He nodded, still looking unconvinced. “Okay. But ‘Matteo Rossi’ is a pretty common name. It’s like looking for Steve Smith in the States.”
“We’ll find him,” I said confidently. “Think: We’ve already been pretty lucky today. Number one, we found the school—”
“That was a miracle.”
“. . . And number two, once we were in there, you thought to mention Petrucione. If you hadn’t, I think Violetta would have thrown us out on the street.” On the other side of the room a woman stood up from her computer. “Hey, look! I think one just opened up.”
I sprinted over to the computer, Ren at my heels, and we both squished into the chair.
“Want me to search sites in Italian?” he asked.
“Yes. Last we know he moved to Rome, so he’s probably still here.”
“What should I search for?”
I pulled the journal out of my purse and started flipping through it. “Matteo Rossi Fine Arts Academy of Florence? Matteo Rossi photographer Rome? Just mash up everything we know about him. ”
He typed it all in, then started scrolling down the screen, pausing every few seconds to read. I tried to read too, but none of my five Italian phrases made an appearance.
“Nothing. Nothing. Nothing . . . Something? What about this?”
“What?”
He clicked one of the search results. “Looks like an ad. In English.”
COMBINE YOUR LOVE OF TRAVEL WITH YOUR PASSION FOR PHOTOGRAPHY.
Join renowned photographer and gallery owner Matteo Rossi on a journey through Rome that will change the way you see the world. Offering several photography workshops throughout the year, Rossi will take your hobby to the next level.
“Ren, you found him! That’s got to be him.”
“Let’s look at his website.” He clicked on the link at the bottom of the ad and the website loaded piece by excruciatingly slow piece.
“Ugh. This is taking forever,” I groaned. It was like watching the ice age in slow motion.
“Pazienza,” Ren said.
Finally the website dragged itself onto the screen. It was monochromatic with a big gold banner at the top that read ITALY THROUGH THE LENS.
I grabbed the mouse from Ren, then scrolled down to read the huge amount of text on the site. Every paragraph was translated into both English and Italian, and it was pretty much all a bunch of mumbo jumbo about how unbearably happy and successful you’d be once you paid Matteo a bunch of money for the opportunity to sit at his feet. This guy was unbelievably annoying.
Ren pointed to a link at the bottom. “Bio page. Try that.”
I clicked. Then we waited. And waited. Another full ice age came and went. Finally a black-and-white headshot of Matteo loaded and I leaned in to take a look.
And that’s when I stopped breathing.
Chapter 18
THE ROOM SUDDENLY FELT EXACTLY like the wool sweaters that my great-aunt used to send me every Christmas. Hot. Itchy. Asphyxiating.
My hands were shaking, but I managed to click on the image to make it bigger. Olive skin. Dark eyes. Hair that had been cut short and then gelled within an inch of its life, because otherwise he was going to have to spend half his day trying to keep it under control.
I would know.
“Oh my gosh. Ohmigoshomigoshomigosh. I think I’m going to throw up.” I started to stand up, but the room whirled around and Ren grabbed me and pulled me back into the chair.
“Lina, it’s okay. Everything’s okay.” His voice sounded like it was coming from underwater. “This is probably just a coincidence. I mean, you look a lot like your mom, too. Everyone says so.”
“Ren, she never said that he was my father.”
“What?”
I spun around. “My mom never said that Howard was my father. All along she talked about him like he was just her best friend.”
His eyes widened. “Davvero? So why did you think he was?”
“Because of my grandma. She said that Howard’s my father, and my mom never told me that because she wanted me to give him a chance without being mad at him.” I put my hand to my heart—it was trying to knock down my ribs. “Obviously I don’t look anything like Howard, and Ren, look.” We both looked at the screen again.
“There’s got to be some kind of explanation. Maybe . . .” He trailed off.
There was absolutely no room for “maybe.”
“And ever since I got here people have been telling me I look Italian. You said so when we met on the hill. Oh my gosh. I’m Italian. I’m Italian!”
“Half-Italian. And, Lina, calm down. Being Italian isn’t the end of—”
“Ren, do you think he knows? Do you think Howard knows?”
He hesitated, looking at the picture again. “I don’t know. He has to, right?”
“Then why is he going around introducing me to people as his daughter? Oh, no.” I doubled over. “The night we went to Elena’s he had people over and I overheard one of them ask if I was ‘the photographer’s daughter’ and he said yes. He didn’t say I was his, too.”