“Siamo arrivati,” the cabdriver said pleasantly. He glanced at us in the rearview mirror, then pointed to his meter. “Diciassette euro.”
I dug some money out of my purse and passed it forward, and then we climbed out onto the sidewalk. The second I closed the door, the cab screeched back into traffic, causing about four other cars to slam on their brakes and contribute to what was basically a grand orchestra of honking.
“That guy shouldn’t be allowed to drive.”
“Pretty standard. He’s actually one of the better cabdrivers I’ve had. Look, there’s the gallery.”
I whirled around. We were standing in front of a gray stone building with gold lettering on the door: ROSSI GALLERIA E SCUOLA DI FOTOGRAFIA
ROSSI GALLERY AND PHOTOGRAPHY SCHOOL
Rossi. Lina Rossi. Was that actually my name? Crap. It had an Italian R. I wouldn’t even be able to pronounce it.
“Come on.” Before my nerves could get the better of me, I marched over to the door and pressed the buzzer.
“Prego,” a man’s voice said through the speaker. Matteo? The door unlocked with a loud click.
I looked at Ren. “You ready?”
“Who cares about me? Are you ready?”
“No.”
Before I could think, I shoved the door open, launching myself into a large, circular-shaped foyer. The room was made of shiny tile, and there was a huge light fixture with about ten different pendant lights jutting out of it like jellyfish tentacles. A blond man wearing a dress shirt and tie sat behind a curved silver desk. He was young and American-looking. Definitely not Matteo.
“Buon giorno. English?” he said in a bored voice.
“Yes.” My voice echoed.
“I’m afraid you’ve missed the class. It started more than a half hour ago.”
Ren stepped up next to me. “We’re not here for the class. I called a couple of hours ago about meeting with Matteo? My name is Lorenzo.”
“Lorenzo Ferrara?” He studied us for a moment. “I guess I didn’t realize that you were quite so young. Unfortunately, Mr. Rossi is upstairs teaching a class. His class times vary, and I can’t promise that he’ll have the time to meet with you afterward.”
“We’ll wait anyway,” I said quickly. Mr. Rossi. For all I knew he was standing right above me.
“And what is your name?” the man asked me.
“Lina . . .” I hesitated. Would Matteo recognize my last name? “My name is Lina Emerson.”
Ren shot me a look, but I just shrugged. The point was to tell Matteo who I was, right?
“Very well. I can’t make any promises, but I’ll let him know you’re here.”
His phone rang with a loud brrrrnng, and he snatched it from the desk. “Buon giorno. Rossi Galleria e Scuola di Fotografia. Good morning, Rossi Gallery and Photography School.”
“Let’s look around,” I said to Ren. I was crazy jittery. Maybe a tour of the gallery would keep my mind off of what was about to happen.
“Sure.”
We walked under an arched doorway into the first room. The room was made of exposed brick, and all four walls were covered with framed photographs. A large one caught my eye and I walked over to it. It was a shot of an old graffiti-covered building in a big city, like New York City or somewhere, and one wall read, TIME DOESN’T EXIST, CLOCKS EXIST. There was a big looping handwritten signature in the bottom right corner: M. ROSSI.
“That’s pretty cool,” Ren said.
“Yeah, my mom would have loved his style.” Correction. She had loved his style. My sweat glands immediately went into overdrive.
Ren wandered ahead a few feet, and I headed in the other direction. Most of the photographs were by Matteo, and they were really good. Like really good.
“Lina? Could you come here for a second?” Ren’s voice was purposely calm, like when you need to tell someone they have a massive spider on their back but don’t want them to freak out.
“What?” I hurried over to him. “What is it?”
“Look.”
It took me a second to realize what I was looking at, and then I practically jumped out of my skin. It was a photograph of me. Or at least, the back of me, and I even remembered when my mom had taken it. I was five years old and I’d piled up a stack of books so I could watch out the window for our neighbor’s pony-size dog, with whom I’d had an intense love/fear relationship. I was wearing my favorite dress. I looked at the tag. Carolina, by Hadley Emerson.
“How did he get this?” Suddenly I felt light-headed. “He knows about me. This isn’t going to be a surprise.”
“Are you sure you want to stay?”
“I don’t know. Do you think he’s been waiting for me to show up?”
“Excuse me.” It was the man from the foyer. He was looking at us like he thought we might try to shove one of Matteo’s massive photographs into my purse. “Do you two have any questions?”
About a million. “Um, yeah. . . .” I gave the room a desperate glance. “Are all of these . . . for sale?”
“Not all of them. Some are part of Mr. Rossi’s private collection.”