Love & Gelato (8 page)

“Told you.”

We kept walking. Only now I just felt stupid.

“So what's the deal with your dad?” Ren asked. “Hasn't he been the caretaker at the cemetery for like forever?”

“Yeah, he said it's been seventeen years. My mom died, so that's why I came to live with him.”
Ah!
I mentally clamped my hand over my mouth.
Lina, stop talking
. Bringing up my mom was a surefire way to create awkwardness around people my age. Adults got sympathetic. Teenagers got uncomfortable.

He looked at me, his hair falling into his eyes. “How'd she die?”

“Pancreatic cancer.”

“Did she have it for a long time?”

“No. She died four months after we found out.”

“Wow. Sorry.”

“Thanks.”

We were quiet for a moment before Ren spoke again. “It's weird how we talk about that. I say ‘I'm sorry' and you say ‘thanks.' ”

I'd had that exact thought maybe a hundred times. “I think it's weird too. But it's what people expect you to say.”

“So what's it like?”

“What?”

“Losing your mom.”

I stopped walking. Not only was this the first time anyone had ever asked me that, but he was looking at me like he actually wanted to know. For a second I thought about telling him that it was like being an island—that I could be in a room full of people and still feel alone, an ocean of hurt trying to crash in on me from every direction. But I swallowed the words back as quickly as I could. Even when they ask, people don't want to hear your weird grief metaphors. Finally I shrugged my shoulders. “It really sucks.”

“I bet it does. Sorry.”

“Thanks.” I smiled. “Hey, we just did it again.”

“Sorry.”

“Thanks.”

He stopped in front of a set of curlicue gates and I help him push them open with a loud
creak
.

“You weren't kidding. Your house is close to the cemetery,” I said.

“I know. I always thought it was weird that I live so close to a cemetery. And then I met someone who lives
in
a cemetery.”

“I couldn't let you beat me. It's my competitive nature.”

He laughed. “Come on.”

We walked up the narrow, tree-lined driveway, and when we got to the top he held both arms out in front of him. “Ta-da.
Casa mia
.”

I stopped walking. “This is where you
live
?”

He shook his head grimly. “Unfortunately. You can laugh if you want. I won't be offended.”

“I'm not going to laugh. I think it's kind of…interesting.” But then a tiny snort slipped through and the look Ren shot me pretty much blew my composure to pieces.

“Go ahead. Get it all out. But people who live in cemeteries really shouldn't be throwing stones, or whatever that saying is.”

Finally I stopped laughing long enough to catch my breath. “I'm sorry. I shouldn't be laughing. It's just really unexpected.”

We both looked back up at the house, and Ren sighed wearily while I did my best not to insult him again. Just this morning I'd thought I lived in the weirdest place possible, but now I'd met someone who lived in a
gingerbread house
. And I don't mean a house sort of loosely inspired by a gingerbread house—I mean a house that looked like you could possibly break off a couple of its shingles and dip them in a glass of milk. It was two stories high with a stone exterior and thatched roof lined with intricate gingerbread trim. Candy-colored flowers blanketed the yard, and small lemon trees were planted in cobalt-blue pots around the perimeter of the house. Most of the main-floor windows were stained glass with swirling peppermint patterns, and there was a giant candy cane carved into the front door. In other words, picture the most ridiculous house you can imagine and then add a bunch of lollipops.

“What's the story?”

Ren shook his head again. “There has to be one, right? This eccentric guy from upstate New York built it after making a fortune on his grandmother's fudge recipe. He called himself the Candy Baron.”

“So he built himself a real-life gingerbread house?”

“Exactly. It was a present for his new wife. I guess she was like thirty years younger than him, and she ended up falling for a guy she met at a truffle festival in Piedmont. After she left him, he sold the house. My parents just happened to be looking, and of course a gingerbread house was just the right kind of weird for them.”

“Did you guys have to kick out a cannibalistic witch?”

He gave me a funny look.

“You know . . . like the witch in Hansel and Gretel?”

“Oh.” He laughed. “No, she still comes to visit on major holidays. You meant my grandmother, right?”

“I'm so telling her you said that.”

“Good luck. She doesn't understand a single word of English. And whenever she's around, my mom conveniently forgets how to speak Italian.”

“Where's your mom from?”

“Texas. We usually spend summers in the States with her family, but my dad had too much work for us to go this year.”

“So that's why you sound so American?”

“Yep. I pretend to be one every summer.”

“Does it work?”

He grinned. “Usually. You thought I was American, didn't you?”

“Not until you talked.”

“That's what counts, though, right?”

“I guess so.”

He led me to the front door and we walked inside. “Welcome to Villa Caramella. ‘
Caramella'
means ‘candy.' ”

“Holy . . . books.”

It was like a librarian's worst nightmare. The entire room was lined with floor to ceiling bookcases, and hundreds—maybe thousands—of books were mashed haphazardly into the shelves.

“My parents are big readers,” Ren said. “Also, we want to be prepared if there's ever a robot uprising and we need to hide out. Lots of books equals lots of kindling.”

“Smart.”

“Come on, she's probably in her studio.” We made our way through the piles of books to a set of double doors that opened to a sunroom. The floor was shrouded in drop cloths and there was an ancient-looking table holding tubes of paint and a bunch of different ceramic tiles.

“Mom?”

A female version of Ren lay curled up on a daybed, yellow paint streaked through her hair. She looked about twenty years old. Maybe thirty.

“Mom.” Ren reached down and shook her shoulder. “
Mamma
. She's kind of a deep sleeper, but watch this.” Bending close to her face, he whispered, “I just saw Bono in Tavarnuzze.”

Her eyes snapped open and in about half a second she'd scrambled to a standing position. Ren cracked up.

“Lorenzo Ferrara! Don't
do
that.”

“Carolina, this is my mom, Odette. She was a U2 groupie. Followed them around for a while in the early nineties while they were on tour in Europe. Clearly she still has strong feelings for them.”

“I'll show you strong feelings.” She reached for a pair of glasses and slipped them onto her nose, giving me a once-over. “Oh, Lorenzo, where did you find her?”

“We just met on the hill behind the cemetery. She's living here with her dad for the summer.”

“You're one of us!”

“American?” I asked.

“Expatriate.”

“Hostage” was more like it. But that wasn't the sort of thing you told someone you'd just met.

“Wait a minute.” She leaned forward. “I heard you were coming. Are you Howard Mercer's daughter?”

“Yes. I'm Lina.”

“Her full name is ‘Carolina,' ” Ren added.

“Just call me Lina.”

“Well, thank the heavens, Lina—we need more Americans here. Preferably
live
ones,” she said, waving her hand dismissively in the direction of the cemetery. “I'm so glad to meet you. Have you learned any Italian?”

“I memorized like five phrases on the flight over.”

“What are they?” Ren asked.

“I'm not saying them in front of you. I'll probably sound like an idiot.”

He shrugged. “
Che peccato
.”

Odette grimaced. “Promise me you'll never use even one of those phrases in this house. I'm spending the summer pretending to be somewhere other than Italy.”

Ren grinned. “How's that working out for you? You know, with your Italian husband and children?”

She ignored him. “I'm going to get us some drinks. You two make yourselves comfortable.” She squeezed my shoulder, then walked out of the room.

Ren looked at me. “Told you she'd be happy to meet you.”

“Does she really hate Italy?”

“No way. She's mad that we can't go to Texas this summer, but every year it's the same thing. We get there and she spends three months complaining about the terrible food and all the people she sees wearing their pajamas in public.”

“Who wears their pajamas in public?”

“Lots of people. Trust me. It's like an epidemic.”

I pointed to the table. “Is she an artist?”

“Yeah. She paints ceramics, mostly scenes of Tuscany. There's a guy in Florence who sells them in his shop, and tourists pay like a gazillion dollars for them. They'd probably have a conniption if they found out they're done by an American.” He picked up a tile and handed it to me. She'd painted a yellow cottage nestled between two hills.

“This is really pretty.”

“You should see upstairs. We have a whole wall of tile that she's replacing one by one with the ones she's worked on.”

I set the tile down. “Are you artistic?”

“Me? No. Not really.”

“I'm not either. But my mom was an artist too. She was a photographer.”

“Cool. Like family portraits and stuff?”

“No. Mostly fine-art kinds of stuff. Her work was displayed in galleries and at art shows, places like that. She taught in colleges, too.”

“Nice. What was her name?”

“Hadley Emerson.”

Odette reappeared, carrying two cans of orange Fanta and an opened sleeve of cookies. “Here you go. Ren goes through about a pack of these a day. You'll love them.”

I took one. It was a sandwich cookie with vanilla on one side and chocolate on the other. An Italian Oreo. I bit into it and a choir of angels started singing. Did Italian food have some kind of fairy dust that made it way better than its American counterparts?

“Give her more,” Ren said. “She looks like she's going to eat her arm.”

“Hey—” I started, but then Odette handed me the rest of the cookies and I was too busy eating to properly defend myself.

Odette smiled. “I love a girl who can eat. Now, where were we? Oh—I didn't really introduce myself, did I? I swear, this place is turning me into a savage. I'm Odette Ferrara. It's like ‘Ferrari,' but with an
a
. Pleased to meet you.” She extended her hand, and I wiped crumbs off mine so we could shake. “Can we talk about air-conditioning? And drive-thru restaurants? Those are the two things I've been missing most this summer.”

“You never even let us eat fast food when we're in the States,” Ren said.

“That doesn't mean
I
don't eat it. And whose side are you on anyway? Mine or the Signore's?”

“No comment.”

“Who's the Signore?” I asked.

“My dad. I have no idea how they ended up together. You know those weird animal friendship videos, where a bear and a duck become best friends? They're kind of like that.”

Odette cackled. “Oh, come on. We're not
that
different. But now I'm curious. In that scenario, would you consider me the bear or the duck?”

“I'm not going there.”

Odette turned to me. “So what do you think of my Ren?”

I swallowed and handed the rest of the cookies to Ren, who was eyeing them like they were
his precious
. “He's . . . very friendly.”

“And handsome, too, isn't he?”

“
Mom
.”

I felt myself blush a little. Ren
was
cute, but in that kind of way that you don't really notice at first. He had deep brown eyes fringed with ridiculously long lashes, and when he smiled he had a little gap between his front teeth. But again, that wasn't the sort of the thing you told someone you just met.

Odette waved her hand at me. “Well, we're so glad to have you in town. I'm pretty sure Ren has been having the most boring summer of his life. I told him just this morning that he needs to get out more.”

“Come on, Mom. It's not like I just sit home all day.”

“All I know is that once a certain
ragazza
went out of town, you suddenly had no interest in going out.”

“I go out when I feel like it. Mimi has nothing to do with it.”

“Who's Mimi?” I asked.

“His crush,” Odette said in a stage whisper.

“Mooom,” Ren growled. “I'm not nine.”

A phone started ringing, and Odette began pulling papers and art supplies off the table. “Where in the . . . ?
Pronto
?”

A little girl appeared in the doorway wearing a pair of ruffled underpants and black dress shoes. “I pooped!”

Odette gave her a double thumbs-up and then walked into the house, speaking on the phone in rapid Italian.

Ren groaned. “Gabriella, that is so embarrassing. Get back in the bathroom. We have company here.”

She ignored him, turning to me instead. “
Tu chi sei?”

“She doesn't speak Italian,” Ren said. “She's American.”

“
Anch'io
! Are you Lorenzo's girlfriend?” she asked.

“No. I just met him when I was out for a walk. My name's Lina.”