Chapter 9
M y walk is enlightening, but not in the way I hope. Instead of gaining insight into the grove or Giuliana I find myself teetering on the edge of life as I know it. I don’t like to throw around the word hate . It has too much power, too much of a hold over people. But at this moment, the ground crunching underfoot as I make my way back to the house, I feel it well within me.
There’s hatred for my father and for the lackey who enjoys carrying on Thomas’s legacy… hatred at myself for being like them, unable to sacrifice or give up the comfort money provides.
Giuliana is tied up, dealing with the business or more fallout from Umberto’s departure. Chiara roams the grounds somewhere, and Nonna… well, I’m not going to seek out the shrewd-eyed old lady. The way she was watching me at breakfast… studying me, as if she can see under my skin into the person beneath, is deeply unsettling.
So, I close myself off in my room, pulling the contract out from its hiding spot and poring over the words that have the possibility of changing my life forever. It’s slow going translating it all—and Google isn’t the best for it—but I get the gist.
The clause was put in place near the end of the document, stating Tommaso fronted Lorenzo’s decision to change the cultivar. Per the agreement, Tommaso would pay for the planting costs and float the farm until they could produce a satisfactory harvest. Lorenzo would then either have to pay the investment back over ten years, or relinquish the majority share.
If the company (under Lorenzo’s management) didn’t produce a consistent profit for at least five continuous years after the initial payback period, Tommaso took it all. The grove was collateral.
The way my father left things alone until now leads me to believe either they met the first part of the agreement, or my father stopped caring.
I flop onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling—at a total fucking loss.
If he was still alive… none of this would be an issue. Of course, my father is more involved in death than he’d been in life. Thomas Palmer was a cold son of a bitch. Not the kind of man who showed up to parent-teacher conferences, or graduations. The company that paid for our lives was the child he fostered into the success it became. I’m just a loser who does a disservice to the Palmer name.
I check my phone, having ignored the calls and messages since my impromptu plane ride. The only one I answer is my mother to let her know I’ve made it here fine and will be staying for the summer. The rest are a shitshow. Some are invitations to events, parties and the like. A lot of them are “friends” sharing multiple articles of me with the senator’s daughter.
Brandon even went as far as to rank a list of my past hookups by level of scandal.
The Palmer Playboy . So original.
Chucking the phone onto the bottom of the bed, I cringe a little when it bounces and hits the floor. A shout of frustration builds behind my breastbone and I fight the urge to let it loose. None of those people give a damn about me as a person. I’m a headline, an in to another party. Hell, for some it definitely is the appeal of my money. What kind of asshole can’t even conjure up one real friend?
What do you expect? If you smell like shit, act like shit… then you’re definitely a piece of shit.
Shut up. For one fucking day.
I wish the voice in my head would give it up for a little while. Reminders are unnecessary since I’m painfully aware. The inside of my cheek is raw where I’ve taken to chewing on the flesh when the nicotine patches don’t do enough to diminish my cravings. Never thought I’d end up quitting, but leaving the grove for something as small as a vape is stupid. At this point, I’ve taken it as a personal challenge to piss the voice off and prove it wrong.
I don’t need to smoke. I am more than my vices.
But there are no true friends I can turn to, no one I can unburden myself to who would understand. They all see a charmed life. The business waits—and the grove if I have the guts to go through with it. I should be grateful. Instead, I feel trapped, destined down a path I never intended to walk in the first place.
My eyes fall on the journal I took from the hotel, the contract beside it. If I get some of this out of my system, my mind won’t hate me as much. So, I sit—tucking the contract back between the books in the drawer—and open the journal. Flipping to the first page, it calls to me blank and waiting. I find a pen in the top drawer of the desk and start writing.
I shut the notebook, not daring to reread the words I’ve purged onto paper, and go in search of food. Bread and olive oil sounds pretty damn good right now.
G iuliana doesn’t rest. She functions at a level I envy and loathe. Up early each morning followed by a quick breakfast with more strange looks from Nonna, and chatty Chiara, before we head out toward the grove for lessons. Giuliana sets out with a bag draped across her shoulder and I follow her like a lost puppy, excited to learn but mostly basking in the opportunity to be around her.
A few rows into the grove, Giuliana sinks onto her knees, hands splaying into the dirt.
“We test the soil acidity with a meter. My father used to dig up with a trowel and collect samples for test strips, but it’s more streamlined now. We like to keep our soil between 5.5 and 7.5 and we increase the pH using lime or decrease it using sulfur if it’s less than ideal.”
She hands me the meter she’s brought along in the bag, urging me to stick it into the earth she’s uncovered.
We wait for a moment, the device beeping with the results and she smiles when the number hits 6.4. Wiping her dusty hands on the front of her coveralls, she looks more adorable than she has any right to.
“We’ll test at multiple points in the grove. Thankfully it’s just maintenance at this point. Years of soil conditioning have paid off. The other thing we need to keep an eye on is rain and water levels. Since the trees are bred to withstand the hot summer, at this point we have to make sure the soil retains its humidity. Rain and supplementary water are far more important in the spring and autumn.”
Walking from row to row, we alternate between checking the soil acidity and feeling it for moisture. I didn’t think testing dirt could be tiring, or understand how huge the grove was.
Not big enough to be considered a large grove, my ass.
But my skin starts browning under the warm sunlight and my hands roughen from working with the earth. I fall into a routine quickly. By two weeks since that first day in her office, I have it down.
Mornings start with a soft knock on the door and Giuliana’s attempt at a whisper forcing me from bed. I can swear I hear her mutter something about alarms before she walks off. Dressing doesn’t take very long, though I’m running out of clothing suited for time outside, doing physical work. Down to my last clean linen button-up t-shirt and shorts, I shove my feet into incredibly dusty sneakers and head down the stone floors of the house toward the kitchen.
Chiara explains to me one morning why the floors are made of stone. “The big house was built a long time ago. It’s from before Giuliana and she’s old . So, Papa built it like in the olden days to keep the house cool in the summer.”
I don’t want to contradict and say it must be miserable in the winter. Not when she pads barefoot over the cool stone floors, a huge buck-toothed smile on her face.
The little girl is a shadow, quiet until you notice her and once you do, she becomes a whirlwind of words. I don’t dare bring it up to Giuliana—don’t want to project my own damage on the situation—but I recognize the frantic energy of loneliness in my brief conversations with Chiara.
“What do houses look like in New York?” Chiara asks.
“There are a lot of different kinds, same as here. I live in an apartment at the top of a tall building. It has lots of windows and I can see plenty of the other skyscrapers around me, most of them long and skinny.”
She considers this for a moment. “Is it scary to be up so high?”
“Sometimes, but you get used to it. My father’s office is even taller and I hate going there. It feels too far up. But sometimes the views can be very pretty. People and cars look like little ants on the ground.”
Her mouth rounds into a “wow” of wonderment and I can see she's about to launch into another question, burning curiosity behind her eyes.
Giuliana steps in. “Chiara, give Matteo a break from questions. We have a lot of work to do today. You should try to find some time to play or read.”
Nonna tuts, grumbling at Giuliana in Italian. She even throws in a pointed “Giulia.” Giuliana bristles and I wonder if it’s one of the nicknames she doesn’t like. The cycle of scolding continues until they’re all grumpy but put in their place.
Once we walk to the grounds again, I work up the urge to ask.
“So, I can’t help but pick up some tension between you and Isabella…”
Giuliana gives a big sigh before she levels me with an annoyed look—and one which would have had me pulling back if this was a normal situation. But there’s nothing normal in living with your boss (technically), especially after having slept with them.
“You picked up on it?”
“Hard not to. I may not speak Italian, but I’m not a total idiot. I know what that tone of voice means, Giulia .”
My assumption is correct because she huffs at the name. “No. No Giulia. It’s Giuliana to you.”
“I’m teasing, you know. I’m not trying to piss you off.”
I stifle my smile and she softens a little, sucking in a shuddering breath before responding.
“It’s okay, just… I don’t want the workers to think I’m too cozy with you. I’m still dealing with the fallout of the mess with Umberto.” Her halfhearted shrug tugs at my insides, and the word “cozy” and all it implies settles inside me like molten honey. But I can’t slip into that, so I deflect instead.
“Only in private. Got it.” I nod, knowing I’m pushing my luck.
Giuliana gifts me a chuckle that’s half-sigh but lets my comment slide in favor of explaining the situation with her family.
“Nonna wants me to spend more time with Chiara. I understand, but I have responsibilities here. Chiara is fine when it’s not summer and she’s going to school. The rest of the year she gets to be around others her age but now… it’s isolated out here. I remember from when I was a girl her age. Except I had both my parents. All she has is me and Nonna, and acres of land.”
“How young was Chiara when you both lost your mother?” I hold my breath. It’s a difficult and personal question, but I’ve been wondering. Lorenzo’s death was not a surprise to me, but I have yet to find out about Giuliana’s mother.
“Childbirth. She had complications. They tried for many years, hence the difference in our ages. The doctors warned against it, but my father wanted a son to carry on the farm, so they kept at it until Chiara.”
“Jesus.”
Giuliana nods and her dry humorless chuckle lets me know I’ve said it out loud.
“I know my father loved my mother, and she him. I sometimes wish they loved each other a little less. If he’d cared less, he might have moved onto someone else who would give him the son he craved. If she loved him less, she might have stopped putting herself in danger for the sake of legacy.” Her words are bitter, sharp. I can almost taste their tang in the air.
“I’m sorry,” I say. It’s all I can say.
“So, yes. There is tension between me and my nonna. She wants the best for the both of us and she won’t be around forever. It’s all to make sure Chiara and I have each other for when that happens.”
“It still doesn’t mean she should give you crap for it almost every day. What are you supposed to do while you're putting a roof over everyone’s heads?”
A tiny voice in my heart pipes up that my father had been doing the same and I resented him for it.
“Nonna believes in ‘destino’ and claims no matter how hard I work, if it isn’t meant to be it will crash down regardless. She says it's better to surrender to life as it comes and take time with those most important to me. Nonna says a lot of things.”
Giuliana blushes for some reason and starts walking away, as if this conversation is over.
My hand shoots out, grabbing hers and stilling her.
“Your work counts. I see it and the workers see it. Don’t let her convince you otherwise. You can’t be everything to everyone. Sometimes it takes sacrifice.”
Nice words, asshole. What do you even know of sacrifice?
Giuliana looks down at where our hands are clasped together, the contact lasting a little too long and I feel a frisson of energy shoot up my arm. Her skin is soft and warm, familiar. Unbidden images of the feel of it spring to mind and I drop her arm like it’s burned me.
“I’m sorry. I’m overstepping.”
“No, I appreciate it. I don’t have too many friends anymore. After school most moved away, and the few who stayed near town got very tired of me canceling plans to work or take care of my sick father. The person I thought would understand turned out to be a huge mistake. So, it’s nice having someone outside of my family to talk to. I’m sorry we got off to such an awkward start.”
My mind wanders to our night in Gravina, our bodies entwined and it’s a double-edged sword of desire and pain. I wouldn’t call it awkward. Not at all. Though I’m not sure what name to give it. One-night-stand sounds cheap, incorrect somehow. There are too many muddled feelings involved for it to be so simple.
“I’m sorry about your father. I’m sure the two of you were close.” Unlike me and my progenitor.
“In some ways, but we had a difficult relationship. When Mama died a lot changed in him. He lied about being sick and avoided going to the doctor for a long time which might have made a difference—lies that only hurt in the long run. But he needed me and by the end we had made peace.” Her eyes are a little glossy and she clears her throat of the building emotion there.
“Anyway, I think we better get back to the task at hand. I have to meet with the mill owner next week to check in and set our harvest date. He will be able to explain the process to you, but first I’d better explain some terminology since his English is limited.” She walks ahead, gesturing for me to follow.
“The fruit still has a few weeks of growth left. By the time we harvest, the branches will hang heavy with some overripe fruit dropping to the ground and getting in the way underfoot. But those olives are just as important. As they decay back into the ground, they feed some of the little animals, keeping the ecosystem of the grove balanced, and enriching the soil more.”
I reach out for one of the olives, the outside firm and smooth to the touch. It kind of blows my mind how something this small creates a multi-billion-dollar industry.
“We have a big showing for the first day of harvest, and then a party to celebrate after. There’s still more to do after but the bulk of it happens on that first day. Once we’ve gathered up all the product, we try to get it to the mill as soon as possible. You’ll learn more about what happens after the harvest once we get there. It’s kind of an involved process and it will be easier to explain if I can show you.”
I follow behind her, our shoes leaving footprints in the dusty earth, and seeing it makes my stomach flip—closeness, even this slight.
The sun catches on her hair, ponytail swishing with her decisive steps as she walks ahead of me. Giuliana pauses to talk to the workers as we go. Every few rows she bends down to inspect the ground, rapid Italian to the workers followed by a brief explanation to me once the conversation is over.
“They’re worried because too much of the ground has eroded here, exposing the root system and making it vulnerable to animals. We’ll get some additional soil to add here. After we’ve got the pH balance right, it’ll be added to this spot.”
It carries on for hours and I breathe it in, soaking up every minute with her—watching. The workers treat her with respect, deferring to her expertise. Giuliana’s not afraid to get her hands dirty and by the end of the day she’s sweaty and tired. We both are.
She cares. It hits me square in the chest. Yes, she’s sassy and smart like the woman I nearly hit with the Vespa but she’s also so much more. She’s kind and firm—serious. But when she smiles and laughs, it bubbles up from somewhere deep within so you know it’s real.
Giuliana is genuine. In a world where everyone I’ve ever known is so focused on appearances and getting ahead at whatever cost necessary—Giuliana is without guile. She treats me as an equal even though I don’t have a smidge of knowledge on any of this.
I want to be who she sees—someone worthy of sharing things with, knowledge, experiences. Giuliana makes me want… more.