“Yeah, she did. So I guess that makes him two hundred and seventeen?”
“At least. And he’s superenergetic. He’d better slow down on the espressos.”
“Should I ask him about X? They kept it a secret from the school, but I could ask if they had anyone quit their job partway through my mom’s second semester.”
“Yeah, do it.”
I glanced over at the wall and my eye snagged on a photograph of an old woman looking directly into the camera. I stood up and walked over to it. “My mom took this.”
“Really? How do you know?”
“I just do.”
Petrucione bounded back into the room. “Ah, I see you found your mother’s photograph.”
“I can usually recognize her work.” By the way it made my heart hurt.
“Well, it’s certainly unique. She had a real gift for portraits.” He handed me a piece of paper, and we both sat back down. “I’ve written down Francesca’s full name and included the number to her company. I’m sure she’ll be very happy to talk to you.”
“Thank you; this is really helpful.”
“You’re so very welcome.” He beamed at me.
I’d thought I’d just get the info and get out, but suddenly I didn’t want to leave. “What was my mom like? When she was here?”
Petrucione smiled. “Like an exclamation mark in human form. I’d never seen anyone so excited to be doing what they were doing. This school is very selective, but even so we’ll occasionally have a floater slip through—that’s what we call students who are kind of lukewarm but have enough natural talent to get accepted. Your mother wasn’t like that. She was full of talent—drenched in it, really—but that’s only one part of the equation. You have to be talented and driven. I think she could have been successful by her drive alone.” He smiled. “All of the students liked her. I remember her being very popular. And once she played a joke on me. She took this very abstract photograph of a section of Ponte Vecchio and turned it in as an assignment. I’d seen enough photographs of Ponte Vecchio to last me a lifetime by then, and I’d warned the class that if anyone dared to use that bridge as their inspiration I’d fail them on the spot. But she did it, and of course I loved the photograph, and only afterward she told me what it was. . . .” He chuckled, shaking his head.
A warm, gooey feeling bubbled up inside of me. I loved it when people who really knew my mom talked about her. It was like holding her hand for one tiny second.
Ren met my gaze. X, he mouthed.
“Oh.” I took a deep breath. “Mr. Petrucione? I have one more question.”
“Prego.”
“My mom mentioned that there was a . . . male faculty member or teacher or something who resigned partway through her second semester. Do you know who that could be?”
The room’s happy vibe evaporated with a poof. Petrucione suddenly looked disgusted, like someone had just offered him a plate of dog poop or something.
“No. I don’t.”
Ren and I exchanged a look. “Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
I shifted in my seat. “Okay. Well, he might not have been around for long. I think he ended up taking another job in Rome and—”
He stood, raising his arm to cut me off. “I’m sorry, but we’ve had a lot of faculty come and go. I don’t remember.” He nodded at us. “It was such a pleasure to meet you. If you’re ever in town again, please stop by and say hello.” His voice was still kind, but final. Definitely final.
He wasn’t going to talk about X.
“Thanks for your help,” I said after a moment, getting to my feet.
As Ren and I passed by Violetta’s desk, she jumped up and gave us a smile as wide as the Arno. “It was such an honor meeting you, and I’m so happy we could help. Have a wonderful day.”
“. . . Thanks.”
As soon as the glass door sealed shut behind us, Ren raised an eyebrow. “What was that about?”
Chapter 17
“PETRUCIONE DEFINITELY KNEW WHO WE were talking about. Did you see that look he got on his face?”
Ren nodded. “Yeah, couldn’t miss it. And he’d said like five seconds before that he doesn’t forget people’s names. He just didn’t want to tell us.”
“Hopefully we’ll have more luck with Francesca.” I dialed her number, then pressed the phone to my ear. “It’s ringing.”
“Pronto?” It was a man.
“Um, Francesca Bernardi?”
He answered in rapid Italian. “Um, Francesca?” I said again.
He tsk-tsked. Then the phone started ringing again and a woman picked up. “Pronto?” Her voice was low and smoky.
“Hello, Francesca?”
“Si?”
“My name is Carolina. You don’t know me, but you knew my mom. Hadley Emerson?”
Silence. I made a face at Ren.
“What?” he whispered.
“Carolina,” she said slowly. “What a surprise. Yes. I knew your mother. She was a dear friend.”
My heart sped up. “I’m just trying to learn a little bit more about her . . . studies in Florence. You were her roommate, right?”