Chapter 10 Where His Name Meant Nothing #2
Leon's face crumples slightly, and I see him swallow hard before he answers.
"The reporter said we made a lovely picture of the estate's future.
And I just moved on to the next question.
I talked about export certifications while Nadia stood there smiling.
" He meets my eyes. "I watched the footage after Gia sent it to me.
I saw exactly what you saw. A man who couldn't be bothered to mention his wife. "
"Couldn't be bothered. Or didn't want to?"
"I wasn't thinking about how it looked. I was focused on the business, on making sure the launch went smoothly.
And that's the problem, isn't it? I was always focused on something else.
On keeping the peace with my mother, on growing the estate, on the next meeting or the next event.
And you were always the thing I'd get to later, when things were less busy.
Except things were never less busy, and later never came. "
I don't say anything. I can't. My throat is tight with something that might be anger or grief or both.
"I'm not asking you to forgive me," Leon says. "Not yet. Maybe not ever, if that's what you decide. But I'm asking you to let me try. Let me show you that I can be different. Not just with words, but with actions. With being here, present, in whatever way you'll allow."
"What does that even mean? Being here?"
"It means I'll do whatever it takes. Whatever your family needs, whatever work there is to do, I'll do it. I'll stay as long as you need me to stay, and I won't push for more than you're willing to give. I just want the chance to prove that I can be the husband you deserved all along."
"By doing farm work?" I can't keep the disbelief out of my voice. "You think mucking out stalls is going to make up for two years of letting your mother treat me like something you scraped off your shoe?"
"No. But it's a start. It's something I can do with my hands that doesn't require you to trust me or believe me or give me anything you're not ready to give. It's just work. Honest work. The kind your family has always done."
I stare at him, this man I married, this Don who is used to deciding which jobs need doing and paying someone else to do them.
He's standing at my parents' gate in expensive shoes and a shirt that probably cost more than my mother spends on groceries in a month, telling me he wants to muck out stalls.
"You're serious."
"Completely."
"Leon, running an estate doesn't mean you know how to look after my father's goats."
"Then I'll learn."
My mother comes up the path from the bean patch, brushing soil from her hands. My father steps out of the kitchen when he sees her. They meet beside our bench, and Leon stands. I stand too, putting a little distance between us.
"Don Leon." My father's voice is neutral, careful.
"Marco. Rosa." Leon nods to each of them. "I'm sorry to intrude."
"Ysabel agreed to a conversation," my father says. "We haven't agreed to anything else."
"I've asked Ysabel to let me stay. To let me work, to prove that I can be different."
My parents look at me. My mother's face is concerned, my father's unreadable.
"Is that what you want?" my mother asks quietly.
"I don't know what I want." I hear how tired I sound, how worn. "I just know I'm not ready to go back to the estate with him. I'm not ready to pretend everything is fine."
"No one's asking you to pretend anything," Leon says.
"What are you asking, then?" My father steps closer to the bench, looking at Leon with an expression I've seen him use on buyers who try to lowball him at market. "You want to stay here? Sleep in our house?"
"No. I'll go home at the end of the day. I'm asking to come here and help, if you and Ysabel will allow it."
"Work." My father says the word like he's tasting it, checking for rot. "You know anything about goats?"
"No."
"I expect you know your almonds and olives. What about the work here? Feeding, bedding, fences?"
"You'll have to show me."
My father nods slowly. "At least you're honest about it." He looks at me. "Ysabel. It's your decision. If you want him gone, he's gone. If you want to give him a chance to make a fool of himself, that's your choice too."
I look at Leon, standing beside the bench with dust on his shoes and shadows under his eyes.
He came here without an invitation. He's asking for something I'm not sure I can give.
But he's also standing in my parents' yard, offering to do work he doesn't know how to do, because it's the only thing he can think of that might prove he's willing to try.
"One afternoon," I say. "That's all I'm agreeing to. One afternoon of work, and then we'll see."
Leon's face changes, hope and relief flickering through before he schools it back to neutral. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet." I turn to my father. "Is there something he can do that won't break anything important?"
My father considers for a moment, and I see something that might be amusement cross his face. "The goat pen needs mucking out. It's due for a proper clearing. Nothing there he can damage except his pride."
"The goat pen." Leon repeats it like he's not entirely sure what that means.
"Shovel and wheelbarrow are in the shed.
There's a spare pair of boots by the back door.
See if they fit before you ruin those shoes.
" My father nods at Leon's shoes. "Dump pile is past the fence on the north side.
Don't leave the gate unlatched or the one with the crooked ear will have you chasing her halfway to town. "
Leon looks at the farmhouse, then at me, then back at my father. "All right."
"Come on, then." My father turns toward the barn. "I'll show you where everything goes."
Leon follows him. He glances at me once, but he doesn't ask me to go with him.
My mother catches my eye and raises her eyebrows slightly.
I shake my head. I don't know what I'm doing.
I don't know if this is the right choice or if I'm just delaying the inevitable.
But I'm not ready to send him away, and I'm not ready to take him back, and this, this strange middle ground where the Don of Tenuta Rosciano mucks out my parents' goat pen, is the only thing I can think of that lets me keep some control over what happens next.
My father leads Leon toward the back of the property, pointing out the shed where the tools are kept. I watch them go, this man I married walking beside my father through the yard where I've spent the last four days trying to figure out who I am without him.
My mother comes to stand beside me. "Are you sure about this?"
"No."
"Then why let him stay?"
I think about it. About the look on his face when he admitted that his mother sabotaged his flight. About the way he stood at the gate waiting for permission instead of assuming he had the right to enter. About all the things he said he wanted to prove and all the things I'm not sure he can.
"Because sending him away feels too much like giving up," I say. "And I'm not ready to give up. Not yet. Not until I know for certain that there's nothing left to save."
My mother nods slowly. "Then we'll see what he's made of."
***
The goat pen is behind the small barn, fenced in with wire that needs mending in at least three places. My mother and I stand at the edge of the yard, watching as my father leads Leon toward the shed where the tools are kept.
He comes out with a shovel and a wheelbarrow, looking at them like unfamiliar objects. He has walked the groves with the estate manager and overseen harvests, but this is different.
This is the kind of work that happens close to the ground, with animals that don't care about your name.
My father points to the pen, says something I can't hear from here. Leon nods. He sets the shovel against the fence and changes into the spare boots my father brings from the back door. They fit well enough. He leaves his own shoes by the fence post.
His sleeves are already rolled from the drive over. He pushes them higher now, past his elbows, and picks up the shovel.
The goats watch from the far corner of the pen, including the one with the crooked ear who's been outsmarting my father all week. They don't approach yet, just observe this stranger entering their territory.
My father takes the shovel long enough to show him where to put his hands, then gives it back. Leon watches, nods, adjusts his hold.
Then my father steps back and lets him try.
Leon approaches a section of soiled bedding. He plants the shovel, pushes down with his foot. The packed material resists, denser than it looks. He bears down harder, and the blade finally bites in, cutting through the compressed straw and waste.
He levers up the first load, arms straining with the unfamiliar weight. Turns carefully toward the wheelbarrow. Tips the shovel.
The contents land in the wheelbarrow with a heavy thump.
One shovelful. The first of what will be dozens, maybe hundreds, before the pen is clean.
Leon looks at the shovel in his hands, at the dirt already streaking his forearms, at the work still waiting. Then he turns back to the pen and sets the blade against the ground again.
The Don of Tenuta Rosciano, ankle-deep in a goat pen, learning to use a shovel.
I keep waiting for him to hand the shovel back to my father.
He tightens his grip instead.