So I had him to thank for my dancing skills.
I took a muffin and broke it open, steam curling up toward my face. Now or never. “So, Howard, I have a question for you. You know a lot about art history, right?”
“Yes.” He smiled. “That’s one thing I know plenty about. You knew I was teaching art history when your mom and I met, right?”
“Right.” I looked down at my muffin again and took a deep breath. “Well, Ren and I went for a drive after Space, and we stopped in this piazza. Piazza della Signoria? Anyway, there was an interesting statue, but we didn’t know the history of it.”
“Hmm.” He stood up and grabbed a butter dish off the counter, then sat down again. “Lots of statues there. Do you know who it was by?”
“No. It was in this open-air gallery. Kind of like a covered patio. You can just walk in.”
“Oh, right. Loggia dei Lanzi. Let’s see . . . there are the Medici lions, and the Cellini . . . What did it look like?”
“It was of two men and a woman.” I held my breath.
“Woman being carried away?”
I nodded.
He smiled. “The Rape of the Sabine Women. That one is actually pretty interesting, because the artist—Giambologna—didn’t even think of it as a real piece. He just made it as an artistic demonstration to show that it was possible to incorporate three figures into one sculpture. He didn’t even bother to give it a name, and then it ended up being the work he’s best known for.”
Okay. Interesting, but not quite the story he’d told my mom. I tried again. “Do you know if my mom ever saw it?”
He cocked his head. “I don’t know. I can’t remember ever talking to her about Giambologna. Why? Did she tell you about it?”
I can’t remember. His face was as smooth as a fresh jar of Nutella. He definitely wasn’t lying, but was it really possible that he’d forgotten? Had he suffered some kind of head trauma or have a mental block that kept him from remembering details about his relationship with my mom?
Suddenly a new thought tiptoed out of the corner of my mind. What if he wasn’t forgetting? Or denying? What if . . . ? I sprang to my feet, crumbling the muffin in my hand. “I need to go upstairs.”
I ran out of the room before he could ask why.
My mother’s words spun through my mind as I climbed the stairs: Yes, X. I seriously don’t think anyone would read my journal, but I’m giving him a new name, just in case.
As soon as I was in my room I locked the door behind me and fumbled for the journal. I switched on my lamp and started flipping through it.
Howard: The perfect Southern gentleman (Southern giant, Francesca calls him), handsome, kind, and the kind of guy who will go marching into battle for you.
I love being in love in Italy. But truth be told, I would fall for X anywhere.
Howard offered to walk me home, and I found myself telling him about Adrienne and the psychic.
“No way,” I breathed.
There was a reason Howard didn’t know about the secret bakery or the significance of Giambologna’s statue, and why my mom had slipped up and called him by his real name.
He wasn’t X.
“Addie, pick up, pick up!” I whispered.
“Hey, this is Addie! Leave a message and I’ll—”
“Argh!” I tossed the phone on my bed and started pacing around. Where was she? I went and stood at the window. My mom had been in love with someone who wasn’t Howard. She’d had this take-over-everything passionate love affair and then she’d ended up pregnant with someone else’s baby. Howard’s. Was that her wrong choice? That she’d gotten pregnant with Howard when really she’d been in love with someone else? Was that what had made her flee Italy?
I fell heavily into my chair, then popped back up. Ren would answer! I dove onto my bed, fishing my phone out of the covers and dialing his number.
He answered on the second ring. “Lina?”
“Hey. Listen, I did what you suggested. I asked him about the statue.”
“What did he say?”
“He knew all about it, the history and everything. But then I asked him if he’d ever seen it with my mom and he couldn’t remember.”
“What is his deal? Either he has the worst memory in the world or—”
“Or he was never there,” I interrupted impatiently.
“What?”
“Ren, think about it. Maybe he doesn’t know about the secret bakery or the confession of love at the Sabine statue because he isn’t X.”
“Oh.”
“Right?”