Page 27 of Better Than Gelato (Ciao Bella #1)

Chapter Sixteen

T he train platform at Stazione Centrale smells like urine and cigarettes, and an overweight Italian man is telling me things I pretend not to understand.

I’ve watched three airport shuttles come and go and my mom still hasn’t arrived.

I’m so amped with excitement that when she finally steps off the train, I nearly trample a group of tourists to get to her.

“You made it!” I say, throwing my arms around her.

“I can’t believe I’m here!” she says.

“Me either!”

She hugs me for a long time, and when she lets go she says, “When am I meeting Jake?”

“We’re meeting him for lunch right now.”

“I could not believe it when he emailed me about this trip,” she says. “I mean, what a birthday gift! And I wanted to tell you I was coming so bad when I talked to you on your birthday, but of course I didn’t want to spoil his surprise.”

When we get to the restaurant, Jake’s waiting out front with a bouquet of flowers.

“Mom, this is Jake. Jake, this is my mom.”

My mom shoots me an amused look. She’s noticed that my words are tinged with an Australian accent.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you in person,” Jake tells my mom. “You’ve raised an amazing daughter.” He hands her the bouquet of flowers. And that is how Jake wins over my mom in less than thirty seconds.

“Wow,” she says. “Thank you for the flowers. They’re exquisite. And thank you again for flying me out here. This is a real treat.” She looks dazzled by Jake, and dazzled by Italy, and I wonder if this is how I looked when I first showed up.

We find a table by the window and spend a long time choosing the perfect entree for my mom’s first meal in Italy. After we order, my mom asks Jake about his work at the lab and his plans for the fall. His answers are charming and impressive, and I feel a weird pride at how awesome he is.

“Thank you for looking after Juliet,” my mom says to Jake.

It’s a total mom thing to say. She makes me sound like a sad orphan Jake took in.

To make it worse she adds, “I’ve never seen her this happy. I’m glad you were able to win her over.”

“I think I’m nearly there,” Jake says. “She’s a hard girl to pin down.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I say.

“Well, there was that time you tried to break up with me when I told you I loved you.”

My mom bursts out laughing and nods her head like she’s not surprised.

“I did not try to break up with you,” I say mortified.

“Oh, but you wanted to,” Jake says, delighted to put me on the spot. “I could see it all over your face. The only reason you didn’t was because I was flying home to interview at Harvard the next morning. Tell me I’m wrong.”

Wow, I did not hide that well, apparently.

“Okay, well, we got past that.”

“We did,” Jake agrees. “A month after I got back, you stopped flinching every time I called you my girlfriend.”

“It wasn’t that bad,” I protest, but Jake is making a face like ‘yeah it was.’

I’m saved from this terrible conversation by the arrival of our food.

We devour tortellini and lasagna and gnocchi. Jake asks my mom about raising five kids. My mom asks Jake about his family in Arizona. By the time Jake walks us to the bus stop, they are laughing like old friends.

“There’s a boy who will love you forever,” my mom says on the way home. And I think she might be right.

“Are you really the mom of Julieta?” Isa asks when we get back to the apartment.

It takes me a second to realize my mom doesn’t understand.

“She’s asking if you’re really my mom,” I translate.

“Ask her if she’s really the little girl you nanny.”

I translate for Isa. She narrows her eyes, then shows my mom our special handshake to prove that yes, she is the girl I nanny.

Marco makes us chicken marsala and tells my mom kind things about me. “She’s a wonderful nanny. A very happy presence in our home. We’re lucky to have her.”

My cheeks heat, but it makes me feel good.

“Are you excited to see i nonni tomorrow?” I ask Isa. The Rossis are using Isa’s spring break to visit Marco’s parents.

Isa makes a face. “It’s going to be so boring! There’s nothing to do in the country!”

“There’s plenty to do,” Marco says. “You can ride bikes. And…” He pauses and looks at Sofia for help.

“Climb trees,” she contributes.

“Trees are the worst,” Isa says.

She’s still whining when we put her to bed a few hours later.

“She’s not so bad,” my mom says when we head back to my room.

“We’ve come a long way,” I say. “Six months ago, she would have lit something on fire.”

* * *

The next morning, after the Rossis have left, my mom and I take the train down to Rome and spend four days exploring.

We visit St. Peter’s and Michelangelo’s Pieta, admiring the exquisitely sculpted folds of Mary’s gown and the protruding ribs of Jesus as he lays across her lap.

We take a tour of the Vatican and lay on our backs gazing up at the Sistine Chapel, getting lost in its beauty and complexity.

We walk through the Castel Sant’Angelo. If we hadn’t just gone through St. Peters and the Vatican, the castle would be a lot more impressive. But we did, and it isn’t.

We spend a long time at the Colosseum. The thick walls muffle the sounds of traffic and vendors, making it feel like ancient Rome.

I take a million pictures, but none of them quite capture how it feels to be here.

We visit the Pantheon, Trevi Fountain, Le Boca de la Verita, and the Circus Maximus, which we rename the Suckus Maximus, because it kind of sucks.

Trevi Fountain is my favorite. I have no idea what’s happening or what all the different pieces are meant to represent. But the feel of it, all that water tumbling and cascading down the white rocks and statues, is captivating. I take a dozen pictures of its chaotic beauty.

“This trip has been perfect,” my mom says on the train ride home. “The photos you’ve sent us are incredible, but there’s something about seeing it yourself, isn’t there?”

“Yes,” I agree.

“I know you’ve been taking pictures since you were a kid, but seeing you here with your camera, it’s clear how much you love it. Have you ever thought about majoring in photography?”

I look at her, surprised and guilty. “Who would take over the store from Dad?” I say, hoping she can’t hear my heart pounding.

“We’d figure out something,” she says.

“How?” I press. “You were barely able to get away to come on this trip.”

“That’s true,” she says.

“Besides, I already registered for all my business classes.”

She looks at me for a moment. “You’re a good daughter,” she says.

“You can say favorite. I won’t tell the others.”

“I think they already know,” my mom says, and her expression looks so guilty I laugh.