Chapter 5 #2
“Why do you need to keep the land under control?”
He tilts his head, unknowingly mirroring Luce’s look earlier.
“It’s not as lush here as in other agricultural regions of Italy.
It can get very dry in July and August, and sometimes we can have fires.
There’s a reason why all the olive trees have so much more space between them than you’d typically see in most agriculture.
Fires can’t spread as long as the brush is clear, and cows can help with that. ”
“How do you deal with a fire once it starts?” I ask, trying not to think of my restaurant and its charred remains.
“Sometimes your only option is to hit it with fallen branches and hope for the best.”
I stare back at him. “Hit the fire?”
“Sure.” He says this like it’s no big deal, but the image is hard to shake. “As long as there’s no brush to catch, it stays pretty contained.”
“Except for the giant trees surrounding you!” I exclaim.
“Yeah, true. One time it melted the rubber base of my work boot when I was trying to stamp it out.” Okay, that’s another image I won’t be able to get rid of. He might be taken, but nothing’s going to stop my mind from fully imagining him, sleeves rolled up, battling a fire. I try to ignore it.
“So there’s some drama here in the other eleven months,” I say with a chuckle.
He rubs his hand along the fence and nods, catching my eye and holding it for a second too long. “I guess you’re right.”
The depth of his voice makes me shiver.
I never react this way to anyone, but there’s just something about this man that unsettles me and soothes me at the same time.
I know I can’t want him, but his demeanor makes me want something.
I’ve never wanted anything but my work. I don’t yearn for men, especially the kind who wouldn’t put up with someone like me. That want is unsettling.
I remember a workplace therapist once encouraging me to face distress by breathing in through my nose like I’m smelling flowers and exhaling through my mouth like I’m blowing out candles—so that’s what I do in the face of my unfortunate attraction to this extremely off-limits man and whatever bullshit he’s stirring up.
We walk again, along Gia’s fence, and then start to loop back. At the edges of the fields, where the land slopes a little more, you can see all the hilly distance surrounding us.
“Do they grow olives everywhere here?” I ask, shaking off all my internal thoughts and getting back to what matters.
“Olive trees can handle a wide range of weather but not altitude. They only grow up to six hundred meters here.”
“What grows beyond that?”
“Chestnuts up until eight hundred meters. And then birch.”
“And you use it all here?”
“Oh yeah, we use everything. My wife—well, she’s gone now—but she always said people in Maremma find a use for everything, even the sticks.”
“Oh.” The whole sentence jars every assumption I had—when Gia said “grandson-in-law,” I assumed his wife was around.
But there’s a small melancholy that’s slipped under his sunny exterior.
Has Anita ever mentioned any cousins who passed away?
Shit. I’m so insensitive here. I have no idea what to say.
And I hate the small part of my brain that has now lasered in on the fact that maybe he’s not taken.
What. Is. Wrong. With. Me? I’ve been single for all of five minutes, and what I do not need is to be sexualizing some recent widower.
Obviously this weird mental state I’m in isn’t about him—I’m probably still about one hundred steps from even acknowledging whatever emotional wreckage is living inside me.
There’s a time bomb waiting for me to acknowledge that my relationship ending hurts somewhere, and eventually it’ll probably all explode.
Maybe that’s why my body is inventing some palpable one-sided physical attraction with an unavailable man. I bet my subconscious is just loving pretending like I’m open to life when really I’m only running toward locked doors.
He doesn’t seem to notice, though. He’s lost in his own thoughts again as we walk along, Luce trotting at his heels.
“Thank you for showing me,” I say as we come back to where we started. I put a hand on my scooter’s handlebar, as though I need a tactile reminder of my getaway vehicle.
“Sure, anytime.” That brief melancholy is gone and replaced again by those watchful eyes, as though he’s got a zipper to my brain and he’s slowly pulling it down and reaching inside. “You should come see the frantoio, if you’re interested.”
“You’re going to have to forgive my ignorance on that word,” I chuckle.
“Right, right,” he says. Nico’s hand reaches down to pet Luce, who’s hopping as he scrounges for attention, but those eyes never leave my face.
“The mill, I mean. ‘Frantoio’ is the Italian word for ‘mill.’ As beautiful as the olive groves are, the mill is actually where the more interesting part happens.”
“You’re just saying that because it’s the only thing you have control over.”
“Don’t I know it,” he says softly, one side of his mouth curling up.
“I’d love to,” I say, redirecting, even as my mind screams that I have to leave before my insides tie themselves into knots so tight even the most experienced sailor couldn’t loosen them.
“We can do a Monday again,” he asks, “since that’s when you’re off?”
“Sounds great,” I reply, nodding, hoping the timing comes across as noncommittal as I feel.
I swing my leg over the scooter and put the key back in the ignition. Nico absentmindedly runs a finger along the handlebar, where my hand had just been resting. But then he balls his own hand into a fist and knocks twice on the scooter, a little auditory permission to get going.
Right. “See you round,” I say.
“Like I already told you, in this town, no one gets to avoid seeing each other, I’m afraid,” he says, that small smile back.
I give him a little wave, like the dork I apparently am with him, and I skid back, even though I mean to go forward. I can see he’s holding in a laugh, which I appreciate, but geez, I wish I could be like ten percent smoother right now.
I take a deep breath and start again. With a jolt forward, I make my way back down the road to town.