Love & Gelato (9 page)

She studied me for a minute. “You're kind of like a
principessa
. Maybe like Rapunzel because of your crazy hairs.”

“It's
hair,
not hairs, Gabriella,” Ren said. “And it's not nice to tell someone their hair is crazy.”

“My hairs
are
crazy,” I confirmed.

“Do you want to see my
criceto
?” Gabriella ran over and grabbed my hand. “Come now
, principessa
. You will really like him. His furs are so soft.”

“Sure.”

Ren put his hand on her shoulder. “Carolina, no. And, Gabriella, she doesn't want to. She has to leave soon.”

“I don't mind. I like kids.”

“No, seriously, trust me. Going into her room is like stepping into a time warp. Before you know it, you'll have been playing Barbies for like five hours and you'll be answering to Princess Sparkle.”

“
Non è vero
, Lorenzo. You're so mean!”

Ren answered in Italian, and Gabriella gave me a betrayed look and then ran out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

“What's a
criceto
?”

“In English . . . a hamster, I think? Little annoying animal, runs on a wheel?”

“Yep. Hamster. She's cute.”

“Sometimes she's cute. Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

“No. But I used to babysit a lot for a family in my apartment building. They had triplet boys who were five.”

“Whoa.”

“Whenever their mom left, she'd say,
Just keep them alive. Don't worry about anything else.
”

“So you tied them up or something?”

“No. The first time I babysat I wrestled them, and after that they loved me. Also, I always came over with my pockets full of fruit snacks.” At my mom's funeral, one of the boys asked where I'd been and his brother said,
Her mom is sleeping for a really long time. That's why she can't play with us anymore.

My throat tightened at the memory. “I'd better get going. Howard might wonder where I am.”

“Yeah, sure.” We walked back through the living room and Ren stopped at the front door.

“Hey, do you want to go to a party with me tomorrow?”

“Um . . .” I looked away, then quickly bent to tie my shoelace.
It's just a party. You know, the things normal teenagers go to?
Losing my mom had somehow made social events feel like a quick jaunt up Mt. Everest. Also, I was doing an alarming amount of self-talk these days.

“I'll have to ask Howard,” I finally said, straightening back up.

“Okay. I can pick you up on my scooter. Around eight?”

“Maybe. I'll call you if I can go.” I reached for the doorknob.

“Wait. You need my number.” He grabbed a pen from a nearby table, then cupped my hand in his, writing his number quickly. His breath was warm, and when he finished, he held my hand for just a second longer.

Oh.

He looked up at me and smiled. “
Ciao
, Carolina. I'll see you tomorrow.”

“Maybe.” I stepped out of the house and left without looking back. I was afraid he'd see the sparkly smile plastered across my face.

THE WHOLE REN-HAND-HOLDING THING HAD
launched a teeny butterfly in my stomach, but all it took was two minutes in the car with Howard for the butterfly to fall flat. It was just so
awkward.

Howard had these big comb marks in his freshly showered hair, and he'd changed into a pair of slacks and a nicer shirt. I'd missed the memo on dressing up and was still wearing my T-shirt and sneakers.

“Ready?” he asked.

“Ready.”

“Well, then off to Florence. You're going to love the city.” He popped a disc in his CD player (who was still using CDs?) and AC/DC's “ You Shook Me All Night Long” filled the car. You know, the official soundtrack of Ignore How Uncomfortable Your First Father-Daughter Outing Is.

According to Howard the city was only about seven miles away, but it took us like thirty minutes to get there. The road into town was packed with scooters and miniature cars and every building we passed looked old. Even with the weird atmosphere in the car, excitement started building up in me like steam in a pressure cooker. Maybe the circumstances weren't ideal, but I was in
Florence
. How cool was that?

When we got to the city Howard pulled down a narrow, one-way street, then pulled off the most impressive feat of parallel parking I'd ever witnessed. Like he would have made a great driver's ed teacher, if he weren't so into the whole cemetery thing.

“Sorry about the long drive,” he said. “Traffic was bad tonight.”

“Not your fault.” I practically had my nose pressed against the window. The street was made of gray crisscrossing square stones and there was a narrow sidewalk on either side. Tall pastel-colored buildings were smashed close together and all the windows had these adorable green shutters. A bike flew past on the sidewalk, practically clipping my side mirror.

Howard looked at me. “Want to take the scenic route? See a little bit of the city?”

“Yes!” I unclicked my seat belt and then jumped out onto the street. It was still hot out, and the city smelled slightly of warm garbage, but everything was so interesting-looking that it was completely okay. Howard started up the sidewalk and I trailed after him.

It was like walking through a scene from an Italian movie. The street was lined with clothing stores and little coffee shops and restaurants, and people kept calling to one another from windows and cars. Halfway down the street a horn beeped politely and everyone cleared out of the street to make way for an entire family crowded onto a scooter. There was even a string of laundry hanging between two buildings, a billowy red housedress flapping right in the middle of it. Any second now a director was going to jump out and yell,
Cut!

“There it is.” We turned a corner and Howard pointed to a sliver of a tall building visible at the end of the street.

“There's what?”

“That's the Duomo. Florence's cathedral.”

Duomo. It was like the mother ship. Everyone was funneling into it and we had to slow down even more the closer we got. Finally we were in the middle of a large open space, and I was looking up at a gargantuan building half-lit by the setting sun.

“Wow. That's really . . .” Big? Beautiful? Impressive? It was all that and more. The cathedral was easily the size of several city blocks and the walls were patterned in detailed carvings of pink, green, and white marble. It was a hundred times prettier and more impressive and
grander
than any building I'd seen before. Also, I'd never used the word “grander” in my life. Nothing had ever required it before.

“It's actually called the Cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore, but everyone just calls it the Duomo.”

“Because of the domed roof?” One side of the building was capped with an enormous orange-red circular roof.

“No, but nice catch. ‘
Duomo'
means ‘cathedral,' and the word just happens to sound like ‘dome' in English, so a lot of people make that mistake. The cathedral took almost a hundred and fifty years to build, and that was the largest dome in the world until modern technology came around. As soon as I get a free afternoon, we'll climb to the top.”

“What's that?” I pointed to a much smaller octagonal building across from the Duomo. It had tall gold doors with carvings on them, and a bunch of tourists were taking pictures in front of them.

“The baptistery. Those doors are called the Gates of Paradise, and they're one of the most famous works of art in the whole city. The artist's name was Ghiberti, and they took him twenty-seven years to make. I'll take you on a tour of that, too.” He pointed to a street just past the baptistery. “Restaurant is right over there.”

I followed Howard across the big open space (
piazza
, he told me) and he held the restaurant's door open for me. A man wearing a necktie tucked into his apron looked up from behind his stand and stood a little straighter. Howard was like two feet taller than him.

“And tonight, how many?” he asked in a nasally voice.

“
Possiamo avere una tavolo per due
?”

The man nodded, then called to a passing server.

“
Buona sera
,” the server said to us.

“
Buona sera
.
Possiamo stare seduti vicino alla cucina?”

“Certo
.”

So . . . apparently my father spoke Italian. Fluently. He even rolled his
R
s like Ren. I tried not to stare at him as we followed our server to our table. I literally knew nothing about him. It was so weird.

“Can you guess why I like it here?” Howard asked as we settled into our seats.

I looked around. The tables were covered in cheap paper cloths and there was an open kitchen with a wood-fire pizza oven blazing away. “She's Got a Ticket to Ride” was playing in the background.

He pointed up at the ceiling. “They play the Beatles all day every day, which means I get two of my favorite things together. Pizza and Paul McCartney.”

“Oh, yeah. I noticed the framed Beatles records in your office.” I gulped. Now he was going to think I'd been snooping. Which technically I guess I had been.

He just smiled. “My sister sent those as a gift a few years ago. She has two boys, ten and twelve. They live in Denver and they usually come out every other summer or so.”

Did
they
know about me?

Howard must have had a similar thought, because there was a moment of silence, and then we both suddenly got superinterested in our menus.

“What do you want to order? I always get a prosciutto pizza, but everything here is good. We could get a few appetizers or—”

“How about just a plain pizza. Cheese.” Simple and quick. I wanted to get back out in Florence. And keep this dinner as short as possible.

“Then you should order the Margherita. It's pretty basic. Just tomato sauce, mozzarella, and basil.”

“That sounds good.”

“You're going to love the food here. Pizza here is in a whole different category from the stuff back home.”

I set my menu down. “Why?”

“It's really thin and you get your own large pizza. And fresh mozzarella . . .” He sighed. “There's nothing like it.”

He honestly had a dreamy look in his eyes. Did my more-than-a-friend love for food come from him? I hesitated. I guess it
would
be a good idea to at least sort of get to know him. He was my father after all.

“So . . . where's ‘back home'?”

“I grew up in a small town in South Carolina called Due West, if you can believe it. It's about a hundred and fifty miles from Adrienne.”

“Is Due West where you rearranged all the traffic barricades and caused a traffic jam?”

He looked at me in surprise. “Your mom told you?”

“Yeah. She told me lots of stories about you.”

He chuckled. “There wasn't a lot to do in Due West, and unfortunately, I made the whole town pay for it. What other stories did she tell you?”

“She said you used to play hockey and that even though you're pretty even-tempered, you used to get in fights on the ice.”

“Proof.” He turned his head and ran his finger across a scar that disappeared under his jawline. “This was one of my last games. I couldn't seem to keep it under control. What else?”

“You guys went to Rome and the owner of a restaurant thought you were a famous basketball player and you guys got a free meal.”

“I forgot about that! Best lamb I ever had. And all I had to do was take pictures with the kitchen staff.”

Our server came over and took our order, then filled our glasses with fizzy water. I took a big swig and shuddered. Was it just me, or did carbonated water feel like liquid sparklers?