Chapter 9 #2
He was a year old than me, but we were in the same grade in school.
He’d spent years flitting from place to place around Europe with his unstable mother and a string of her boyfriends.
He spoke five languages but struggled with math due to missing so much school.
When his mom left with a Dutch boat captain for a year of working on a luxury yacht in the Mediterranean, she dumped Nicolo with her parents who owned the villa and olive farm next to ours.
It was supposed to be for only a year, but she never came back.
It was not an easy transition for a boy of thirteen; Nicolo had traded an unstable vagabond lifestyle for one of stern rigidity, duty, and hard work with his grandparents, Violetta and Alberto.
It was a toss-up as to which of his grandparents smiled less.
My money was on Violetta, although Alberto’s stern countenance always intimidated me.
Nicolo never complained and seldom spoke of his mother or his life before.
He just worked hard and did his best to please his grandparents, a seemingly impossible task.
He was quick to grin and laugh, but underneath he had an air of melancholy about him.
He struggled to believe he was ever worthy enough, good enough.
When he was with us, he would try so hard to do everything right, and apologize profusely if he even messed up a little—spilling a glass of water or missing a turn on a game.
It broke my heart. I wanted him to know how special he was, how good and kind and smart.
I can still picture him so clearly—those dark eyes like melted chocolate; those bee-stung lips; his crooked, almost shy smile; his earnest, good-natured charm.
The sweet intensity of his ardor. He was my first kiss, my first everything.
Even Nonna Bruna, who hated Violetta, had adored him.
I adored him too. I had given him my heart at fifteen, and even now, all these years later, I wonder if he still has a tiny piece of it.
Enough reminiscing , I scold myself, shaking off the memories and focusing on the task at hand.
“I’m just going back for the recipes,” I tell Aurora. “That’s why I said yes. I don’t have time for romance. I’ve got a cookbook to finish!”
Aurora quirks a brow at me. “Never say never!” she says cheerfully. “Pack your good lace bra, just in case.”
I open my mouth to respond when my nephew Dante, clad in a pair of sand-colored dungarees, comes barreling into the barn yelling, “Mummy, Mummy, Doris is eating your gardening gloves!” Behind him, Doris, a brown-and-white Nubian goat with long ears, tiptoes into the barn.
She is brazenly chewing on what is left of a gardening glove.
When she sees Aurora, she stops and backs up, employing evasive maneuvers. Doris is one wily goat.
“Quick, go get the Twinkies,” Aurora urges Dante, who sprints off.
“What are the Twinkies for?” I scrape the last bite of Sunshine Salad from the bowl. Twinkies seem very un-Aurora. She doesn’t keep refined sugar in the house.
“It’s the only thing Doris likes better than all the inedible things she tries to eat,” Aurora tells me, rolling her eyes.
“Last week she ate a basket of begonias. Not the flowers…the entire wicker basket! We have to bribe her with Twinkies to get her to do anything. I swear, if she didn’t produce such delicious goat’s milk…
” She falls silent for a moment, eyeing the goat in exasperation.
Doris chews off the cuff of the glove with relish.
“So you think me going to Italy is a good idea?” I ask Aurora nervously.
She narrows her eyes and peers at me through the phone screen.
“I think it’s time you stopped playing it safe and let your life get messy,” she replies frankly.
“I think you need a wild fling this summer, or an adventure, or…I don’t know…
but you need to do something risky to make you feel alive.
I think you should do the thing that scares you.
And who knows what will happen? You may get way more than what you’re looking for in Italy.
I’m glad you’re going. I have a feeling this might be the best thing that ever happens to you. ” She beams at me.
I process this for a moment. I don’t agree. I don’t need a wild fling or a grand adventure. I just need fifty good recipes and a chance to salvage my dream.
I drop the spoon in the empty bowl, resolving not to let anything distract me this summer.
My goals are clear. Convince Nonna to let me use her recipe book to find fifty good recipes with personal ties, make sure everything is okay at the farm, and then return to Seattle ready to make this cookbook a success and hopefully convince Keith our show is worth it.
Nothing else matters. I will steer clear of anything that gets in the way, even handsome, dark-eyed Italian men.
Especially them. I have to keep my eye on the prize.
When Dante returns with the Twinkies, I say goodbye to Aurora and disconnect the call, but I linger on the rooftop deck for a few minutes more, picturing our family’s serene olive groves on the shore of Lake Garda, Italy’s largest lake.
I can almost hear the whisper of the olive trees’ long, silvery leaves rustling in the breeze off the water.
It is the sound of utter peace to me, the place my heart has always felt most at home.
I’ve never loved a place more. I’ve never been so scared to return.
Lisa’s assistant has already booked me a ticket to New York, leaving in a week, and then two round-trip tickets to Italy from JFK the following day.
We will return to New York at the end of August, right before Alex’s school starts. This is really happening.
My phone dings with a text from Drew. Made it to LA. My apartment smells like old burritos. He includes a frowny-face emoji.
Probably still beats the smell of liver mush, I text back with a vomit emoji.
I think about Drew unpacking and getting settled in LA.
I think about getting on that plane in seven days, and suddenly, I can’t breathe.
What if I’m making a huge mistake? What if this is all a terrible idea?
I scrabble for my phone, suddenly needing reassurance, to hear confirmation with my own ears that going back to Italy is a good idea.
I need to know before I get on that plane.
I punch in the +39 country code for Italy and the familiar number, heart pounding.
One ring…two…
“Pronto.” It’s her voice, brusque and earthy and a little impatient, as though the call is interrupting her.
I take a deep breath. “Nonna?”
“Juliana?” Instantly, her tone melts into warmth.
“Mia cara, are you okay? Are you eating, sleeping? How is your health?” She peppers me with questions, talking in a jumble of English and Italian.
I don’t respond, just squeeze my eyes shut, feeling the prickle of tears.
It’s been too long. Now that I’m choosing to go back, I feel the weight of all those years, the distance.
Cards and letters and a few calls at holidays and birthdays have not been enough to bridge the distance of an ocean and so much time.
I feel the distance now more acutely than ever, those lost years that have slipped by faster than I realized.
All of a sudden, I can’t wait to hug her again, to step onto the soil of the farm, to be there once more.
How I’ve missed her. I need to see that she is okay, that everything is okay.
“Nonna, I…” I plan to ask her if it truly is all right that we’re coming to visit for the summer, to double-check even though Lisa assured me she’d already talked to Nonna and she was happy for us to come. Instead I just say simply, “I’m coming home.” The words tumble out, surprising me.
There is silence on the other end of the line, then a murmured “Meno male,” which translates roughly to “Thank goodness.”
“I know,” she says. “When your mother called me to ask if you and Alessandra could come for the summer, of course I said yes. You do not need to ask to come home, Juliana. You are always welcome here. It will be so good to have you back,” she says, and there is such joy and relief in her tone that I feel guilty but also flooded with relief too.
A weight lifts from my shoulders. This is a good idea after all.
“I’ve missed you,” I tell her honestly.
“Come home to us, Nipotina,” she says finally, using the diminutive Italian word for “granddaughter.” “Our arms are open wide. We have been waiting for you.”