Love & Gelato(16)

“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.”