“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?”
“Who?” She looked determined to be unimpressed.
“Hadley Emerson.”
Her mouth dropped open. “Oh.”
“Lina, come with me.” He glanced at Ren. “And bring your friend.”
Ren and I followed Petrucione down a hallway into a small office cluttered with photographs. He sat down, then gestured for us to do the same. I had to move a box of negatives off of my chair.
“Lina, I was so sorry to hear about your mother. It was so tragic. And not just because of her contributions to the art world. She was a wonderful person, too.”
I nodded. “Thank you.”
“Who is this?” He gestured to Ren.
“This is my friend Lorenzo.”
“Nice to meet you, Lorenzo.”
“You too.”
Petrucione leaned forward, resting his elbows on his desk. “How lovely that you’re here visiting Florence. And what a delight that you stopped at FAAF. Violetta said something about you asking for information about your mother’s classmates?”
I took a deep breath. “Yes. Well, I’ve been trying to learn a little bit about my mom’s time at school, and I was hoping to get in touch with one of her old friends.”
“Absolutely. Which one?”
“Her name is Francesca. She was studying fashi—”
“Francesca Bernardi. She’s another one who made quite a name for herself. Had a spread in Vogue Italia last spring.” He tapped his head with two fingers. “I never forget a name. Let me have Violetta check our alumni records. I’ll be right back.” He got up and rushed out of the office, leaving the door cracked a few inches.
“How old is that guy?” Ren whispered. “Didn’t your mom say he was like two hundred years old? And that was back then.”