“You miss him.” It was written on his face, even through the upbeat tone he was striving to keep. “And that doesn’t seem right of your mom. I mean, she knows you love your dad.”
“She does. Maybe just the hurt is too … fresh for her? The ice cream maker my papa gave me? She says it’s una spina nel fianco. In English, I think you say, a prick in her rib?”
“A thorn in her side,” I corrected him gently.
He laughed. “Yes … that. English is still confusion at times.”
“Confusing,” I said, then giggled despite myself.
Lanz looked at me in surprise. “So you do laugh after all!”
“I do … when something is actually funny.”
He clutched his chest. “Now I am wounded.”
“I doubt that.” I gave him a sideways glance. “It doesn’t seem like much bothers you.”
He shrugged. “It bothers me the way my mother speaks of my father. They couldn’t get along? Così sia. So be it. Only I wish for all of us to be in amicizia. Friendship?”
“That’s one thing about my parents’ divorce that went okay,” I said. “They still talk to each other, mostly about me. It’s not like it used to be, but it’s friendly enough. I just wish Mom were happier.”
“I think sometimes my mother looks at me and sees my father. She seems unhappy then, and I feel bad for causing her unhappiness.” Lanz hesitated. “I have a confession.” It was the first time I’d ever seen him looking sheepish. “I haven’t told Mama that I am working here. Only that you are helping me with English. I … didn’t want to disappoint her.”
I absorbed this as he waited for my reaction. “I haven’t told my mom yet about taking lessons with your mom at the conservatory.” I lowered my voice, glancing toward Mom’s half-closed office door. “I was about to earlier, but then she got so angry. If I told her, and she said I couldn’t keep dancing, I couldn’t deal.”
“What will you do?”
“I don’t know yet.” I swallowed down my burgeoning anxiety. “What if your mom finds out you’re working at an ice cream parlor?”
“I do not need to tell her where my English lessons are taking place.” He shrugged. “It’s not lying. Only not giving details. Sometimes, it is better to jump from the nest before the mother bird sees. What can she do once you are flying?”
I laughed, and he looked proud. “Another laugh. That is two today!” Lanz cleared his throat and ducked his head. “It is strange. I have not talked about the divorce with anyone before.”
I nodded. “I don’t talk about it much, either. Except to Tilly. I tried talking to Ethan about it once, but—” I shrugged. “He didn’t really get it.”
“But he must get you,” Lanz said matter-of-factly. “He’s your boyfriend.”
My throat hitched. “Oh, he does! Only … he takes things literally sometimes. He says my mom can’t have changed that much. That science shows it’s nearly impossible for certain personality traits to change …” I remembered how unsatisfied I’d felt with Ethan’s response, as if, by not understanding what had happened with Mom, he wasn’t understanding part of who I was, either. I didn’t like to admit to myself that it still bugged me.
Lanz shook his head. “I’m not sure there is a science for broken hearts. Or for falling in love.”
We stood in silence for a minute, letting the air around us soak up those words.
“Maybe our moms should hang out,” I said, half joking. “It could help? Like a divorcée club or something?”
He smiled. “Maybe. But … we should probably make the ice cream first?”
I laughed. We’d been so busy talking, I’d nearly forgotten about it. How had that happened?
Lanz turned and opened his cooler. He pulled out a small jar of espresso beans, and then a larger Tupperware container, which contained layers of creamy custard and ladyfingers.
“What’s that?” I asked.
He grabbed a spoon from the counter, dipping it into the container. “Tiramisu. It’s my papa’s recipe. Here. Try.”
I took the spoon from him. The custard, cocoa powder, and ladyfingers made for a smooth and crunchy texture. The custard was rich with vanilla undertones, topped with the perfect blend of bittersweet chocolate. “Wow. This is delish.”
Lanz blushed. He looks cute wearing bashful, I observed, then quickly brushed the thought away.
“Grazie. I made it last night for a new flavor of ice cream. Tiramisu, with a dash of espresso, and perhaps a homemade cookie butter swirl?” He pulled a final jar from the cooler, this one full of a caramelly spread that I could only assume was cookie butter.
“Isn’t that sort of sophisticated?” I asked.
“Well, it’s something fresh and new. But it can still have a fairy-tale name.”
I paused, thinking. “How about Tiara-misu?” We grinned at each other in agreement. “Okay. Let’s try it.”
I grabbed the milk, cream, and vanilla flavoring from our fridge, then opened the top of the ice cream maker to reveal its yawning insides. I popped the lid off the milk and lifted it, ready to pour it into the machine.
Lanz stared. “But … what is it you’re doing?”
“Making ice cream,” I explained. “All you have to do is dump the ingredients into the machine. It pretty much does all the rest.”
“Dump?” He repeated the word distastefully. He inspected the bottle of vanilla flavoring. “And what is this? Artificial vanilla?”
“Hey. It gets the job done.”
He dropped his head. “Tragic.” But even as he said it, his eyes glinted. “Ice cream needs finesse. Coaxing.” He searched in the cabinets until he unearthed some large pans that I guessed hadn’t seen the light of day in years. “First, we scald
