Love & Gelato(53)

“That sounds great!” I cringed. All I needed were pom-poms and a megaphone. Tone it down. It’s not like his heart was broken recently.

He squinted at me. “Glad you like the idea. I’ll ask Sonia, too.”

“Sure.”

I hurried into the house, and when I snuck a glance back at him, pity welled up in me so fast it almost overflowed from my eyeballs. He’d loved my mom. Was it too much to ask that she just love him back?



“You said ‘Piazzale Michelangelo,’ right?” Ren yelled to me.

“Right. They said park there and then head south.”

“Okay, it’s just up ahead.”

It had been a quick scooter ride and I’d been careful to sit an extra inch or two back so we weren’t brushing legs or anything. Or at least not that often.

“Someone’s going to meet with us at FAAF, right?” he asked.

“Right. I didn’t tell them why we’re coming in, but they said someone from admissions would be in the office.”

He started following behind a line of tour buses, one of them so big it probably moonlighted as a cruise ship. Piazzale Michelangelo was a whirlpool of tourists. They all looked hell-bent on getting their money’s worth.

“Why are so many people here?”

“Best view in the city. As soon as this bus gets out of our way you’ll see it.” The bus slowed and Ren zipped around it and suddenly we had this big panoramic view of Florence including Ponte Vecchio, Palazzo Vecchio, and the Duomo. I mentally patted myself on the back. Five days in and I already recognized half the city.

Ren veered off the road and pulled into a parking spot roughly the size of my suitcase. We squeezed our way out.

“Where to?” he asked.

I handed him the directions. “The woman at the school said it’s easy to find.”

Famous last words. We spent the next thirty minutes wandering up and down the same streets, mostly because everyone we asked gave us entirely different sets of directions.

“First rule of dealing with Italians,” Ren growled, “they love giving directions. Especially if they have no idea what they’re talking about.”

I was noticing that Ren sort of had an I’m only Italian when I feel like it policy.

“And they use lots of hand gestures,” I added. “I thought the last guy was directing a plane. Or maybe an orchestra.”

“You know how to get an Italian to stop talking, right?”

“How?”

“Tie their arms down.”

“This is it!” I stopped walking and Ren plowed into me. We’d passed by the building at least five times already, but this was the first time I’d noticed the miniscule gold sign above doorway. FAAF.

“Did they think people would be reading their sign with binoculars?”

“You’re grumpy.”

“Sorry.”

I hit the buzzer and there was a loud ringing noise followed by a woman’s voice.

“Pronto?”

Ren leaned in. “Buon giorno. Abbiamo un appuntamento.”

“Prego. Terzo piano.” The door unlocked.

Ren looked at me. “Third floor. Race you.”

We simultaneously tried to shove each other out of the way, then went pounding up the stairs, bursting into a large, well-lit reception area. A woman wearing a tight lavender dress startled and stood up from behind her desk. “Buon giorno.”

“Buon giorno,” I answered back.

She glanced at my sneakers and switched to English. “Did you call about meeting with our admissions officer?”

“I beat you,” Ren said quietly.

“No, you didn’t.” I caught my breath and took a step forward. “Hi. Yes, I did call. But I was actually hoping to ask you about one of your past students.”

“I’m sorry?”

“My mom was a student here about seventeen years ago and I’m trying to track down one of her old classmates.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Well, I certainly can’t give out any personal information.”

“I just need to know her last name.”

“And like I said, I really can’t help you.”

Argh.

“What about Signore Petrucione? Could he help us?” Ren asked.

“Signore Petrucione?” She folded her arms. “Do you know him?”

I nodded. “He was the director when my mom was attending.”

She stared at us for a moment, then turned and skulked out of the room.

“Wow. She was a real ray of sunshine,” Ren said. “Think she’s coming back?”

“I hope so.”

A moment later the woman walked back into the room, followed by an energetic-looking old man with wiry white hair. He was dressed stylishly in a suit and tie, and when he saw me, he did a double take. “Non è possibile!”

I glanced at Ren. “Um, hi. Are you Signore Petrucione?”

He blinked. “Yes. And you are . . .”

“Lina. My mom was a student here and—”

“You’re Hadley’s daughter.”

“. . . Yes.”

“I thought I was seeing things.” He crossed the room, extending his hand. “What a surprise. Violetta, do you know who this girl’s mother is?”