Chapter 16
W hy does the bed always feel best when I have to leave it? Giuliana’s hands shook me awake multiple times last night but our brief conversations never strayed back to that vulnerable place. Now, I’m left with the fuzzy tired feeling of interrupted sleep and the dread that returning to reality brings.
We don our clothes from the night before. A headache splits my skull from the fall and not a hangover for once. The ring still rests around Giuliana’s finger and something fizzes inside of me to know she’s slept with it on. We pack our stuff into my backpack and tidy the room, ready for checkout by ten. No words are exchanged except for a soft good morning and stolen glances.
Francesca greets us both with a smile and congratulations before setting us up for the tour. The space has been transformed back to normal, wedding tables and chairs a hazy memory from last night. The ballroom is now a sitting room with little groupings of armchairs and end tables. It feels kind of like a hotel lobby—a place to enjoy a coffee as you stare out at the grove.
It’s luck, or serendipity, that the owner decides to do the tour for us.
“We really don’t want to put you out!” Giuliana insists but the older man shrugs us off.
His black hair is shot through with silver at the temples—distinguished; exactly the kind of man you’d picture owning a grove or a vineyard, capable and smooth. When we shake hands, calluses brush against my palm and I know he’s more than just a paper-pusher. Like Giuliana, he’s involved. He works hard.
The grove is bathed in warm midmorning sunshine, and I wish we were lounging by a pool or something. When all this is over and I get back to New York—whatever I get back to—I really need to take some time to just be. I’ve been running from myself for so long I don’t know how to exist in a space for the sake of it. It might be time to figure it out soon.
The owner—Claudio—tells us about how the grove was passed down from generation to generation, son to son. His story is similar to Giuliana’s—this is still a family business, one that pivoted when times got harder. The villa has been expanded on and upgraded through the years and about five years ago he made the choice to open it up as a boutique hotel and wedding venue to supplement their income.
“Well, it’s beautiful and you’ve done a fantastic job!”
“It wasn’t easy. It still isn’t, but seeing people enjoy the home I grew up in and the land that’s part of my blood is all worth it.” Claudio’s pride is evident and the way he talks about it sounds so much like Giuliana that I can’t help but smile.
We walk some more of the grove and stop near the house to try the olive oils and vinegars they’ve produced. Bread and oil. So simple, yet the livelihood of so many people—the legacy they get to leave.
Giuliana thanks him for his time, another genuine handshake shared between us and Claudio, and then it’s time to head back to Abundantia and the work awaiting us there. When we greet Francesca, she slips us a business card to consider the hotel for the wedding or even a honeymoon location and I chuckle. Ballsy. Kind. She’s been lovely throughout this experience.
Giuliana and I settle onto the Vespa and the wheels crunch over gravel as we head back to the main road. The drive takes less time than it did before, or I’m just so reluctant for it to end I wish time would stand still. Pulling up to the house, we stand on shaky legs. Giuliana considers me for a moment, something akin to regret on her face.
“Matteo,” she says on a sigh and I know it’s back to business.
“I know.”
Tugging the ring from her finger, Giuliana places it in my palm and curls my fingers shut around it. The stone cuts into my flesh and I tighten my grip, hoping it’ll break skin.
Giuliana looks like she wants to say more but then Patrizia comes rushing out the front door, a slew of frantic words barraging us. Wasting no time, Giuliana heads into the house and throws over her shoulder like an afterthought, “Something important has come up. Why don’t you take some time off for the weekend and we’ll start back up on Monday, okay?”
Not waiting for my response, she disappears inside. The walk to my room is slower, reluctant. The backpack slips from my shoulder onto the floor. I drop my phone onto the bed and then proceed to fall face first onto the mattress. I unleash a burning scream of frustration into the covers before I collect myself. Unzipping my backpack, I reach inside for the ring box. I tuck the ring inside and throw the box and my journal back into the desk drawer, hidden. Out of sight.
T he following morning, I change into my grove clothes and head down toward the old farmhouse. Giuliana never said whether she intended to convert either the main house or this older building into the B&B, but it’ll need to be inspected and cleaned out.
The grove is quieter than I’ve ever experienced with most employees away for the weekend or their midday rests—something I wish was a staple in the US because disappearing to eat and relax in the middle of the day would be amazing. Mostly, my father never even took a lunch break.
The untamed brush near the house almost swallows the path. I’ll have to tackle that soon to get wheelbarrows and stuff through here. There’s a broken window on the lower level but the walls are still in good shape. No cracks that I can see. Part of the facade is covered in beautiful creeping greenery. The door needs a new coat of paint. It hangs lazily off the hinges when I push my way inside and I add new mounting to my growing mental list. Screws pull away from the doorframe and the wood drags along the stone floors. I have to prop it up just to swing it all the way open.
I’m not sure what I was expecting but it wasn’t furniture. Not much, like the main house, but there’s a small console near the door and I can picture old envelopes of mail tossed there along with house and car keys.
The narrow foyer leads into a heavy staircase against the wall and beyond that an open door to the kitchen. The settee in the living area hasn’t fared well. Feathers and padding are scattered around the floor along with leaves and dust. Some animal made its home in the cushions at one point since this place was abandoned. This is the room with the broken window and it shows.
To the left is a dining room and a sturdy wooden table scarred with age and years of disuse. Four chairs sit around it and I’m unsure if the set is incomplete or if it’s only supposed to be four.
My feet pull me up the stairs and I’m helpless but to follow the whim of my body. I can picture what this place must have looked like when it was loved and cared for. Did Giuliana ever live here? Or did they move into the big house before she was born? The ghosts of laughter—of lives—seem like they’re embedded in the walls.
History. All I feel in Italy is a history I’ve never had the luxury to have. Thomas and Genevieve Palmer changed residences as soon as they stopped feeling en mode. Only the best, only the newest, to distract from the restlessness of their lives. No wonder I’m so unsettled and unable to stand still.
Did my father walk these floors? Did he know the family living here or was he a silent partner? Just what was his involvement because I really can’t picture it? I can’t marry the images in my mind of the aloof man I knew and the type of person who would’ve helped this grove.
Upstairs is emptier. The bedrooms are naught but bed frames and furniture too heavy to move out, or too old-fashioned to be considered worth it. The bathrooms are revolting. Thick rings line the insides of toilets with no water in them. Sinks and tubs are yellow with age, and the musty smell of stagnant water permeates the space.
It’s going to be hard work. It’s going to take a while. If I throw enough time and money into this, I could potentially have it ready for her by the end of the month. Before I get cut off.
Hiding it from Giuliana—or potentially asking her to leave it up to me—is going to be near-impossible. But this is my chance to make amends, to fix what she doesn’t realize is broken, and prove I can do something on my own.
It’s not running a grove. It’s not a business takeover. Fixing the old farmhouse is not what Alan or my father had in mind when they told me to make something of myself. But it’s an opportunity I’m grabbing with both hands. Firstly, I’m going to need to clean—clear out the brush and the rooms, then I can tackle the walls and the floors.
I trek back to the big house and encounter Chiara, the young girl leaving the kitchen with red sauce on the side of her mouth and the unbridled energy of someone who’s been made to sit still for too long.
“ Buongiorno , Matteo.”
“ Buongiorno , Chiara. Is Nonna nearby?” Isabella is the only one I can think to ask who might keep this secret for me, at least for today.
Chiara gestures with her thumb to the kitchen. “Do you need me to come with you?”
“Yes, please.”
Both of us file into the room where a plate waits. I’m not sure who it’s for but Isabella makes me sit with a wave of her hand and an insistent “ mangiare ” which again isn’t hard to decipher with context clues.
“It’s called ‘ melanzane ripiene ’ and they’re stuffed eggplants,” Chiara informs me.“I, uh… Giuliana told me to keep myself busy so I thought I might do some yard work?” I explain between mouthfuls. “Do you have any gardening equipment, gloves and the like to protect my hands?”
Best she believes it’s for vanity—me not wanting to rip up my soft palms (although I already have some calluses from helping on the grove).
Isabella gives me that look again, the one where she makes it very clear she’s aware of my bullshit, but for whatever reason she lets it slide. She makes Chiara promise to take me out to the shed for anything I need and I finish my delicious meal.
“Nonna says I have to show you the tools and stuff. It’s dark in the shed but you can look inside. I’ll just wait with you.” It’s cheeky and I kind of love that Chiara is making the limits of her help very clear.
“ Grazie , Isabella… Chiara. Seriously, you’ve both been a big help.”
Chiara translates and I get a wry smile from the old woman, her response relayed through her granddaughter as we head back out for my secret mission.
“She says don’t mess it up. And also, you can call her Nonna.”
“ Grazie, Nonna. ”
Isabella gives me a little ‘humph’ of agreement before shooing us out again and telling us dinner is at seven. With that I’m left to my own devices (dangerous) and at the mercy of a seven-year-old who will be far too curious for her own good (terrifying). All I have to console me is the hope this will be enough. What I’m able to give Giuliana is at least a small gesture of apology and support.
Digging around the shed, I grab shears, heavy-duty gloves, and a rake for outside. For inside, I find a large push broom, a bucket, and several old rags.
“Chiara… can you keep this secret for me?” I ask as we carry the items up the hill toward the old house.
“Giuliana says secrets are bad.” Fuck. Of course, she does. She’s trying to set a good example for the kid and as usual I’m asserting my bad influence.
“Okay. Not a secret then. A surprise.”
Chiara nods, a giant smile lighting up her face, missing teeth and all.
We crest the little hill and the house is in view, every dilapidated inch.
“I want to help Giuliana, surprise her by cleaning up the old house. I don’t want her to know yet because she’ll want to help and she’s already so busy with the grove.”
The little girl looks down and gives a solemn nod.
“Nonna says she looks old and worn down. All she does is frown and worry, and she’ll never find a man to love her because her face is always miserable and crinkled like an old prune.”
I laugh at that, fully in disagreement with her looking old and worn, or like an old prune but I don’t fight it. To Chiara, Nonna’s word is law. Who am I to argue with the old lady?
“Exactly, so I want to help her with this so she has one less thing to worry about. Can you keep it between us so she doesn’t have to take time on this as well? Will you help me?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Can you come fetch me around six so I have time to clean up before dinner? Can’t have her figuring it out on day one, yeah?”
She laughs and gives me a thumbs up. “I’ll bring you some water, Teo!”
So excited, so happy to be involved. Hearing the nickname jolts me and I wonder why she’s decided to use it. Has Giuliana called me that in private?
I try not to let it get to me. It could just be a common thing, a colloquialism. I’ve never had a nickname before—not when I basically go by one on a daily basis. But “Teo” is so much more than Matt. It feels special. It’s Giuliana’s voice wrapped around the word like a secret she’s kept to herself all this time.
I swallow the unexpected emotion sitting on my throat and give her my thanks. Watching her disappear back into the grove, I’m left with a feeling of “what now”? Where do I even start?
Grabbing the thing closest to me—shears—I hack into the overgrown foliage covering the path. Sweat gathers along my temples, droplets snaking down my neck. By the time I’m done, a pile of growth sits beside the front door and my shirt is plastered to my back. Chiara rushes over with a few bottles of water and skids to a stop outside the door, looking over at the large pile of greenery.
“ Wow . I’ve never really been here to the old house but this is a lot. Are you going to fix it?”
“Yeah, that’s the plan. I’m going to clean it out this weekend and then I’ll see what else needs to get done after that.”
“Do you need help?” Sweet, searching. Like she’s afraid I might say no and send her away.
“That would be wonderful, thank you.”
Her smile is back and she enters with wide eyes, taking in her family’s history and the living that happened here, the same way I did before. Kinship lances through me. This little girl and I have a lot in common, I think. She’s never known this part of her history, just bits and pieces from other people since her parents passed. But these walls—this story isn’t one she’s been told.
I shake myself from my introspection, from my stupid thoughts. Next, I’ll have to drag all the furniture on the main level into one room until I can decide what to keep and chuck. I wipe the back of my forearm against my forehead, clearing off some of the sweat dripping into my eyes and look around the rooms.
Are you sure you can do this? You’ve never done anything like this in your whole life. Do you really want to fuck around with Giuliana’s history?
The voice is right, but at least this time I have more than “shut up” to offer in response. Because I know I can do this. I have no other option. This isn’t for me and that’s what will keep me going. At worst she can throw me out. She’s bound to do so anyway when she discovers why I’m here. At best I can help her set up the future she wants to build. Either way, there’s no time to fuck around arguing with myself. I need to conserve my energy for what matters.
“Let’s do this!” I say as I step inside.
It’s going to be a long day, so we better get started. It’s time to save Abundantia.