Chapter 17
I t’s surprisingly easy to keep Giuliana in the dark, especially when I find out she’s not even at the grove. She’s in Gravina to finalize the list of locals coming to help out with the harvest. And buy a ton of food to feed us all. Last minute preparations. And something else. No one has mentioned what, but tension ripples through them and I can’t escape feeling like something happened while we were away. It’s hard to gauge when my information comes from a seven-year-old translating what Isabella deigns to share.
Did Giuliana really have to leave this early or is she hiding from what happened between us? Is she running the way I did?
Chiara joins me after breakfast, careful not to divulge anything to Nonna. But Isabella takes in the rips on my hands, the scratches along my arms and legs. When she asked about it Chiara primly responded that it was a surprise for Giuliana and we weren’t going to say a word.
Isabella gives a rare, genuine smile, and a little nod to me as if to say thanks for taking Chiara along with me on this fool’s errand. Chiara spends the majority of the morning with me, dragging what she can into the living room. We empty out kitchen cupboards and scuttle away when we hear scratching sounds that have to be a mouse. By early afternoon Chiara loses interest in the “renovation” project and I’m left to my own devices. It’s hard not to panic at the scope of what I’m attempting.
Matt Palmer has never had to clean a damn thing his whole life, so I have no idea why my Italian alter ego, Matteo de Palma, decided to overhaul an old farmhouse. Heat bakes into the stone building. Lack of ventilation has sweat pouring off of my body and I have to shuck my shirt, pants slung low on my hips. I crack open the intact windows to let some of the pent-up dust escape.
Has no one been in here for the last decade?
I lean into the push broom, gathering years of dirt and grove earth that’s blown into the house into a neat brown pile. Dust leaves the back of my throat scratchy, my sinuses heavy with the proof of neglect here. By the time afternoon rears its head I’m on the even-hotter second floor trying to figure out how the hell I’m going to organize all of this stuff.
There’s no plan, no foresight. As usual I’ve jumped into something heedless of the work, ignoring the fact that I have no idea what I’m doing. Just like when I came here, and every second since. I collect broken pieces of glass and ceramic from windows and tiles, dropping them into a bucket I found under the kitchen sink with a clink.
Where the hell am I going to put all the furniture? Do I keep it? Toss it? I can’t talk to Isabella about this (and not just because of the language barrier) because I’m not sure if Giuliana has mentioned the B windows replaced.
Isabella and Chiara are chatting in the kitchen when I join them. Giuliana is still nowhere to be seen and when I ask, Isabella is surprisingly tight-lipped about it.
“Nonna says she’ll be gone for a few days, taking care of business. She’ll be back eventually. No big deal,” Chiara informs me, shrugging before digging back into her meal with gusto. Somehow, I don’t buy it. What happened to send her away? Why was Patrizia so worried when we got back?
I dig into the meal—body tired and stomach desperate after a day of physical labor. I’ll feel it tomorrow. I’m not unfit, but my muscles have never been used for this kind of work. I’ve exercised bits of myself I didn’t even realize existed. Conversation flows mostly between Chiara and myself. She takes time to talk to Isabella too, however that conversation does not get translated for me.
I might have to convince Chiara to teach me some Italian. Not so that I can snoop, of course, but so I can be more helpful.
Yeah, right.
It’s mild, barely a negative thought, but I’m surprised my brain still has the energy to want to fuck with me. I’ll have to speak to someone about this, a professional or something. There can’t be a coincidence that it started last year and has only gotten worse since. I can’t outrun myself, that much is clear.
I keep the thought, ruminating on it through dinner until I collapse onto the bed and pass out within a few minutes.
I thought I was being resourceful, using YouTube to learn how to turn the water on at the mains. Brown liquid pours from creaking kitchen taps, spurting to a stop before exploding back out and onto me.
So resourceful. Super glad you decided to get this disgusting water all over yourself. Might as well take a bath in tetanus .
It can’t be that bad, surely? The brown has to be dirt and maybe a little rust? Nothing dangerous, I hope.
Eventually I’ve gone around the farmhouse, opening each tap and running it until the sputtering water turns from a gross russet to mostly clear, if a little beige. Only then do I fill the bucket with water and soap. Warm water would be better, but beggars can’t be choosers, especially when this is supposed to be a secret project.
Chiara checks in with me a few times to bring me some bottled water and a sandwich around lunch time. Since the majority of my work includes cleaning, she makes herself pretty scarce.
With each dip of a rag into the water—every bucket replaced once the water is gray with filth—things start to take shape.
The kitchen has beautiful handmade tile on the backsplash and floor. Although there are no appliances, just cupboards and the heavy farmhouse sink, it feels homier. The bathroom is a harder endeavor. I’ll need something stronger than dish soap to tackle the years of water rings and yellowing ceramic. I’ll bother Isabella for some bleach or something later. I have no idea how long Giuliana will be away and I want to get as much done as I can.
I haul my tired body upstairs, eager to see the transformation there before the sun sets and visibility is too poor to work in. Repeating my process from downstairs, I drag furniture out of the way to sweep and wipe and wash. The bedframes stand like skeletons of a past life—ghosts of comfort and home.
In the second bedroom I move a desk away from the wall to sweep when I hear a clatter inside the wood. Most, if not everything, has been cleared out. What could possibly still be in here?
Tugging open a deep drawer, pens and pencils roll with the motion. There’s a paperweight and some notepads. Nothing out of the ordinary. I’ll need to bring a tote or something to put this stuff into. There’s no point tossing it out if it can be repurposed somewhere else. Pulling the desk further away from the wall I feel part of the wood move under my hands.
A small compartment under the lip.
It slides out easily enough now that I know it’s there. Inside I find yellowing paperwork, some of it brittle with age. It’s in Italian, of course. Should I even be surprised at this point? Drawings and plans. It takes me a second to realize it’s a rough mock-up of the grove and some of these notes have to do with the business. Gathering it up, I tap the papers against the surface of the desk to straighten them out. The pile hits the wood with two soft thwacks and then something smaller flits out of the plans before I can straighten the stack again.
It floats to the ground like a leaf from a tree, swaying side to side for a second before it meets gravity and wood. My dirty fingertips pick up the square, one side smooth to the touch.
Fuck .
Staring up at me are faces, familiar and uncanny at the same time. Giuliana and Chiara’s features are echoed on the man in the center, and beside him a woman I don’t recognize. On the other side, with an arm thrown around the shoulders of Lorenzo Santoro is a face I’ve grown to despise. It’s a kick to the gut to realize without the years and polish he looks just like me.
Time and money had hardened Tommaso’s look into something distant and cold. Here, his hair is longer and curly like my own, haloed around his head. His cheeks stretch into a gigawatt smile, dimples carved deeply. Gone is the slicked back, short hair. Lost is the tailored suit and the scowl. It’s like looking into a mirror to the past and I stumble back, sliding down the wall to slump on the floor.
My hands shake, the photograph blurring as the past catches up to me. Finally.
I turn the picture over—a single line in pencil. It’s the same handwriting as on the contract, that flowy script of my father’s signature continued here.
I don’t need Italian lessons to translate this. Not when his eyes sparkle with a joy I’ve never seen and affection jumps out of the image like a striking snake. This man is not my father. But I wish I’d met this man, at least once.
There will be no more cleaning tonight, no renovation or organizing. I’ve left this alone for too long and it can’t wait anymore. My mind is made up on what I’m doing with the grove now but I still need to know what happened back then. How could everything have gone so wrong?
One person might be able to shed some light on the situation.
And she’s in the big house right now.
She knows.
She’s known this whole time. There’s no way she could have looked at my face, seen me , and not also seen my father at the same time.
It’s time to talk to Isabella. It’s time for the truth.