Love & Gelato (27 page)

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.

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 daughter' 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.”