Chapter 8 Isabella
I wake up thinking about the man in my barn.
It's been several days since I found him, and he's still nameless, or rather he has the name Elena gave him. Lupo. It seems to fit somehow.
I make breakfast while Elena plays with her blocks, my mind wandering. He's getting stronger. I can see it every time I bring him food. Yesterday he was standing without holding onto anything for support. The swelling in his eye is almost gone. The bruises are fading from purple to yellow green.
Soon he'll be strong enough to leave.
The thought should bring relief. Instead, it sits heavy in my chest.
After breakfast, I gather the spare blankets from the linen closet, thick wool ones my father used in winter, and a pillow that's seen better days but is still serviceable.
The nights are getting colder, and I've been thinking about Lupo in that barn with only the thin blanket I gave him that first day.
"Elena, stay inside and play," I tell her. "I'll be right back."
"Can I come see Lupo?"
"No, baby. I've told you. He needs rest."
She pouts but doesn't argue, returning to her blocks with dramatic resignation.
I cross the yard to the barn, the blankets heavy in my arms. The morning sun is warm on my face, and the air smells like earth and ripening olives. It's going to be a beautiful day.
The barn door is open. I step inside and find Lupo on his feet, testing his balance and carefully rotating his shoulders. He's wearing my father's clothes, the blue shirt and brown pants, and they fit him well enough that for a moment it hurts to look at him.
He sees me and goes still. "Good morning."
"Morning." I hold up the blankets. "I brought these. The nights are getting cold."
Something crosses his face, surprise maybe, or gratitude. "Thank you. You didn't have to—"
"You'll freeze otherwise." I set them down on the hay bales, along with the pillow. "This isn't much, but it's better than nothing."
He touches the blankets, his fingers tracing the worn wool. "It's more than enough."
We stand in awkward silence for a moment. I notice he's moving better, much better. The careful, pained movements are being replaced by something more fluid, more natural.
"You're healing," I observe.
"Yes." He flexes his hand, testing the range of motion. "Faster than I expected."
"That's good."
He looks at me and there's something in his expression I can't read. "What happens when I'm healed?"
The question catches me off guard. "I... I don't know. I guess you leave, find out who you are."
"And if I never remember?"
"Then you start over, somewhere else."
He's quiet for a moment, still looking at me. "Would you want me to leave?"
I should say yes, should tell him that the sooner he's gone, the safer Elena and I will be. But the word sticks in my throat.
"I don't know," I admit finally. “You getting better is the main priority right now.”
The silence stretches between us, thick with things neither of us is saying.
"I was thinking," I say, changing the subject, "if you're feeling up to it, maybe we could walk the property. You mentioned wanting to help with repairs. I could show you what needs fixing. If you’re up to it."
His expression shifts, something lighting up behind his eyes. Interest. Purpose. "I'd like that."
"It's not far. Maybe twenty minutes if we go slow."
"I can manage."
We leave the barn together, and I'm hyperaware of him beside me. He's tall — I knew that, but standing next to him makes it more obvious. Broad shouldered. Even injured and thinner than he probably should be, he's imposing.
But not threatening. Not right now, at least.
We walk toward the olive grove first. The trees are old and gnarled, their silver green leaves rustling in the breeze. Some of them have been here longer than I've been alive.
"These need pruning," Lupo says, stopping beside one of the larger trees. He reaches up, testing a branch. "And this one has disease. See the discoloration?"
I look where he's pointing. He's right. I hadn't noticed. "Can it be saved?"
"Maybe. You'd need to cut away the infected parts and treat it. It's not my area of expertise, but..." He trails off, frowning slightly, like he's surprised by his own words.
"You know about trees?"
"I don't know. Apparently." He moves to the next tree, examining it. "This one's healthy. Good fruit production, probably."
"How do you know this?"
He shakes his head slowly. "I have no idea. But I'm looking at these trees and I just... know. It's like my hands remember, even if my head doesn't."
We continue walking, past the olive grove toward the fence line. The post I propped up last week is still leaning, the temporary stake barely holding it.
Lupo crouches beside it, testing the post, examining the base. "This is rotted through at the bottom. The whole post needs to be replaced." He looks up at me. "Do you have a post hole digger? And a new post?"
"I think my father had one. In the barn somewhere."
He stands, brushing dirt from his hands. "I can do this. It's not complicated. Just labor."
"You're sure? It's heavy work."
"I'm sure." He seems certain, confident in a way that makes me believe him.
We walk the fence line, and he points out three more posts that need attention. Then we circle back toward the house, and he notices the shutters, the loose boards on the porch, the gutter that's pulling away from the roof.
"There's a lot," I say, feeling suddenly overwhelmed. My father kept things running, and since he died, I've been barely keeping up.
"It's manageable," Lupo says. "One thing at a time. The fence first — that's important for keeping animals in or out. Then the shutters. The gutter can wait until we have better weather."
We, he said we instead of you.
I glance at him, but he's looking at the house, his expression thoughtful. Planning. Like he's already mentally organizing the work, prioritizing, solving problems.
"You've done this before," I say. "Construction. Repair work."
"I think so." He flexes his hands, looking at them like they belong to someone else. "My hands know what to do. I just don't remember learning it."
We're standing close now, at the edge of the porch. Close enough that I can smell the soap he used yesterday, see the small scar through his eyebrow, notice the exact shade of his eyes — dark brown, almost black.
He's looking at me too, and there's something in his gaze that makes my breath catch.
"Isabella—"
"Mama!"
We both turn. Elena is hanging out the front door, still in her pajamas, her hair a wild mess.
"Elena, I told you to stay inside."
"I got bored!" She spots Lupo and her face lights up. "Lupo! Are you all better?"
He smiles — the first real smile I've seen from him — and it transforms his face. Makes him look younger. Less dangerous. "I’m getting there."
"Are you going to stay forever?"
"Elena," I say quickly. "That's not—"
"I don't know," Lupo says gently. "But I'm going to help your mama fix things for a while. Is that okay with you?"
She nods enthusiastically. "Yes! Can I help?"
"We'll see." I take her hand. "Come on. You need to get dressed."
I lead her back inside, but I can feel Lupo's eyes on me until the door closes between us.
An hour later, I'm washing dishes at the kitchen sink when I see him through the window. He's in the barn, carrying tools out to the fence line, moving slowly but with purpose now. He sets everything down, then stands there for a moment, hands on his hips, looking at the rotted post.
Then he picks up the shovel and starts to dig.
I watch him work. Watch the way his body moves like he's done this a thousand times. Watch the way he stops periodically to test his ribs, to make sure he's not pushing too hard. Watch the concentration on his face as he digs out the old post, sets the new one, and packs dirt around it.
There's something almost meditative about the way he works. As if he's found something he's been missing without knowing he was looking for it.
Elena comes to stand beside me, pressing her face against the window.
"Lupo's working hard fixing things," she observes.
"Yes, he is."
"He's nice, Mama."
"Maybe."
"Do you think he'll stay?"
I look down at my daughter's hopeful face and realize something I hadn’t thought about. She's already attached to him, already seeing him as someone safe, someone good.
What happens when he remembers who he really is? When whatever violent life he came from catches up to him?
What happens to her then?
"I don't know, baby," I say quietly.
But as I watch him work in the afternoon sun, something in me hopes that maybe, just maybe, he will.