Love & Gelato (29 page)

“I think my life is flashing before my eyes,” I said.

“How is it?”

“Exciting.”

“Mine too. Although I have to admit, it got way more exciting five days ago when you ran up to me on the hill.”

“I didn't run up to you. I was actually trying to avoid you.”

“Really? Why?”

“I thought it would be awkward. And then it was.”

He grinned. “And look at us now. Spending our last few minutes on earth together.”

The driver swerved over to a curb, then threw the car into park before coming to a complete stop. Ren and I flew into the seats in front of us.

“Ow!” I rubbed my face. “Do I have a nose anymore?”

“A flat one,” said Ren. He was crunched up on the floor like a balled-up piece of paper.

“
Siamo arrivati
,” the cabdriver said pleasantly. He glanced at us in the rearview mirror, then pointed to his meter.
“Diciassette euro.”

I dug some money out of my purse and passed it forward, and then we climbed out onto the sidewalk. The second I closed the door, the cab screeched back into traffic, causing about four other cars to slam on their brakes and contribute to what was basically a grand orchestra of honking.

“That guy shouldn't be allowed to drive.”

“Pretty standard. He's actually one of the better cabdrivers I've had. Look, there's the gallery.”

I whirled around. We were standing in front of a gray stone building with gold lettering on the door:

ROSSI GALLERIA E SCUOLA DI FOTOGRAFIA

ROSSI GALLERY AND PHOTOGRAPHY SCHOOL

Rossi
. Lina Rossi. Was that actually my name? Crap. It had an Italian
R
. I wouldn't even be able to pronounce it.

“Come on.” Before my nerves could get the better of me, I marched over to the door and pressed the buzzer.

“
Prego
,” a man's voice said through the speaker.
Matteo
? The door unlocked with a loud
click
.

I looked at Ren. “You ready?”

“Who cares about me? Are
you
ready?”

“No.”

Before I could think, I shoved the door open, launching myself into a large, circular-shaped foyer. The room was made of shiny tile, and there was a huge light fixture with about ten different pendant lights jutting out of it like jellyfish tentacles. A blond man wearing a dress shirt and tie sat behind a curved silver desk. He was young and American-looking. Definitely not Matteo.

“
Buon giorno
. English?” he said in a bored voice.

“Yes.” My voice echoed.

“I'm afraid you've missed the class. It started more than a half hour ago.”

Ren stepped up next to me. “We're not here for the class. I called a couple of hours ago about meeting with Matteo? My name is Lorenzo.”

“Lorenzo Ferrara?” He studied us for a moment. “I guess I didn't realize that you were quite so young. Unfortunately, Mr. Rossi is upstairs teaching a class. His class times vary, and I can't promise that he'll have the time to meet with you afterward.”

“We'll wait anyway,” I said quickly.
Mr. Rossi
. For all I knew he was standing right above me.

“And what is your name?” the man asked me.

“Lina . . .” I hesitated. Would Matteo recognize my last name? “My name is Lina Emerson.”

Ren shot me a look, but I just shrugged. The point was to tell Matteo who I was, right?

“Very well. I can't make any promises, but I'll let him know you're here.”

His phone rang with a loud
brrrrnng
, and he snatched it from the desk. “
Buon giorno. Rossi Galleria e Scuola di Fotografia.
Good morning, Rossi Gallery and Photography School.”

“Let's look around,” I said to Ren. I was crazy jittery. Maybe a tour of the gallery would keep my mind off of what was about to happen.

“Sure.”

We walked under an arched doorway into the first room. The room was made of exposed brick, and all four walls were covered with framed photographs. A large one caught my eye and I walked over to it. It was a shot of an old graffiti-covered building in a big city, like New York City or somewhere, and one wall read,
TIME DOESN'T EXIST, CLOCKS EXIST
. There was a big looping handwritten signature in the bottom right corner:
M. ROSSI
.

“That's pretty cool,” Ren said.

“Yeah, my mom would have loved his style.” Correction. She
had
loved his style. My sweat glands immediately went into overdrive.

Ren wandered ahead a few feet, and I headed in the other direction. Most of the photographs were by Matteo, and they were really good. Like
really
good.

“Lina? Could you come here for a second?” Ren's voice was purposely calm, like when you need to tell someone they have a massive spider on their back but don't want them to freak out.

“What?” I hurried over to him. “What is it?”

“Look.”

It took me a second to realize what I was looking at, and then I practically jumped out of my skin. It was a photograph of
me
. Or at least, the back of me, and I even remembered when my mom had taken it. I was five years old and I'd piled up a stack of books so I could watch out the window for our neighbor's pony-size dog, with whom I'd had an intense love/fear relationship. I was wearing my favorite dress. I looked at the tag.
Carolina
, by Hadley Emerson.

“How did he get this?” Suddenly I felt light-headed. “He knows about me. This isn't going to be a surprise.”

“Are you sure you want to stay?”

“I don't know. Do you think he's been waiting for me to show up?”

“Excuse me.” It was the man from the foyer. He was looking at us like he thought we might try to shove one of Matteo's massive photographs into my purse. “Do you two have any questions?”

About a million.
“Um, yeah. . . .” I gave the room a desperate glance. “Are all of these . . . for sale?”

“Not all of them. Some are part of Mr. Rossi's private collection.”

“Does he have anything else by Hadley Emerson?” I pointed to the photograph.

“Hmm.” He walked over and took a look at
Carolina.
“I can check, but I believe this is the only one. Are you familiar with Hadley Emerson's work?”

“Uh, yeah. Sort of.”

“Let me check our system and I'll let you know.”

He walked out of the room and Ren raised his eyebrows. “Not exactly the most observant, is he?”

“What am I going to say to Matteo? Do I just tell him straight out who I am?”

“Maybe you should wait to see if he recognizes you.”

A door opened overhead and suddenly there was a thundering of voices and footsteps. Class was out. My breathing went into overdrive. This was a mistake. It was too fast. What if he didn't want to be a part of my life? What if he did? Would he be as awful as the guy in my mom's journal?

I grabbed Ren's arm. “I changed my mind. I don't want to meet him. You're right. We should talk to Howard first. At least I know my mom trusted him.”

“You sure?”

“Yes. Let's get out of here.”

We raced out of the room. About a dozen people were making their way into the foyer, but we quickly skirted around them, and I reached for the doorknob.

“You two. Wait there!”

Ren and I froze.
Oh, no.
Part of me wanted to walk right out onto the street, but another even bigger part wanted to turn around. So I did. Slowly.

A middle-aged man stood at the top of the staircase. He wore an expensive-looking shirt and slacks, and was shorter than I'd thought, with a carefully groomed beard and mustache. His dark eyes were fixed on me.

“Come on, Lina, let's go,” Ren said.

“Carolina? Please come up to my office.”

“We don't have to go,” Ren said quietly. “We can just walk out of here. Right now.”

My heart was pounding in my ears. Not only had he called me “Carolina,” but he'd pronounced it right. I grabbed Ren's hand. “Please come with me.”

He nodded. Then we slowly made our way toward the staircase.

“PLEASE, HAVE A SEAT.” MATTEO'S
voice was polished, with only a hint of an accent. He walked behind a half-moon desk and gestured to two chairs that looked exactly like hard-boiled eggs. Actually, come to think of it,
everything
in his office looked like something else. A large clock shaped like a cog ticked noisily in the corner, and the rug looked like it was supposed to be a map of the human genome or something. The whole room had this overly colorful modern vibe that didn't seem to mesh with the man standing in front of us.

I lowered myself uneasily into one of the hard-boiled eggs.

“What can I do for you?”

Okay. Just tell him? How do I start?

“I—” I made the mistake of glancing at Ren, and suddenly my throat sealed up like a Ziploc bag. He gave me a worried look.

Matteo cocked his head. “You two speak English, correct? Benjamin told me you wanted to meet me. I'm assuming you have questions about my programs?”

Ren cast a glance at my frozen expression, then jumped in. “Uh . . . yes. Questions about your programs. Um, do you have any classes for beginners?”

“Of course. I teach several entry-level courses throughout the year. The next one begins in September, but I believe it is already full. All of that information is available on my website.” He leaned back. “Would you like to be put on the waiting list?”

“Yeah, that sounds good.”

“All right. Benjamin can help you with that.”

Matteo slid his eyes at me, and suddenly I could feel every nerve ending. Was he pretending not to know, or did he not see it? I felt like I was standing in front of a mirror. An older, male mirror, but a mirror just the same. His eyes lingered on my hair for a moment.

“Can you recommend a good camera for a beginner?” Ren asked.

“Yes. I prefer Nikons. There are several good camera shops in Rome, and I'd be happy to give you the owners' contact information.”

“Nice.”

Matteo nodded and there was a long silence.

Ren cleared his throat. “So . . . those must be pretty pricey.”

“There's a range of prices.” He crossed his arms and glanced at the cog clock. “Now if you'll excuse me . . .”

“Do you collect a lot of photographs from other photographers?” I blurted out. Both of them looked at me.

“Not many. But I travel a lot, and I make it a point to visit studios and galleries everywhere I go. If I find something especially moving, I buy it and display it in my gallery, along with mine and my students' work.”

“What about the Hadley Emerson photograph? Where did you buy that?”

“That one was a gift.”

“From who?”

“Hadley.” He looked straight into my eyes. Like a challenge.

All of the air whooshed out of me.

He pushed back from his desk. “Lorenzo, why don't we go to the reception area and ask Benjamin about placing you on the waiting list. Carolina, before you leave I'd be happy to show you the other Emerson photograph I have in my possession.”

I rose clumsily from my chair and Ren grabbed my arm. “Why isn't he recognizing you?” he whispered.

“He is. He knew my real name and he's saying it right.” No one ever said my name right. Unless they'd heard it before.

We followed him down the stairs, my heart pounding in my throat, and Matteo stopped at the desk. “Benjamin, will you please assist Lorenzo in being added to the wait list for the next beginners' course?”

“Of course.”

“Carolina, the photograph is in the next room. Lorenzo, we'll meet you back here.”

We looked at each other.
Okay?
he mouthed.