Chapter 19
M y slip—my selfish indulgence—has the benefit of extra space between me and Giuliana. Since the night we spent in the same room—that night and every one that followed—I’ve dreamed of her. Tangled limbs and sweet kisses, that elusive idea of my nickname on her lips, all of it haunts me. I wake up aching and hard, and angry at how ridiculous it is. After our night in the kitchen, it took a cool shower to even touch the fire she’d ignited, but even that wasn’t enough, and I lost myself in my hand with her name on my tongue.
I’ve never been this caught up in a woman before. Maybe for a night or two but this—repeated torture in the form of dreams—is new. And it just makes me crave her. The closer I want to get, the further she pulls away. Or at least that’s how it feels.
Logically, I know she’s dealing with preparation and the proverbial hanging sword that is Umberto. It’s on her to oversee the details that will make for a successful and efficient season, which means testing out the weird raking tools for shaking olives from their branches.
Inspections are underway on the nets to catch the fruit, and the rows I’ve gotten so used to walking will soon be covered by a sea of synthetic material. More and more people show up to the grove and I have no idea what to expect. We’ve spent so much time on what goes into making a good product and the result of all this work, but the big day is upon us and I’m wholly unprepared.
So, I do what I do best and procrastinate. Giuliana lets me. The distance between us is a canyon of words unsaid and yearning unsatisfied.
Isabella and I have a tentative truce, even though we both know I’ll be causing Giuliana at least a small amount of hurt in the next few weeks. My deadline from Alan is fast approaching and I need Isabella’s help ASAP if I’m going to be able to protect the grove before I lose everything.
We pile into the little Fiat, super close to the ground and tighter than I’d prefer. Isabella does her mirror checks, leans her arm across the back of my seat, and proceeds to reverse out of the alcove the car’s been kept in. Her spin to straight jolts my stomach and I’m a little glad we skipped breakfast this morning because from the look of things she’s a reckless driver.
You don’t have room to complain considering the menace you are on your Vespa.
Fair. Fair.
The drive into Gravina rushes by, although that could have something to do with me spending every second staring out of the window with longing. I didn’t have time to drink it in when I first left for the grove a little over two months ago, but as a passenger I’m gifted with beautiful countryside zipping by. It helps that Giuliana isn’t here to distract my gaze.
Gravina looks like part of the landscape. Its buildings have sprung up and multiplied on top of each other into a small sprawl down the hill. The streets I’d searched before don’t feel as novel now, but their beauty isn’t diminished at all. Cobblestones and brick and asphalt all meld together as the old and the new give way to each other.
The lawyer we’ve come to is in the new part of the city and Isabella maneuvers into a tight parking spot in a way that would make anyone from the DMV weep with joy. I follow her like a duckling into the office building, glass doors closing behind us and a sleek secretary greeting us with a bright smile.
We’re shuffled into a private room, an empty chair at the desk across from us. I want to ask her how she found us an appointment so quickly, or how we’re going to pull this off, but questions are wasted on Isabella. Her determination is something I won’t challenge or question—not if I want to avoid getting chewed out.
The lawyer doesn’t keep us waiting long. The first thing I note is how he looks nothing like Alan. His face shows the proof of living and all the emotions that come with it. Lines fan out from the corners of his eyes—years of smiling and squinting into the sun. A few deep-carved lines run across his forehead in a physical show of rumination and worry. Dark hair interwoven with silvery strands is coiffed away from his face and so thick I’m sure Alan would sell a kidney for that kind of volume.
We rise to greet him—me with a handshake, Isabella with some cheek kisses and she ends up patting the side of his face with affection.
“ è bello rivederti, Isabella ,” he says to Nonna and she gives what I’m pretty sure is a giggle ? I didn’t even know she could do anything other than sarcastic snorts and huffs of humor.
“Anche per me.” She gestures to me before speaking again. “Questo è Matteo. Lui è Americano.”
“Ah.”
I know what that “ah” means. I’ve heard it multiple times since arriving here. “Ah, I have to switch to English.” or “Ah, he can’t understand us.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Matteo. I’m Andrea. What can we help with today?”
I pull my passport and the contract out from the folder Isabella so graciously provided, one containing the plans and other business-related documents I found in the old farmhouse. Andrea accepts the mess I’ve tried to smooth out—corners still curling and creases I’ve worried my hands over to try and flatten.
“I came into a stake on some land. Since I have no interest in upholding the original agreement my father made by claiming a non-return on the investment, I’d like to relinquish it all to the current co-owner, Giuliana Santoro.”
The words take a weight off my chest, one I hadn’t even realized was choking me. Isabella rests her hand on my bouncing knee, so much like her granddaughter had at that wedding. Though hers is dappled with freckles and age spots—papery skin with veins like tributaries branching up her fingers.
Andrea takes his time scrutinizing the contract and pauses on the last page, much like I had, his fingertips tracing over a different signature. He takes a deep breath before he turns his attention to us again.
“So, you’re Tommaso’s boy?” It drives a sharp pang through my body, radiating out from my chest.
It’s different. Other. It doesn’t rankle the way the question usually does—the one I’m used to. Someone muttering “Oh, you’re Palmer’s kid” followed by a disappointed once-over. This is wistful. I nod, unable to muster much else around the weird lump in my throat.
“My father helped them negotiate this contract. I knew Tommaso as a boy. I’m sorry to hear he passed on.”
There it is again—a weird swirl in my gut like I’m about to dissolve under too much pressure. Maybe it’s because he didn’t phrase it as being sorry for “my loss” since all that usually does is prompt my inner asshole.
Can’t lose what you never had.
No, this phrasing emphasized Tommaso no longer walked among us. Not just gone from Italy but the world. There’s more than a hole. The absence is absolute this time.
Get it together. You never gave much of a fuck before. There are more important matters to deal with .
“It would be simple enough to arrange a new contract, one where you state you’re relinquishing your father’s claim and the caveats around the investment.”
“It’s time-sensitive.” I know it’s rude to push it, but I have no idea what Alan will do or how things are going to look now. I have to make this work before I lose agency.
Andrea lifts his brows, those forehead lines moving in question.
“My father left very specific instructions in his will when he died. If I don’t prove I have what it takes to run the company by the anniversary of his death, I lose the right to my inheritance. The grove was my test—one I failed since I have no intention of jeopardizing Giuliana or her family. It’s imperative I get this sorted before the deadline so the Santoros don’t lose Abundantia to Palmer Enterprises.”
Isabella gasps but I avoid her gaze, even though I can feel it burning a hole into the side of my face.
Andrea sees something in my expression, or his connection to my father is enough to sway him, because he nods.
“Give me a few days and I’ll have a new one ready to sign.”
Standing, I thrust my hand out to shake his again, and take my leave before the emotions inside my chest have a chance to leak out.
One part of me hates how rude and brusque I’ve been. The other predominantly stupid side that runs most of my life is done, already focused on the next thing. Now I’m in town it’s the perfect time to find some stuff for the farmhouse. I can take time to see a doctor.
I can’t keep pretending my years of fucking around have no consequences. It’s better to find out now. If I’m starting out on a new leaf, I’d rather know where I’m at to plan accordingly. Sticking my head in the sand has gotten me nothing but anxiety.
“Matteo,” Isabella says somewhere behind me. A second, more insistent and intimidating one following.
“ Matteo de Palma. ”
Stopping on the sidewalk, I turn to face the short old lady scowling up at me.
“What?”
Rolling her eyes, Isabella waves her hand at me in frustration. “Don’t ‘ what ’ me. You didn’t tell me what would happen if you let go of Abundantia.”
“Because it doesn’t matter.” Not when the alternative is them losing their home—their history and lifeblood.
“Of course, it matters. Just because you made mistakes and lied to my granddaughter and our family doesn’t mean you should suffer.”
“Wow, way to guilt trip me while giving me grace.”
“I’m Catholic. Guilt comes free with the rosary beads.”
“What’s more important is making sure you are taken care of. There’s no way to know what my father’s right-hand-man will do when I don’t meet the terms of the inheritance. All I can do is my best to protect you.” I give her what I hope is a reassuring smile.
“Now, I’m sure you’ve figured out I’m fixing up the old farmhouse for Giuliana. Would you help me find what I need?”
Having someone to translate would be extremely useful.
“Furniture might be difficult depending on what is in stock,” she says, “but we can get paint and more cleaning supplies—some decor.”
“I’m reusing as much of the furniture as possible and polishing or sanding what I can to spruce it up. We’ll need mattresses and pillows.” I tick off a few things in my mental checklist and Isabella and her little legs keep up with me easily once we head out to find items at various stores.
Her suggestions are super helpful, especially when we go to the hardware store—things like primer and a long roller being better than paint brushes for wall painting. All stuff a regular person would have known.
But you’ve been stuck in a glass cage for years, every whim catered to. Useless.
Not anymore. That’s not who I am anymore. This renovation is for Giuliana’s future but it’s also something I can do to prove myself—to show I’m better than I was. Not to Alan. Not to Giuliana since she never even knew me before. No, this is for me.
Between tins of paint and a wall of swatches, I breach the silence.
“Giuliana mentioned Umberto tried to mess with the harvest date and you had a plan to take care of it, but didn’t say any more.”
Isabella’s hands ball into fists at her side, strong from years of work. “That man… so greedy and so good at pretending. Lorenzo didn’t see it and Giuliana found out too late. I was so focused on caring for Lorenzo and Chiara, I missed it.”
“It’s not your fault. Men like him—like me —we keep our cards close to the vest.”
Scoffing, the rage melts from her body. “Matteo, you are nothing like him.”
The words soothe something in me I didn’t know was smarting until now. And then the comfort is promptly dashed by Isabella’s sharp tongue.
“Even if you didn’t look like your father, I saw you from a mile away. You’ve watched Giuliana like a lovesick calf for months and there’s not a mean bone in your body. If you really wanted to take the grove you could have done it from New York with one phone call to the lawyer and an expensive investigation.”
Words of defense spring to my lips but she’s not wrong. Alan ordered me to lie low and stake my claim. I could have done it from my loft with a few emails or calls and stayed under the radar. Binge-watching old TV shows and weeks of takeout delivery would have kept me busy for the rest of the time.
“I think you came here to learn about the past, about your father. Mostly, I think you came here to learn about yourself.”
Her words ripple through me, the pebble of truth far-reaching inside my chest. So, I deflect. “ I think you’re far too wise for your own good and you believe it gives you permission to say and do whatever you want.”
“Audacity comes with age, not wisdom. I know plenty of old people who say whatever stupid thing springs to mind.”
Laughing, the tension and tightness around my ribs ease.
“So, this plan for Umberto—the one you cooked up with Arturo…”
A hot blush spreads up Isabella’s cheeks and she wrings her hands together. Does she have a crush on the old man? I didn’t see any proof of a wife when we went to the mill but then again, I was preoccupied in Giuliana’s presence.
“I don’t want to jeopardize anything. I’ll be doing some work on the plan while we’re in Gravina today and Arturo is doing what he can from his end. We should know within the next few days if it worked.”
The blush blazes deeper when she says his name, but her lips tuck into a staunch line and I know this conversation is over. We pack our finds into the Fiat with each new purchase until we can fit no more. Isabella heads out for her secret plan and I walk over to the local clinic for tests.
Digging my fingernails into the flesh of my palm, I distract myself from the bite of the needle. Blood pools into little vials and the tie around my bicep cuts into my skin. It strikes me as I stare down at the crook of my elbow that I’ve never been this tanned. My hair has gotten much longer—a mess of curls—and my stubble is more of a short beard since I haven’t been shaving daily.
Matt was considered lazy, sure, but Matteo is the first time I’ve actually felt like I look laid-back. The anxiety and that fucking voice in my mind may not be much improved, but there is something to be said for the peace that comes with doing the right thing.
The nurse sticks a band-aid to my arm where a droplet of blood pools on my skin. Labeling each sample, she informs me I’ll be notified in a few days when the results come back. Even if nothing happens between me and Giuliana, the information is useful. I can protect myself and others better if I know what’s going on in the body I’ve neglected and abused for far too long.
Isabella is at the same cafe I left her at and we head back to Abundantia as soon as she’s wrapped up her conversation. Walking the cobblestones to the car, I take in Gravina for what might be one of the last times. After I sign the contract, there’ll be no reason to come back. Barring the need for more supplies, I’ll be leaving Abundantia straight for the closest international airport after the harvest. Two weeks.
Two weeks to pull together Giuliana’s idea and help show her there are people who believe in what she’s doing here.
O nce we make it back through the curving countryside, Isabella drops me off as close to the farmhouse as she can and I unload my haul. Step one is washing the walls and laying down some tarp to paint them. Next will be sanding and treating the furniture I can salvage. Lastly, I’ll clean and polish the brass bed frames, fixtures, and faucets until they gleam. I’ll order mattresses online and pray they can deliver out here, but I’ve got bedsheets and blankets, and decorative pillows sorted.
I work until after the light has leached from the room, darkness making progress impossible. A lantern might be needed soon if I’m going to pull this off. Chiara brings some of her kittens by to play but I’m not much company when drenched in sweat and struggling.
After the third F-bomb I gently asked her to leave, if only to save my own skin. The last thing I need is Isabella on my case because the little girl is cussing up a storm. By the time I’ve walked back to the big house, crickets and starlight leading the way, the family has already eaten. Isabella’s left something in the fridge for me but for all intents and purposes I’m alone.
Sitting in the kitchen, moonlight filters into the room and lends some illumination. I could turn on the light, but I won’t be here long enough to justify it. Instead, I let the evening settle around me—darkness and quiet. Peace.
The hallway upstairs is quiet when I head to bed. Chiara and Isabella are already asleep. But there’s a crack of light under Giuliana’s door—a slice of gold calling to me so strongly I have to turn away to avoid it. I shut myself in my room and attempt to clear my mind and scrub away the lingering dirt from my day’s work in the shower.
When that doesn’t work to still my thoughts, I pull out my journal—stroking my fingertips over the blank lined page after my previous entry. My writing degree was intended to be spiteful, a way to get back at my dad for expecting me to get my MBA to take over the company. I never expected writing would end up helping me deal with myself and my feelings. My pen scratches against the paper, words indented onto the page.
I slap the journal shut, shoving it in the desk drawer. It was supposed to be a way to calm my feelings, not ramp them up to an unbearable level. All that’s left is to gather the courage needed to ruin my whole life. Lovely .