Love & Gelato (26 page)

She raised her eyebrows. “Well, I certainly can't give out any personal information.”

“I just need to know her last name.”

“And like I said, I really can't help you.”

Argh.

“What about Signore Petrucione? Could he help us?” Ren asked.

“Signore Petrucione?” She folded her arms. “Do you know him?”

I nodded. “He was the director when my mom was attending.”

She stared at us for a moment, then turned and skulked out of the room.

“Wow. She was a real ray of sunshine,” Ren said. “Think she's coming back?”

“I hope so.”

A moment later the woman walked back into the room, followed by an energetic-looking old man with wiry white hair. He was dressed stylishly in a suit and tie, and when he saw me, he did a double take.
“Non è possibile!”

I glanced at Ren. “Um, hi. Are you Signore Petrucione?”

He blinked. “Yes. And you are . . .”

“Lina. My mom was a student here and—”

“You're Hadley's daughter.”

“. . . Yes.”

“I thought I was seeing things.” He crossed the room, extending his hand. “What a surprise. Violetta, do you know who this girl's mother is?”

“Who?” She looked determined to be unimpressed.

“Hadley Emerson.”

Her mouth dropped open. “Oh.”

“Lina, come with me.” He glanced at Ren. “And bring your friend.”

Ren and I followed Petrucione down a hallway into a small office cluttered with photographs. He sat down, then gestured for us to do the same. I had to move a box of negatives off of my chair.

“Lina, I was so sorry to hear about your mother. It was so tragic. And not just because of her contributions to the art world. She was a wonderful person, too.”

I nodded. “Thank you.”

“Who is this?” He gestured to Ren.

“This is my friend Lorenzo.”

“Nice to meet you, Lorenzo.”

“You too.”

Petrucione leaned forward, resting his elbows on his desk. “How lovely that you're here visiting Florence. And what a delight that you stopped at FAAF. Violetta said something about you asking for information about your mother's classmates?”

I took a deep breath. “Yes. Well, I've been trying to learn a little bit about my mom's time at school, and I was hoping to get in touch with one of her old friends.”

“Absolutely. Which one?”

“Her name is Francesca. She was studying fashi—”

“Francesca Bernardi. She's another one who made quite a name for herself. Had a spread in
Vogue Italia
last spring.” He tapped his head with two fingers. “I never forget a name. Let me have Violetta check our alumni records. I'll be right back.” He got up and rushed out of the office, leaving the door cracked a few inches.

“How old is that guy?” Ren whispered. “Didn't your mom say he was like two hundred years old? And that was back then.”

“Yeah, she did. So I guess that makes him two hundred and seventeen?”

“At least. And he's superenergetic. He'd better slow down on the espressos.”

“Should I ask him about X? They kept it a secret from the school, but I could ask if they had anyone quit their job partway through my mom's second semester.”

“Yeah, do it.”

I glanced over at the wall and my eye snagged on a photograph of an old woman looking directly into the camera. I stood up and walked over to it. “My mom took this.”

“Really? How do you know?”

“I just do.”

Petrucione bounded back into the room. “Ah, I see you found your mother's photograph.”

“I can usually recognize her work.” By the way it made my heart hurt.

“Well, it's certainly unique. She had a real gift for portraits.” He handed me a piece of paper, and we both sat back down. “I've written down Francesca's full name and included the number to her company. I'm sure she'll be very happy to talk to you.”

“Thank you; this is really helpful.”

“You're so very welcome.” He beamed at me.

I'd thought I'd just get the info and get out, but suddenly I didn't want to leave. “What was my mom like? When she was here?”

Petrucione smiled. “Like an exclamation mark in human form. I'd never seen anyone so excited to be doing what they were doing. This school is very selective, but even so we'll occasionally have a floater slip through—that's what we call students who are kind of lukewarm but have enough natural talent to get accepted. Your mother wasn't like that. She was full of talent—drenched in it, really—but that's only one part of the equation. You have to be talented
and
driven. I think she could have been successful by her drive alone.” He smiled. “All of the students liked her. I remember her being very popular. And once she played a joke on me. She took this very abstract photograph of a section of Ponte Vecchio and turned it in as an assignment. I'd seen enough photographs of Ponte Vecchio to last me a lifetime by then, and I'd warned the class that if anyone dared to use that bridge as their inspiration I'd fail them on the spot. But she did it, and of course I loved the photograph, and only afterward she told me what it was. . . .” He chuckled, shaking his head.

A warm, gooey feeling bubbled up inside of me. I
loved
it when people who really knew my mom talked about her. It was like holding her hand for one tiny second.

Ren met my gaze.
X
, he mouthed.

“Oh.” I took a deep breath. “Mr. Petrucione? I have one more question.”

“
Prego
.”

“My mom mentioned that there was a . . . male faculty member or teacher or something who resigned partway through her second semester. Do you know who that could be?”

The room's happy vibe evaporated with a
poof
. Petrucione suddenly looked disgusted, like someone had just offered him a plate of dog poop or something.

“No. I don't.”

Ren and I exchanged a look. “Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

I shifted in my seat. “Okay. Well, he might not have been around for long. I think he ended up taking another job in Rome and—”

He stood, raising his arm to cut me off. “I'm sorry, but we've had a lot of faculty come and go. I don't remember.” He nodded at us. “It was such a pleasure to meet you. If you're ever in town again, please stop by and say hello.” His voice was still kind, but final. Definitely final.

He wasn't going to talk about X.

“Thanks for your help,” I said after a moment, getting to my feet.

As Ren and I passed by Violetta's desk, she jumped up and gave us a smile as wide as the Arno. “It was
such
an honor meeting you, and I'm so happy we could help. Have a
wonderful
day.”

“. . . Thanks.”

As soon as the glass door sealed shut behind us, Ren raised an eyebrow. “What was that about?”

“PETRUCIONE DEFINITELY KNEW WHO WE
were talking about. Did you see that look he got on his face?”

Ren nodded. “Yeah, couldn't miss it. And he'd said like five seconds before that he doesn't forget people's names. He just didn't want to tell us.”

“Hopefully we'll have more luck with Francesca.” I dialed her number, then pressed the phone to my ear. “It's ringing.”

“Pronto?”
It was a man.

“Um, Francesca Bernardi?”

He answered in rapid Italian. “Um, Francesca?” I said again.

He
tsk-tsked
. Then the phone started ringing again and a woman picked up.
“Pronto?”
Her voice was low and smoky.

“Hello, Francesca?”

“Si?”

“My name is Carolina. You don't know me, but you knew my mom. Hadley Emerson?”

Silence. I made a face at Ren.

“What?” he whispered.

“Carolina,” she said slowly. “What a surprise. Yes. I knew your mother. She was a dear friend.”

My heart sped up. “I'm just trying to learn a little bit more about her . . . studies in Florence. You were her roommate, right?”

“Yes. And a messier woman never lived! I thought I was going to be buried alive in her rubble.”

“Yeah . . . that was always kind of an issue. Could you maybe answer some questions for me about her life in Florence?”

“I'm sure I could, but why are you asking me? Hadley and I haven't been in touch in ages.”

“Well . . .” I hesitated. I never knew how to break the news to people. It was like opening a dam. You never knew what they were going to hit you with. “She died. A little over six months ago.”

Francesca gasped sharply. “
Non ci posso credere.
How?”

“Pancreatic cancer. It was pretty sudden.”

“Oh, my poor dear.
Era troppo giovane, veramente.
I would be happy to talk about your mother. After she finished her program she dropped off the side of the world. None of us were able to get in touch with her.”

“Do you . . . ?” I grimaced. “This will sound weird. But do you remember if she was dating anyone?”

“Oh, the love life of Hadley Emerson. It was like a romance novel. Your mother was in love, yes, and I think half of Firenze was in love with her. I always knew who was right for her—we all did—but then there was that Matteo causing a mess and ruining things.”

“Matteo?” I croaked. I hadn't even had to push; she'd just dropped his name into my lap.

Ren looked up sharply.

“Yes. Our professor.”

“Professor,” I whispered to Ren. Well, that cleared up the whole secrecy thing.

“. . . He had her very confused, and I was so angry that she'd hurt our friend. . . .” She trailed off. “I feel like I'm telling old secrets.”

“What's Matteo's last name?”

She paused. “I believe it was Rossi. Yes, that sounds right. But I shouldn't even mention him. That man was a waste of time for everyone, especially your mother.” She sighed. “We all wanted to save her from him. He was charming. Very handsome. But controlling. He thought he could find talent and take it on as his own. It was quite the scandal when he was fired.”

“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.”