Chapter 8 #2
“I don’t know . . .” I blow out a breath.
This is the thing I’ve always known about myself that’s hardest to admit.
The lack of femininity. The abrasiveness.
It’s what people want from a chef, unless that chef is a woman.
And it’s hard to articulate a divide that no one admits to.
“I guess I’m a little more . . . assertive than a lot of people. ”
“People or women?”
“Well, I know a lot of chefs who are women, so I don’t see it as any difference.”
“But other people do,” he says, understanding.
We’re both silent for a few minutes, watching the light-pink sky turn an inkier purple. “Yeah,” I finally say.
I don’t know why this is finally the moment where my grief over losing John comes roaring to the surface.
I’ve never felt sexy—I’ve always been too much.
I know I’m considered attractive enough, but my personality has never been appealing to most men.
John was the first man who ever really pursued me, who made me feel desired and special.
But I never actually thought it would stay, and he proved me right by leaving.
Maybe I accepted mediocrity, but it was my choice to accept it—a glove that perhaps wasn’t my style, but it fit enough to keep me warm.
And then that acceptance went away.
I think it’s why I’m so comfortable with Gia. She’s actually starting to accept me warily over time, now that she’s seen me. And that earned acceptance feels more real.
“Gia took me in too,” Nico finally says, his deep voice a comforting tether back to the world I want to be focused on. With Luce now fully in my lap, it feels easier to turn back and watch him. The tactile necessity of patting Luce is an essential buffer.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. I didn’t grow up here, actually. Everyone treats me like I’ve lived here my whole life because this was my grandfather’s farm, but I actually grew up in Rome. And my mother is British, so I spent a lot of the summer there.”
“Is that why you have a British dog?” I ask.
“My mum got him for me a few years ago,” he says with a smile. “She thought I might need someone around, and she grew up with border terriers, so I guess the joke’s on me, because I didn’t realize how constantly around he’d be.”
I scratch Luce behind the ears. He’s perked up, almost like he knows we’re talking about him and is proud of it.
I wonder if Nico got the dog when his wife passed away. But that’s not my place to dig into.
“So how often did you come here?” I continue.
“I came up a lot on weekends. But especially in the fall, I was always around for harvest. I’m the one who convinced my grandfather to actually build the mill. He never had one until I was a teenager.”
“You convinced your grandfather to start making olive oil himself when you weren’t even out of high school?” I love thinking of data-driven, persuasive but calm Nico as a kid, tall and lanky before he grew into that height.
“He always had the land, but he never wanted to bother with the machinery, so he took his olives to be milled at another place a few towns over. But once I started following along that process, I was convinced we could do better.”
“When did you start following along?”
“I was probably eight or nine.”
“Eight or nine?” I repeat.
It’s getting darker, but I can see he’s blushing a little again. He opens another small bottle of Campari and soda and takes a sip, shrugging it all off.
“I just mean that’s when I started going with him to the mill and became interested in the process. He didn’t actually start building his own mill until I was fourteen or fifteen. It’s expensive to build a mill. We had to run the projections on how long it would take to pay off the equipment—”
“We ran the projections. Meaning, like, ten-to-twelve-year-old you.”
“Yeah,” he says simply.
“Maybe the people in town treat you like you grew up here because you saved them from having to drive an hour to get their olives milled.”
At that I get one of his booming laughs, and it makes me feel warm inside. I’ve never heard a friendlier laugh, despite its sonic decibel levels. It makes Luce stand up at attention.
“Maybe,” he finally says. “My dad loved being in Rome, and I don’t think my mother could’ve handled living out of a city.
There’s a great British expat community there, and this is much too rural for her.
And over time I had . . . more attachments here.
So when my grandfather died, it was only natural I took over. ”
“Did you want to take over?” I ask hesitantly.
He thinks about it for a moment, like the thought has never occurred to him.
As though his family’s needs were what they were, and he never considered his own.
“My degree is in mechanical engineering, so I always wanted to tinker with machinery and devices. It’s easy to do that from here.
I have plenty of time for that, since so little happens outside of the fall.
It’s how I’ve been able to perfect my filter.
” I don’t point out that that’s not really a direct answer.
But he keeps going. “And I love it here. At every age, no matter where I was in the world, when my grandfather was alive, I always came back for harvest. Everything feels hopeful; everything is moving at full speed; you create something beautiful so quickly. I really love it, and Gia makes me feel like I still have family here.”
“Sounds perfect,” I say, the joy in his words seeping into me.
“Yeah, it is.” He pauses, seemingly lost in thoughts of his favorite time of year. But then he just as suddenly snaps back to it. “But you’re serious about sleeping outside? Protecting the cows?”
“Hell yes,” I say, sitting up a little straighter so he can see my resolve.
It’s a welcome bravado after letting my past get the best of my mind earlier.
This version of me—the woman who takes care of her own—that’s who I want to be.
Not the woman who gets flustered and chatty while sitting on a couch.
“Besides,” I continue, “it’ll probably take two people to equal one Gia. ”
He grins. “That’s for sure. Well, I’m glad we’re now in this together.”
“Me too,” I reply, only a little unsettled by how much I like that thought.