Sundae My Prince Will Come Page 5

Some people nodded, while others kept grumbling.

  Mr. Sneeves examined the soft-serve machine, his jaw flexing. “This machine is past its service date,” he said quietly to Mom. “No wonder it overheated. I’d like a word outside?”

  Mom paled, and guilt gnawed at me, dulling some of my anger. “It’s okay,” I told her. “I can handle things here. It’ll be fine.”

  But the moment Mom and Mr. Sneeves stepped outside, customers began grumbling all over again.

  “Please,” I started, “I appreciate your patience—”

  “We’re out of patience!” one teenage boy piped up from the back of the line.

  “But wait!” a familiar accented voice called out. “You haven’t tasted this ice cream yet.” It was Lanz, who’d appeared from inside the kitchen, holding a tub in his arms. “Who wants to try our new flavor? Fairy-Tale Ambrosia.”

  “What are you doing?” I whisper-hissed. “We don’t have that flavor.”

  He set the tub on the counter. “We do now. I made it last night at home.” He gave me an imploring look. “Trust me. For a little while? Va bene? Okay?”

  I hesitated, then looked at the crowd of frowning faces before me. At this point, I didn’t have a choice. I nodded.

  Lanz grinned, popped the lid off the tub, and slid it into an empty slot in the display. “Who would like the first scoop?”

  An hour later, the parlor was empty, and so was the tub of Fairy-Tale Ambrosia. I peered at its scraped-clean bottom, bewildered.

  “I don’t know what you put in that ice cream, but it worked like magic,” I said. “I’ve never seen people’s moods change so fast.” The customers had gone from grouchy to beaming almost the instant the Ambrosia touched their lips.

  “It’s the crushed formiche,” Lanz said with a smile. Together, we headed into the kitchen to start a new batch of ice cream for the next day. “Works every time.”

  “Four-me-kay?” I mangled the word. “Is that a special Italian ingredient?”

  “In English, I believe the word is … ‘ants’?”

  I glanced warily at his cooler, which now rested on the kitchen counter. “You mean, the six-legged crawling kind of ants?”

  “Of course! What other kind would there be?”

  “Oh. My. God.” I sank against the counter, covering my mouth. Eeeeeww. I seriously hoped there weren’t any more creepy-crawly ingredients in that cooler right now. How was I going to explain that to Mom? She’d returned from her talk with Mr. Sneeves looking even more stressed, and since the afternoon rush finished, she’d been in the back office crunching numbers. “I’m … not sure how Mom’s going to feel about bugs as an ingredient.”

  He burst out laughing. “I am making a joke! There were no ants in the ice cream. Only macaroons and marshmallows.”

  “Oh …” I shook my head, flustered. “Joking … right.”

  He tilted his head at me. “This joking. You don’t do it very often?”

  “No,” I mumbled. “Ever, actually.”

  “Well,” he said quietly, peering into my eyes. “Maybe you should try it. Your mom, I think, needs laughter.”

  My stomach clenched with sadness. I thought I was the only one who noticed. “Mom didn’t used to be that way,” I said softly. “She used to laugh all the time.” I smiled, remembering. “She’d sing in the shower. Led Zeppelin and Bon Jovi. Loud enough that we could hear her from the other side of our house. She’s completely tone deaf, but Dad and I promised each other we’d never tell her.”

  “So … what happened?”

  “The divorce.” My voice tightened. “Mom and Dad split three years ago, and since then Mom’s stressed all the time.”

  “My parents divorced, too.” Lanz began lifting Tupperware containers from the cooler. “A few months ago. That is why we moved to Florida. My aunt lives in Fort Myers, not far from here. Mama wanted to be closer to her and to our cousins. She thought the change would be good for us.”

  I nodded. “I’m sorry. Divorce stinks.”

  “Marcio. Rotten.” Lanz nodded. “I am glad that they do not fight anymore. My parents. Only … I miss us together, too, even with the fighting.”

  “I totally get that. It’s hard on my dad not being able to see me, and it’s hard on my mom being by herself. She’s lonely, even though she doesn’t want to tell me she is.”

  “Yes. My mother also,” Lanz said quietly. “She is angry, too. My papa and I … we both love creating new flavors, experimenting with food. It is something we shared. Mama didn’t understand this, or how much time my dad spent at his gelateria. And now …” He sighed. “She doesn’t even like me talking about it.” His carefree expression dimmed. “I made the Fairy-Tale Ambrosia last night with the ice cream maker Papa sent me as a moving present. We used to make ice cream together, but … no longer. He wanted me to have it since he can’t be here with me.”

  “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 the milk,” he said, “then add eggs. But accuratamente. Carefully, so they don’t curdle. Eggs make the ice cream thicker, creamier. Better.”

  He heated the milk over the stove and then beat the eggs in a bowl, his wrist moving with an artistic rhythm. When tiny, foamy bubbles formed around the edge of the pan, he smiled in approval. “Now we add the eggs. You try.”

  I took the bowl from him, then poured the eggs into the pan. I gasped as globs of curdled egg rose to the surface of the liquid. “Um … oops?”

  Lanz mock-glared. “You dumped.”

  I sputtered. “I did not!” When he kept glaring, I broke into giggles. “I dumped.”

  He took the bowl away from me. “You should stick with dancing.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

  “Ah ah ah. I’m not letting you give up so easily. We try again, yes?” He tossed the curdled eggs down the drain, mixed fresh ones, and then handed me the bowl. I hesitated.

  “Slowly and gently.” He stood behind me. “Like you were performing an adagio.” My breath caught at his use of the dance expression. As soon as he described it, I knew exactly what he wanted. He slipped his hand over mine, and I lost my breath entirely. “Like this.”

  Together, we trickled the egg mixture into the pan, slowly and carefully. This time, they didn’t curdle.

  “This takes a long time,” I murmured, torn between wanting his hand to stay on mine and feeling like I should move away.

  “Great ice cream is like great dancing. It takes patience and hard work. And also …” He flicked a bit of cold milk at me with his spoon. “Fun.”

  I splashed some milk back at him with a laugh. “Not everything is about fun.”

  “Work should bring you joy,” he went on. “My father says that life is like gelato—flavorful, delightful, surprising. But always gone too soon. So … I try to live la dolce vita.” His eyes studied me. “And for you. Dance makes life sweeter?”

  “It does,” I said. “But I’ll probably never have the patience for ice cream that I do for dance. That’s one of the reasons why Mom gets frustrated with me.”

  “Maybe search for the sweetness in the process?”

  That turned out to be easier than I thought. Drawn out as the process was, the warmth of Lanz’s palm against the back of my hand as he guided me made every second better. Then, guilt stung me. What if I was being disloyal to Ethan? On the other hand, Lanz and I were only making ice cream together. What was wrong with that?

  Still, I tried to put a safe distance between us as we waited for the egg-and-milk mixture to cool enough to put it into the ice cream machine. I focused on washing up the pots and cleaning the counters. But after we’d poured the mixture into the ice cream machine to start it churning, adding in a splash of the espresso for flavor, Lanz pulled an edition of The Scarlet Letter from his backpack and sat down next to me.

  “We have fifteen minutes before it is done churning,” he said. “Maybe we have our English lesson now?”

  “I wasn’t sure you actually wanted a tutoring lesson,” I said.

  “Of course I do,” he said, his eyes playful. “I didn’t lie to my mother. I told her half of the truth? And it’s not so much the speaking of English I need help with, but the reading of it. Maybe I should read out loud, and you can help me with the difficult words?”

  I nodded, we bent our heads over the text, and soon I was lost again. Not in the words, but in the nearness of him. It was confusing—completely freaking me out. What did it mean? I was terrified what the answer to that question might be.

  Just then, the back door opened, and the strange spell was broken. I startled, pulling away from Lanz, and glanced up to see Ethan in the doorway, with Tilly and Andres right behind him.

  “Hey—” I began, but that was all I managed to get out before the three of them rushed at me, practically knocking me over with their group hug.

  “You did it!” Tilly hollered. “Congrats!”

  My mind was still muddled, so it took me a few seconds to remember the text I’d sent them on the walk here, telling them about what had happened with Signora Benucci.

  “Thanks, guys,” I stammered.

  Ethan put his arm around my waist, kissing my cheek. I was hyperconscious of Lanz watching us together, and of Tilly watching Lanz watching us. I could practically hear Tilly’s internal radar pinging. What was she seeing right now?

  The ice cream machine beeped, signaling that the churning was finished. Phew! Thankful to have an excuse, I slid away from Ethan and out from under Lanz’s and Tilly’s gazes. I removed the metal bucket from the machine. Peaks of cappuccino-colored ice cream filled the bucket, the consistency of soft serve. It would only grow firmer after being in the deep freeze for a day.

  “Time to add the tiramisu,” Lanz said, “quickly before the ice cream starts to melt.”

  I held the Tupperware container as Lanz scooped bits of the tiramisu into the bucket. Then he added the cookie butter. He stirred only just enough to fold the dessert and cookie butter into the ice cream.

  As Lanz worked, Ethan smiled at me proudly. “It’s awesome news, Mal. What did your mom say?”

  “About what?” Mom asked.

  I whirled around to see her standing in her office doorway.

  “Oh, well …” I hesitated. Now was my chance to tell her, but one look at her
harried face warned me against it. I couldn’t risk her saying no. “Just that Tilly and I have this big English project coming up,” I blurted. “A Google Drive presentation on The Scarlet Letter.” That was true, at least. “And,” I continued, “we’re going to need to work on it after school for the next few weeks. At Tilly’s house. We have to log in our work time on Google Drive.” That part? Not exactly true.

  Ethan was shooting me a questioning look, wondering what I was doing. When Tilly met my gaze, I gave her a silent plea: Back me up on this.

  “Huge project.” Tilly groaned, taking my cue. “It counts for a lot of our grade.”

  Thank you, my eyes told her.

  “Oh.” Mom’s forehead creased. “Well, I can’t say no to a school project. But the afternoon is our biggest rush. I can’t manage on my own—”

  “I’ll help,” Lanz jumped in, shooting me a smile that made my heart dance. “I can work every day after school.”

  Mom thought it over, then finally nodded. “All right. But”—she held up a finger and looked at me—“you come to the parlor as soon as you’re finished at Tilly’s. Understood?”

  I nodded, afraid to look her in the eyes. I hated having to lie, but what choice did I have? I would tell her the truth, when things settled down at the parlor.

  “So you’re lying to your mom,” Ethan said as he walked me home under the hazy, moonlit sky. His voice was matter-of-fact, but there was a new, critical edge to it that made me squirm.

  “I didn’t lie to her about the English project.” I gazed up at the moths circling the streetlamp above the sidewalk. “I just didn’t tell her about the dancing. But I will.”

  “I can’t see how this is going to work. She’s going to find out.”

  “She is, because I’m going to tell her. Eventually.” I stared at him. “Look … why are you being weird about this? I thought you’d be excited for me.”

  “I am!” His step quickened and his hand tensed in mine. “Was this Lanz’s idea?”

  “What? No!” I was glad my blush was disguised in the evening shadows. “Why would you say that?”

  Suddenly, I was wishing we’d said yes when Tilly’d invited us back to her house for TV and pizza. Andres and Lanz had gone with her, but when Ethan had said he had Invention Convention work to do tonight, I’d said I was tired. Really, I’d been wary of hanging out with Lanz without Ethan, dreading that heady confusion he caused in me. What I hadn’t expected was for Ethan to grill me within a minute of leaving the parlor.