I Think Olive You

Chapter 6

I find a hotel, eventually. Wandering back into town, I stumble onto one a few blocks from where I nearly hit Giuliana. Making my way over—no longer keen to explore—I hope for the best. I unstrap my bags from the back of the Vespa and head inside. The proprietor’s English is limited but decent. Between that and my gesturing, I get through the room booking process.

The man types as if he has a personal vendetta against the computer, irritated by my late appearance. His eyes are crusted with sleep and his cheek pillow-wrinkled. After I pay, the proprietor walks me up narrow steps carved out of the ground. I duck my head to get into the doorway. The light bounces against walls that feel too close. They appear to have been built or rather formed out of the edge of the mountain. It would’ve felt cave-like if not for the big window letting moonlight and fresh air in.

They have USB charging ports. Oh my god, I could kiss the fucking floor. I failed to consider the world doesn’t cater to American whims. The converter plays a big part in that. Definitely my biggest mistake thus far.

Your biggest mistake was leaving without saying goodbye or giving her your number.

Shut up. I can’t afford to think about her. Sex got me in this mess in the first place. If I’m going to save my skin, I can’t get caught up like that again.

That wasn’t just any old sex. That was amazing. She was amazing.

Shut up. It’s better this way, for both of us, no matter how mind-blowing what happened between us was.

The proprietor shuts the door behind me on the way out and I collapse on the bed, exhausted, raw. Sleep drags me under without mercy.

When I wake, it’s with restlessness and a hollow ache going further than the surface—past skin and muscle. Something about last night shakes me, rattles me. I did the right thing… didn’t I? Giuliana is better off without me and it’s best we leave it as what it is: one glorious night and nothing more.

But you do want more, which is the problem.

I know Giuliana’s name—nothing else. Without her phone number or address it’s useless, and she said her stay in town is a temporary reprieve from work. She’s probably already left back to her corporate bullshit in the financial sector, I think it was? It’s better I buckle down and focus on the task at hand—the very reason I came here in the first place: the contract and my inheritance. I have to cast her and her stunning body, and those little mewls in the back of her throat when she came, from my mind.

Good luck, asshole. Good luck trying to forget that.

I pull the contract from my baggage, unroll it and set whatever I can find around the room to use as a paperweight on the corners. The contract’s in Italian, because of course. Nothing about this is going to be easy—that much has become obvious. I pull up the translation app on my phone, point the camera at the first page, and try to make sense of the mangled interpretation of legal jargon. All I need is to figure out the location of the property. The rest can wait.

There’s a journal beside the bed I decide to pilfer for myself (never know when the writing degree I fumbled through might come in handy). For now, I transcribe what I understand to be the address onto a pad of paper. Flipping through each page of the contract until I reach the end, I stare at the sprawling signature that used to belong to my father. Grand even in death.

The press of ink to paper was heavy and sure, the swirls of his name signed with flourish and confidence. It’s longer than the one I’ve seen most of my life. Tommaso seemed to have taken his time to sign, to consider. Thomas scribbled the same quick flick of his wrist onto so many papers, indiscriminate.

What stands out from my pathetic and quick translation attempt is two things: first is the address. It’s easy enough to make out even in Italian and, according to another Google search, not too far from Gravina. Lastly, Alan made it sound like my father waited for the endeavor to fail so he could sweep in and take it for himself. It’s the very thing Alan encouraged me to do, but nothing in the glimpse I’ve taken at the contract leads me to believe it was my father’s first intention. Tommaso invested a good sum of money into the venture, and he held a stake in the company. But the language suggests it was an investment for something other than profit.

And that’s the biggest shock of all. Thomas Palmer lived and breathed the bottom line.

With him gone, I have no way of knowing if any of this was true—if the man I glimpsed in this contract could truly have been the father I knew. And if so, what changed him so drastically? What drove him from this place?

All I can do now is try to find answers. I want this chance to make something of myself and learn about a life that could have been mine had a few things been different. So, I change into clean clothes and ready my belongings, phone charged, and the contract safely tucked into my backpack.

Breakfast is a quick pastry though it’s practically lunch at this point. Since I’ve slept so late, I ponder my next move as the sun arcs across the sky. My vape is almost dead, and the adapter isn’t the only thing I’ve forgotten in my excitement and haste. I’m fucked with no charger packed and no vape shop I can find in the vicinity. Should I turn back toward a bigger city? It’s an hour in the opposite direction from the farm. Is it worth it or a waste of my time? I don’t want to need it, yet the itch under my skin spreads as I panic a little.

My crutch gone out from under me.

But I’m here for a reason, and the longer I put it off the more bullshit is going to grow in my brain and stress me out. Might as well rip the band-aid off. I opt instead for nicotine patches from a local pharmacy, too vain to consider cigarettes. The smell alone would put anyone off, and stained fingers and teeth do not appeal to me at all.

At worst, I’ll make the drive into one of the cities once I’ve found the farm.

The address is about twenty minutes outside town, roads curving along the landscape. The Vespa rumbles down the streets of Gravina—the fortress where my own stone walls have been compromised, and I ache at the thought of Giuliana back in that bed in town. I wanted to stay, curl my body around hers, and indulge in her again until my brain finally calmed. But I’m not meant for… intimacy. It’ll hurt us both if I try.

I follow the twisting roads, up and down hills between vineyards and groves, and the sweet summer breeze teases my senses. It varies with each turn—the fruit and earth and flowers. Why did I never open my eyes to everything outside New York? All I’ve done is ignore what the world has to offer, which was a mistake. I’ve missed out on so many small delights while I hid in sharp-edged pleasures.

How can a life of excess be so deprived?

By the time I make it to the address, I have a fair layer of dust and sweat on my skin from where the asphalt turned to hard-packed earth and summer made her presence known. The Vespa comes to a stop and I look up at the sign arching over the road. Half a mile to go according to the GPS, straight ahead, but when I get there the name is missing from the sign. There’s no mention of Abundantia . The arched wood has been sanded, or painted over. Something there has been scrubbed away, yet to be replaced.

Still, perhaps I can ask the owner about it. It’s possible I’ve taken a wrong turn.

The bike jerks, bouncing on the uneven ground of the one-lane road. I make it to the top and the view snatches my breath away. Not just a farm. Rows upon rows of olive trees, gnarled and reaching, leaves vivid in the sun. In the valley, I see a glimpse of a stone building with a terracotta-tiled roof, surrounded by overgrowth with no path. On the other side, there’s a larger home. White and villa-like in appearance, it’s where the road I’m on ends.

I follow, taking in the scope of the property as I continue. My driving slows as the pebbles under the tire make the ride difficult. A woman steps out into the road ahead, waving her arms for me to pull over, the cloud of dust behind me choking.

Sun-bronzed skin glints with sweat and her smile is bright and open when I stop. Her dark hair is pulled back and she has wrinkles spreading out beside her smile.

“ Buona sera ?” she greets me and I feel like a total ass. I haven’t even bothered to learn basic greetings before coming here.

“Hi,” I finish, turning the key to silence the sound of the Vespa, and giving an awkward wave.

“ Ah , Americano?” Her eyebrows raise in question.

“Sì,” I say, the only fucking Italian I know besides goodbye.

She claps her hands together in glee and gestures for me to follow her. “ Vieni ,” she urges, pointing toward the white villa I saw on the hill.

I dismount and push the bike alongside her. I can tell she wants to talk to me—she keeps looking over—but the language barrier is something I have to work on and fast. Frankly, it’s embarrassing and in poor taste. I can’t expect everyone to cater to me or my language. Especially not if I’m going to take over here. But she does speak.

“You here to help? America?” she asks, trying to bridge the gap.

I nod. Because yeah, in the truest sense I am. It appeases her and she gives me another smile, nodding as if she’s happy with the state of events.

Are they expecting me? Maybe there is no new owner after my father’s partner died. I know it’s foolish to hope, but there’s a chance this may go perfectly. If they know I’m coming or want me here—it’ll be what I need to make my new start. This is my opportunity to forge something, to grow away from my past.

The walk up the hill is a little strenuous when one contends with the weight of a bike and bag I’ve strapped to the Vespa, but any exertion is forgotten as I take in the scenery around me. By the time we make it up to the villa I’m filled with the urge to walk the land and marvel.

The lady urges me to stay and wait as she goes inside. Biting back a laugh, I watch her try to command me with gestures and body language alone. Still, it’s effective. Even though she looks like she’s trying to calm a rampaging bull, I stay put.

I can hear faint voices—raised and angry—from the house and behind me in the grove are others. Some laugh, some talk. Birds sing with unfamiliar calls as they swoop from tree to tree, and I watch with fascination as one dives down to peck at the ground. These don’t look like American birds—the plain and small sparrows or the lazy pigeons I’ve grown up with. The bird flitting between ground and sky is a beautiful combination of light blue and green. Vibrant.

I’m so caught up in taking it all in. The trees sway with the wind, leaves rustling as the branches arch and flex in the air. Voices of those within the grove carry on the breeze. I’m so transfixed I don’t notice my guide’s return. She beckons me and I set the Vespa down, kickstand out, to follow her inside.

As we walk inside, a man around my age storms by us and shoulder checks me—rushing out of the house with a sheaf of papers fisted in his hand.

Weird. But my guide doesn’t wait for me to consider what that might be about.

Fans spin in almost every room we pass to circulate the air and combat the heat absorbed by the house. My guide rushes me through the hall and I catch glimpses of the interior of the house. There’s a vague impression of cream and dark furniture, high-contrast. Even within the design of the house—the light walls throw the beams across the ceiling into relief, emphasizing the dark wood lending support to the roof.

At the end of the passage, I see an office. The wall I can spy through the doorway is mostly taken up by windows. A large mahogany desk sits centered in front of the windows, facing outward. The chair behind it is turned toward the windows as well—as if whoever works here wants to be able to see the grove while they do and cares little for greeting people who come through the door. The farm is more important than business, clearly.

Whoever sits at the desk now is unaware we’ve entered the room.

“ Signorina ?” my guide asks, presenting me to the room.

A female voice sighs before she speaks and a shock of electricity edges through me. There’s no way.

“Oh, our American friend? I’m glad you made it, although I must admit, we weren’t expecting you so soon.” Papers shuffle on the desk as if she’s preparing herself and her things before turning. “I’m so grateful you signed up to test out the volunteer program for us. I’m hopeful it will signal a big change for the grove; one you will benefit from as well.”

Her voice clangs inside my head again. It couldn’t be, could it? The warmth of the voice fills my mind and mingles with memories of tangled limbs and heat. But before I can focus on the possibility, I’m struck with confusion. Clearly there’s been a mix-up, or at least a case of mistaken identity. The last thing I’m here for is volunteer work. I’m here to see about a transition into power, to step into the spot carved out for me by my father’s name and turn it into something wholly my own.

I open my mouth to explain the confusion and clear the air. My tongue works to ask where the hell I can find Abundantia .

But then I see it on the wall—off to the side—an old wooden sign not dissimilar to the one being replaced above the road. Only this is weathered and scarred with age and the elements. Abundantia had been carved there. The paint which made the word stand out against the woodgrain is chipped and missing in places, but it’s unmistakable. I’m here. I’m here .

I pivot in my mind, trying to find the words to explain why without fucking up the first impression that will determine my future here. Clearly, she’s running the show, if not an owner, then a foreman or something. The last thing I need is to alienate her before my claim is substantiated and unshakable. I step forward into the room, wiping my hands on my shorts to dry the clamminess covering my palms, in order to shake her hand.

The chair starts to turn and I take a deep breath, bracing myself for what stands between me and what I’m coming to believe is my destiny. I’ve deluded myself into thinking it might be Giuliana. There’s no way she’s here. By her own admission she lives a world away from Gravina and works in commerce. It’s my mind being a dick again.

I steel myself, schooling a charming smile onto my face and letting the facade slip into place. She stands from her chair, looking down at the papers in her hand for a split second. But in the space of that second before she tilts her head upward—a breadth of a moment—I feel my stomach plummet to my feet. The world spins, and I wonder if this is what it feels like to have the bends, to ascend or drop so fast your body revolts.

No.

No.

Life is fucked up but it can’t be this cruel.

She looks up, large dark eyes shadowed, hair tied back but the dark silk unmistakable. Giuliana’s fragile smile dies on her face, her eyes locked on mine in a way that screams louder than anything she might have said right then. I drink in the sight of her like only she can quench the thirst inside of me.

“ Patrizia, lasciaci, per favore ,” Giuliana says it without breaking my gaze, without moving a damn muscle. I want to rage at her composure because it feels like I’m being torn apart.

I ran from her and chose to be a coward because knowing I might want more from her than one night of oblivion scared me. And because the universe has some sick sense of humor it brought me back to her regardless.

My guide departs, shutting the door behind her, and I wait poised to see what Giuliana will do next.

“ You. ” It’s a whisper—a curse. Her hand tightens on the top of her chair, knuckles white. A familiar twist of rage mars her beautiful face. Giuliana takes a step toward me before stopping herself.

“You left. How can you show up here after—” Anger moves through her body like a rippling wave. Her expression cracks into something sad for a moment. Plush lips tremble and her eyes widen in shock before she packs it away and transforms it into a cool mask of indifference.

“I… I didn’t know…” I say, lamely. But it’s true—I had no idea.

“It doesn’t matter now.” Brittle words drop like stones between us and she finds her body. Unnatural stillness gives way to her pacing in front of the desk.

“Giuliana, I’m sorry.” It’s inadequate.

“It clearly didn’t matter to you so just leave it. I don’t want to talk about this with you.”

She turns her back to me, staring out at the windows as if the matter is settled.

“In my defense I had no idea you owned a farm , let alone this one,” I hiss. “You said you worked in finances far away from Gravina.”

Whirling around, Giuliana pins me with a glare. The anger peeks through again and I watch in fascination as the fiery woman from yesterday stuffs her feelings down with a handful of breaths. Her words are professional and calm by the time she speaks again but I can see the faint mark of where my mouth kissed a bruise into her neck last night.

“The grove is a world away from the city. And farming is a business. I needed an escape from the pressure, not a therapy session. Sorry for not imparting my life story to a stranger and—forgive me—but you didn’t exactly nudge much further than my bedroom door.” It’s haughty. Her defense is almost comical to me given how upset she was at my appearance. Hypocritical.

Giuliana carries on regardless. “It’s in the past and we both need to forget it ever happened.” Waving a hand at me, she dismisses me and last night as if it did mean nothing.

“But,” I protest, the truth poised on my lips. There’s been a giant misunderstanding between us.

“But nothing, Matteo. You made no promises to me. You took what you wanted and left like a thief before sunrise.” A bitter laugh from her throat crumples my resolve. Giuliana smooths a hand over the silky hair I splayed my fingers through last night.

The memory leaves me hot and aching, and I picture the strands of her ponytail wrapped around my hand as I pull?—

“It is what it is. We had no idea and it’s unfortunate. But if this is going to work, we need to keep it professional.” She is still talking. Fuck. Get it together. “No one can know what happened. Not. A. Soul.”

The words lash against me—almost desperate in their ardor—and I’m confused. I know why it’s a problem for me. This entanglement complicates my situation. But what’s causing an issue for her? Besides the fact that I was an asshole and skipped out on her. Is it to salvage her pride?

Giuliana must read the question on my face and she launches into an explanation—one I grip onto with both hands.

“I need this volunteer program to work. This season with you has to be a success, and that cannot happen if...” She trails off, looking at me—really looking—until she shakes her head as if to clear it of all traces of last night and starts pacing again. “It is unprofessional. If word comes out I was involved with one of the volunteers the program will be in the ground before it even starts.”

“The program?” I ask, unsure what she’s talking about.

“Training a volunteer and having them work the summer in exchange for room and board. We’re starting small until this can grow into volunteers, plural, helping with the harvest and learning the trade. It means nothing to you, I’m sure. But I’m trying to clean up the mess”— her voice cracks a little and she clears it before she continues, wiping away her tears before they can fall—“left behind after my father died earlier this year. The volunteer program is step one of my business plan. I understand if you don’t feel like you can carry on with this anymore, but I implore you. Don’t let this venture fail because we made a drunken mistake.” Her feet still again, this time she stares out at the grove, her hands gripping the top of her chair.

The words careen around my mind like rogue bullets until they find a target. “Drunken mistake” turns out to be it. The word echoes within—settling into the marrow of my bones and covering me like a cloak.

Yeah, that about fucking sums it up. Drunken Mistake. Heck of a title but you live up to it, don’t you?

In my hurt I can’t formulate anything to say, not when I’m in turmoil inside. Giuliana thinks I’m here as part of a pilot program to draw interest in the farm and drum up business? She’s under the misapprehension I’m here to be her savior . The irony sits on my throat, choking me.

The universe has handed me the opportunity to get exactly what I want.

Guilt stings what little conscience I have, because she’s still grieving and I’m about to rip the rug right out from under her. According to the bit I glimpsed of the contract, for me to get control of the farm she will have to fail. I have to prove her efforts futile and lacking.

In doing so I lose whatever chance I might have had with her as well. There’s no way to have both. Not unless she opens herself up to me now and gives me a reason to believe it could be possible. The truth has to come out, now. Her dismissal in the face of what we shared hurts and that aching side of me wants to raze the place down around us. The part yearning for more of her hangs suspended, testing.

“Drunken mistake?” I whisper, my brain unable to conjure up anything useful.

She turns to look at me, the regret on her face plain. I feel my hope curdle.

“Matteo, please. Be reasonable. I’ve taken out loans and put everything on the line to see this through. The farm is lost to me if I fail. This place is my whole life.” She gestures around her, unknowingly holding the grove in the palm of her hand from this vantage point.

“I cannot be distracted by casual sex. Will you still help me? I know it’s unfair to ask but it would mean a lot to me if you stayed and finished what you came here for.” Her eyes plead and I feel the nerves in my stomach—the ones that sprang to life at seeing her—hardening into a stone.

She inadvertently makes the choice between her and my mission for me. Handing me the keys to my success, she tells me in the same breath last night was nothing but a meaningless distraction.

Fucking brutal when the shoe is on the other foot, no?

My inner voice stokes the anger roiling within. Fine. I’ll finish what I came here for and I’ll give her what she wants. Distance. My father’s voice rings in my mind, a reminder this is business. Not pleasure.

And like that, I choose the coward’s path again, swallowing the truth that tastes like bile on my tongue. My plan forms. Under the guise of being her volunteer I’ll get to see firsthand how the business works and what kind of rough shape it’s in. When the time comes, I’ll take what’s mine.

“Fine. I’ll do as you ask.” The anger in my voice is palpable and her face shutters. The open woman from last night—so sure of her place—tucks her emotions away again as she nods at me. Is she pleased to have gotten what she wanted?

“I’ll show you the ropes tomorrow, and we can go over what the season will look like. Since you arrived earlier than expected, I haven’t carved out the time to do so today. For now, I’ll take you to your room.” There’s no waiting as she walks ahead of me—not looking back to see if I follow. I rush forward, climbing the steps scant feet from her body. If I reach out, I can touch her. If I touch her, I can pull her against my chest and prove last night was more than a mere distraction.

Rounding the corner, she opens a door. Giuliana’s careful not to enter, taking a step back when I come forward. Her hand grips the doorway as tightly as she clutched my back last night. I look down at her, at the smooth expression she has trained there. Her lips thin—the only sign of emotion, and she nods.

The luggage I’d strapped to the back of the Vespa has already been carried inside and placed beside a desk. A double bed is centered in the room and the covers are an inviting shade of blue. Light fills the room from the window and it lends a cheerful air—perfect for a volunteer to live and learn in.

Perfect for me to orchestrate her ruin, and my own truth be told.

I know what has to be done, but whether I can go through with it is a different story.

Hardening my resolve, I clamp down the hope that surged in my chest for the split second when I saw her again, and turn back to her.

Giuliana shuts the door, closing the channel between us and cuts off the part of me that wants more of her. The part of me that might have wanted to help and had some grand delusion of being a better man fizzles out into nothing.

No, she’s made it clear what’s most important to her, and for a moment… for one minute of insanity I almost forgot what I came for in the first place. If I fail at this the business and this grove will be lost to me. I can’t believe I nearly lost sight of what is most important. Abundantia will be mine. I’ll be sure of it.

Peace is an illusion and what she offered me last night was a falsehood. It’s time to get down to business.

Guess you are a Palmer after all.