Chapter 8
T he grove stretches further than I expected. From the stone courtyard, I can see expanses of trees like soft waves cresting against the horizon. Giuliana stands beside me, gesticulating as she speaks, explaining the breadth of the operation.
“The grove isn’t quite small enough to constitute a ‘family farm’ but we don’t produce the volume to compete with larger, well-known groves in the area. What has set us apart so far is the particular cultivar my great-great-grandfather introduced to the area. They changed it again in between but my father brought it back and it has grown for over thirty years. It was considered a very old-fashioned move, but so far, it’s paid off.”
My stomach jumps, questioning whether my own father had any hand in that decision. What did Tommaso think about taking a risk here? Was he a silent partner or did he walk the same paths, stare over the same treetops as I do now?
Giuliana walks me through some of the rows, pointing out how to tell if a tree is young or old. She touches on the basic timeline but promises to go into more detail when we start our hands-on experience. All the while I think about what she said at the courtyard.
“Why old-fashioned?” I ask, surrounded by trees that, by all accounts, are comparatively young, if I’m understanding her correctly.
Giuliana’s gaze moves over to the side, set away from the rows of trees. Off to the left of the big house I see an older stone structure, the one I saw on my drive in, and behind it trees that are larger than some of the ones closest to us.
“I’ll show you.”
The walk to the old farmhouse is quiet, broken up by the snapping of twigs and the crush of small rocks under our shoes. Birdsong breaks up the silence, serene and unusual to me. It’s a far cry from blaring horns and the shuffle of feet against asphalt I’m used to. Heat sets my temples to sweating and I wipe my brow with the back of my hand once we traverse a slight incline. The view of the grove from this vantage point is just as stunning, only the trees here were planted in a more haphazard way.
Instead of a neat row, they take up space of their own. Trunks and branches twist and stretch in the openness they’ve been afforded. The fruit is visible, if a little small. But what strikes me is how old the trees look, in particular one near the crest of the hillock.
“My great-great-grandfather planted these trees. They had a bad harvest one year. A prolonged cold followed by too much rain left it unsalvageable. A lean year followed, one which made him consider some of the older varieties he’d grown up eating. Even though they were less favorable for high quality olive oil, it was worth a shot. They weren’t as easy—if harvested at the wrong time they were far too bitter. But he figured he couldn’t be any worse off than he was to begin with. The cultivar everyone lauded had failed him.”
She must see some confusion on my face because she answers my question before I can ask it. I absorb her every word —every little sigh of information she’s tucked between the dusty corners of her life.
“A cultivar is a variety of plants, in this case olives, that have been bred to be a certain way. Sometimes they’re hybrids created by crossbreeding, sometimes by accident. But it impacts things like taste, texture, and how long it takes to ripen.”
Walking up to the large tree, Giuliana raises her hand to stroke one of the sage-colored leaves. Her thumb trails over the curve of one of the developing olives. I don’t dare speak, can’t interrupt her when faced with a history I long for. My grandparents were strangers to me. I never even knew the names of their parents, let alone great-greats. Time and separation have erased them, and I’m left with a jealousy sitting sour in my stomach. Generations of her family have worked this land. What do I have to show for mine?
“They had a modest harvest, and my great-grandfather kept this strain—cared for it, and his son after him. By the time my grandfather took over, it carried him through for a few years. Not profitable enough, so after a while, it became something purely enjoyed by my family. My grandfather improved his methods and the original cultivar took precedence. Until my father...”
Giuliana isn’t looking at me—she’s barely looking at anything at all. Her eyes are lost, faraway in a memory I can’t touch.
“What was his name?” It’s a stupid question, one I already know the answer to, but I want to call her back to this moment. It’s selfish. But what else can be expected from an asshole like me?
“Lorenzo,” she says, soft, the word cradled in hurt.
I want to ask more—want to delve into the story of a man I didn’t know but who has handed me a chance at something new. But I don’t want to push, not so soon.
Giuliana gathers herself, clearing her throat before she carries on.
“By the time my father took over, the cultivar they’d been using was massively popular, the market overrun. He had two options: sacrifice prestige in order to sell a mass market product. It would have meant keeping the operation as it was but geared toward making more oil of a lower standard. Or he could start small, with the certainty of a loss for the first few years, and introduce a different cultivar—new trees to the grove.”
There’s no need for her to fill in the gaps. I can guess what comes next. Lorenzo opted for the latter, securing his success with the support of a backer. The perfect lines of younger trees cement the story.
“I assume he went small, aiming for something to set him apart?”
Giuliana confirms it, opens her mouth as if she means to say more, but shakes her head.
“He remembered the lesson from my great-great-grandfather. Although it’s a different cultivar than these old trees it has a similar taste profile, and would fare well. My father was a very stubborn man but, in this instance, it paid off. At least then. That was thirty years ago, and the trade is different now.” Giuliana sighs.
She has to innovate in her own way, to keep up with the world at large.
“And are you going to put your mark on the grove, the same way your father and great–great-grandfather did?”
Giuliana looks at me with incredulity, scoffing. “The grove put its mark on me. I’m just here to be its caretaker. Who am I to spit in the face of tradition?” The words are bitter, as if she’s thought about this a lot and is dissatisfied with how it panned out in her mind.
“I don’t know,” I say. “You’re doing the volunteer program. There was a mention of a multi-part business plan. It sounds like you’ve got ideas for something different.”
I’m not trying to push; really, I’m not. Giuliana is just too damn compelling and it’s not even about absorbing information at this point. If only I can get the frown on her face to melt away so her mood matches the pleasant warmth radiating from above.
“It’s something. We’ll see how well it goes.” Giuliana shrugs.
“No pressure, Matteo.” I chuckle at myself, trying to lighten the mood and I see a smile playing on her lips. Giuliana could have protested and tried to appease me, but she got enough of a taste of my humor the other night to know I can handle it.
“Yeah, don’t mess it up for the rest of us, Matteo. Nonna has placed a bet on you. I may have joined the pool.” She drops the words with a small smile fading when she catches herself teasing.
Why her cold professionality bothers me, I can’t say. But Giuliana walks back toward the big house, leaving me to ponder what the exact terms are.
“Hey! Hold up. You can’t drop that little tidbit and rush off.”
“I have no idea what you mean. If I’m hurrying, it’s because I have a lot of work waiting for me at the office.” It’s terse, and I can’t help but persist.
“Come on, I know you’re not the boring businesswoman you’re making a show of being. We’ll always have red wine and Gravina. No amount of pretending otherwise can change my mind. You’re a firecracker and we both know it.”
“It was a joke, Matteo. Leave it be.” Her pace is quick, bordering on a jog and I rush after her.
“Seriously. Don’t make me chase after you. Tell me the bet and I’ll leave you be.”
“Or what?” Giuliana throws it over her shoulder, the ghost of a smirk, and her pace picks up to a near jog.
“Wait!”
The pathways are unfamiliar to me. Weaving in between the trees to try and catch her, my shouted warnings are met with footfalls and the whisper of her breathing. I skid to a stop to try and get a handle on her position.
“Giuliana, what exactly did you guys bet on?” I shout after her.
“Can’t tell you. It might mess with the results!” Her voice comes from further than I expect and before I can launch after her people start to fill into the grove.
“I’ll corner you later, I swear!” I whisper-yell, hoping she’ll hear me without me having to embarrass myself in front of the other grove workers.
“Don’t threaten me.”
Her voice comes up right behind me and I startle in surprise. At least it breaks her facade and she gifts me with a laugh. My heart pounds with fright, and something else.
“The only thing I’m threatening you with is a good time.” I turn, giving her my signature cheeky smile but she doesn’t take the bait. The teasing cools from her face into that professional facade I’m starting to hate.
“I think, Matteo, it doesn’t matter what the bet is. Her expectations and mine are irrelevant. All I want is for you to learn from this experience. How you choose to use what you’ve gained here this summer is up to you.”
Her words stir up uncomfortable feelings in my stomach, the sentiment hitting a little too close to home, but before I can say any more her phone rings.
Giuliana reaches into the back pocket of her linen pants and raises it to her ear, rapid-fire Italian following. The words are tinged with anger and I wonder what’s going on. It’s hard to tell but I think I hear her say the name “Berto.”
Midway through a response she covers the receiver and whispers, “I will see you at dinner around seven. Feel free to explore the grove for today. Something else has come up. If you are hungry before then tell Chiara and she and Nonna can help you with food.”
All I can do is nod and watch her walk away, the curve of her hips as she struts back up toward the house leaving my mouth dry. Giuliana is an enigma, soft and serious. Reluctantly joking and sharp. The woman holds multitudes and frankly, it’s a little scary. It’s better I get some time to look around unsupervised.
Walking for what feels like an hour, I get lost in the grove. I won’t wander back to the house before I’ve gleaned something from the time out here. How the hell am I going to pull this off? Should I even keep trying?
Her family is here. They’re letting me sleep in the same house and feeding me. Sure, I reacted badly when Giuliana shut me down, but it makes sense? Kind of? If I was a professional and one of my one-night-stands showed up to the Palmer building the next day, I’d have HR on that in a heartbeat. It doesn’t have to go this way. If I can figure out how to get it to work for both of us…
I make it back toward the main gate, the small road stretching over hills back toward Gravina, before my phone vibrates in my pocket.
Alan.
What does that fuckwad want now? I consider hanging up but it might be important—even though I haven’t screwed anything up yet.
Haven’t you?
I answer, trying to keep the sigh from my voice. “What do you need?”
“Hello, Matt… how are you ?” he says, the way one would remind a child of their manners, but I don’t give a fuck.
My mind’s already swirling with everything that’s happened within the last few days. Another complication is the last thing I need.
“We both know you’re not calling to exchange pleasantries. So yes, I’m in Italy. I’m at the grove.”
“You’re more resourceful than I expected. Good job. I’m surprised they welcomed you with open arms.” Alan scoffs, as if my charm is in doubt.
I could have made it work even without the mix-up. I might be an asshole but I’m an asshole with a pretty face.
“Apparently, they were expecting an American volunteer for the summer. I arrived before him and assumed the role. They’re going to show me the ins and outs of the whole operation.”
And somehow, I’m going to have to figure out what the hell to do about the real volunteer, if they ever show up. My ruse could be over in a second.
I try to ignore Alan’s malicious chuckle and how slimy it makes me feel inside.
“I underestimated you. Looks like you have some Palmer in you, after all.”
Like father, like son. Both willing to screw people over for their own benefit.
“Alan, I’m not so sure about this. Even though the owner died, his family is still here running the place. Plus, they are capable and care about their employees from what I can tell.”
“Please don’t tell me you’re going soft on me. How long are they expecting you to volunteer for?”
“Until October-ish when we do the harvest.”
Feeding information to the enemy… Wonderful.
It’s easier to paint Alan as the enemy, rather than to face knowing I’m the one who poses the biggest risk to Giuliana and Abundantia.
“Plenty of time to catch them slipping,” he says.
“This feels underhanded and dirty. I don’t like it.”
“You don’t have to like it. Just do it. Now is not the time to get sensitive. There’s more at stake than you know,” Alan says, as if there’s something I’m missing.
“What else is at stake?” I pace between the rows of trees, trying to avoid running into any of the other workers. But I’m far enough from the main house that I should be safe. Plus, whoever I run into might not speak English very well.
“Your father hoped you’d rise to the occasion yourself…”
I can almost picture Alan, spinning his chair away from his desk to stare out of the floor-to-ceiling windows. The city would be sprawling around him—glass and steel, sharp and unforgiving. Alan would have a little constipated smile on his cheeks, the one where he knows he has his audience’s attention but the Botox won’t let him celebrate with his whole face.
“What does that mean ?” I grit out.
What did this fucker do now?
“You’re aware of the expectation that you take over as CEO of Palmer Enterprises within twelve months of your father’s death?—”
“Or I lose my stake in the company. I know.”
“There’s more. I didn’t only send you out there to prove you have what it takes to assume the role. Or to cover up your indiscretions. The truth of the matter is, your father wanted to make sure you were successful and not resting on your laurels.”
“Tell me, Alan, for fuck’s sake.” My strides eat up the earth and I can almost feel the walls of an invisible office closing me in.
“If you don’t prove yourself worthy as his heir—either by taking over his business or another one—your entire inheritance is forfeit.”
Rage, white hot and piercing shoots through my body and I’d kill for a fucking smoke right now. Of course, my father had another little ‘fuck you’ lined up after death. Me getting an English degree instead of my MBA must have enraged him.
It’s not only the threat to my livelihood, it’s the fact?—
“And no one thought it was important to tell me that little detail?!”
“You weren’t supposed to find out. Like I said, he wanted you to rise to the occasion on your own. Thomas wanted more for you than to waste away in a haze of alcohol and parties. You need to grow up , Matt. You’re not a teenager anymore. So, suck it up, and get shit done. Or you might not have a way of getting home come October.”
As if I want to come back to that hell hole and face you after you gleefully screwed me over.
“Is that a threat, Alan?”
“It’s a promise. You have a little over two months. If you don’t have something for me by the end of September you are officially disowned.”
“I need more time! How can I gauge their profit margin or anything important if we haven’t even made it through harvest?” I’m desperate now, clawing for some other option, anything to buy me the time I need.
“Not my problem. It’s decided by the anniversary of his death. I don’t give a fuck about the harvest and neither will the lawyers. You’ll figure it out.” Alan hangs up, silence on the other end of the line and a sick swirl in my gut as I think about what just happened.
Two months.
Two months until I either ruin Giuliana’s life or my own.
Fuck.