Love & Gelato(23)

She was weaving in and out of the streets, not even taking a second to make sure I was following, and then suddenly I saw it. THE DUOMO. Intricate, colorful, Gothic Duomo. I was completely winded, but even if I hadn’t been, it would have taken my breath away.

Francesca put out her cigarette, then led me to the Duomo’s side entryway and told me that we were climbing to the top. And we did. Four hundred and sixty-three steep stone stairs, with Francesca pogoing up the steps like her stilettos had springs. When we finally got to the top I couldn’t stop taking pictures. Florence spreads out like an orange-tinted maze, towers and buildings jutting up here and there, but nothing as tall as the Duomo. There were green hills in the distance, and the sky was the most perfect shade of blue. Francesca finally stopped talking when she saw how in awe I was. She didn’t even get mad when I reached my arms out wide, feeling the wind and this new feeling—this freedom. Before we headed back down I gave Francesca a giant hug, but she just peeled me off her and said, “All right, all right. You got yourself here. I just took you to see the Duomo. Now let’s go shopping. I’ve never seen a sadder pair of jeans. Really, Hadley, they make me want to weep.”



“No way,” I whispered to myself. What were the chances that I’d read this entry on the day I’d seen the Duomo for the first time? I ran my fingers over the words, imagining my twenty-something-year-old mom running to keep up with tyrannical, springy Francesca. Was this part of the reason my mom had sent her journal? So we could experience Florence together?

I marked my place and switched off the light, my chest heavy. Yes, hearing her voice was the emotional equivalent of a damaged ship taking on water. But it felt good, too. She’d loved Florence. Maybe reading her journal would be like seeing it with her.

I’d just have to take it in small doses.





Chapter 8




I HAVE TO TELL ADDIE about the journal. The next morning I tumbled down the stairs without even changing out of my pajamas. Ren had been totally wrong about the jet-lag thing. Once I’d finished reading the diary entries, I’d tucked the journal under the covers with me and then slept a solid thirteen hours. I felt like a well-rested hummingbird.

Right before I escaped up to my room, Howard had told me he’d leave his cell phone out for me, and I was ridiculously grateful that I didn’t have to ask him for it. If last night’s drive home were a book, it would have been titled something like The Longest, Quietest, Most Miserable Ride Ever, and I really wasn’t looking forward to a sequel. The less interacting, the better.

Back in my room I closed the door, then powered up the phone. Country code first? Area code? Where were my instructions? After three tries, the phone finally started ringing. Ian answered.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Ian. It’s Lina.”

A video game blared in the background.

“You know . . . the one who lived with you for five months?” I prompted.

“Oh, yeah. Hi, Lina. Where are you again? France?”

“Italy. Is Addie there?”

“No. I don’t know where she is.”

“Isn’t it like two a.m. there?”

“Yeah. I think she stayed over at someone’s house. We’re sharing a phone now.”

“I heard. Could you tell her I called?”

“Sure. Don’t eat snails.” Click.

I groaned. Ian’s track record meant that my message had a less-than-zero chance of ever getting to Addie. And I really needed to talk to her—about the journal, about what Howard had told me, about . . . everything. I paced around my bedroom like my grandma’s OCD cat. I really didn’t feel ready to go back to the journal again, but I also really couldn’t just sit around thinking. I quickly changed into my running clothes, then went outside.

“Hi, Lina. How’d you sleep?”

I jumped. Howard was sitting on the porch swing with a stack of papers on his lap and dark circles under his eyes. I’d been ambushed.

“Fine. I just woke up.” I propped my foot up on the banister and gave my shoelaces total and complete concentration.

“Ah, to be a teenager again. I don’t think I saw the morning side of a sunrise until I was in my late twenties.” He stopped swinging and sort of stumbled into his next sentence. “How are you feeling about what we talked about last night? I wonder if I could have told you that in a better way.”

“I’m not upset,” I said quickly.

“I’d really like to talk to you more about your mother and me. There are some things she didn’t tell you that—”

I yanked my foot off the banister like I was a Rockette. “Maybe another time? I’d really like to start my run.” And I want to hear my mom’s side first.

He hesitated. “Okay, sure.” He tried to meet my gaze. “We’ll take it at your pace. Just tell me when you’re ready.”

I hurried down the steps.

“You got a phone call at the visitors’ center this morning.”

I whipped around. “Was it Addie?” Please be Addie.

“No. It was a local call. His name was strange. Red? Rem? An American. He said he met you yesterday while you were out running.”

A handful of confetti rained down on me. He called? “Ren. It’s short for ‘Lorenzo.’?”