wandering up and down the same streets, mostly because everyone we asked gave us entirely different sets of directions.

“First rule of dealing with Italians,” Ren growled, “they love giving directions. Especially if they have no idea what they're talking about.”

I was noticing that Ren sort of had an
I'm only Italian when I feel like it
policy.

“And they use lots of hand gestures,” I added. “I thought the last guy was directing a plane. Or maybe an orchestra.”

“You know how to get an Italian to stop talking, right?”

“How?”

“Tie their arms down.”

“This is it!” I stopped walking and Ren plowed into me. We'd passed by the building at least five times already, but this was the first time I'd noticed the miniscule gold sign above doorway. FAAF.

“Did they think people would be reading their sign with binoculars?”

“You're grumpy.”

“Sorry.”

I hit the buzzer and there was a loud ringing noise followed by a woman's voice.

“Pronto?”

Ren leaned in.
“Buon giorno. Abbiamo un appuntamento.”

“Prego. Terzo piano.”
The door unlocked.

Ren looked at me. “Third floor. Race you.”

We simultaneously tried to shove each other out of the way, then went pounding up the stairs, bursting into a large, well-lit reception area. A woman wearing a tight lavender dress startled and stood up from behind her desk.
“Buon giorno.”

“Buon giorno,”
I answered back.

She glanced at my sneakers and switched to English. “Did you call about meeting with our admissions officer?”

“I beat you,” Ren said quietly.

“No, you didn't.” I caught my breath and took a step forward. “Hi. Yes, I did call. But I was actually hoping to ask you about one of your past students.”

“I'm sorry?”

“My mom was a student here about seventeen years ago and I'm trying to track down one of her old classmates.”