Chapter 11
“Ciao, ragazze!” my great-uncle Lorenzo cries as he peels into the arrivals area of the Verona airport in a rusty old red Fiat Panda.
He slams to a halt at the curb and peers at Alex and me through the open passenger window, breaking into a huge grin.
I grin back. I’m feeling equal parts nervous, antsy, and excited now that we’ve landed.
I’m finally back in Italy. Lorenzo allays a little of my anxiety with his jovial welcome.
“Ciao, Zio Lorenzo. Thanks for the ride,” I call through the open window.
He looks as though he has not aged a bit, his hair as thick and white as ever, his weathered, tanned face and sharp blue-eyed gaze moving from Alex to me.
Technically Lorenzo isn’t quite a great-uncle, although we’ve always referred to him as such.
He is my grandfather Carlo’s cousin, and after Carlo had a heart attack and passed away when I was young, he started helping Nonna Bruna around the farm.
He has his own cozy little apartment in the upper level of the old stone stables and has been a fixture around the farm for as long as I can remember. He hops out of the car spryly.
“Welcome home, mia bella Juliana.” He engulfs me in a hug, kissing both my cheeks soundly.
He smells like sun and sweat, garlic and good olive oil, and maybe a little red wine.
That hug makes me hungry and homesick all at once.
He pulls back, and I introduce him to Alex.
He gives a little bow and shakes her hand solemnly, engulfing her tiny hand in his big, work-roughened paw.
“You look like sisters,” he tells us, glancing from one to the other, twinkling eyes narrowed shrewdly.
Neither of us say anything. We may look like sisters, but to me we feel more like strangers.
When I glance up, Alex is looking down at her clunky loafers.
She looks uncomfortable. Maybe she feels the same.
Gesturing for us to get into the car, Lorenzo grabs our bags and stows one suitcase in the miniscule trunk and the other in the back seat.
Alex clambers silently into the back seat next to her suitcase and I take the passenger seat, holding on for dear life as we roar north along Lake Garda toward the farm.
It is only about thirty minutes away, but Lorenzo does it in twenty, keeping a lead foot on the pedal as the ancient Fiat stutters alarmingly at every turn.
We don’t speak much. His English is limited and my Italian is a little rusty.
I drink in the scenery as we pass the places I know so well, although my stomach is writhing with nerves and excitement as each kilometer brings us closer to the farm and to Nonna.
Lorenzo drives us along the lake, the sparkling deep blue of the water winking enticingly from the driver’s side, and I avert my eyes hastily.
The lake holds such conflicting memories for me.
It is painful to look at it, shimmering placidly in the sun.
I can’t see it without remembering my father, the terrible shock of losing him there.
I feel my gut clench with a memory. Lorenzo sprinting up the farmhouse drive shouting for Nonna.
I will never forget the stricken look on his weathered face as he told us my father had been found floating in the lake.
Lorenzo had seen rescuers pulling his body from the water.
When she heard the news, Nonna gave a strangled cry and crumpled to the floor in a faint, hitting her head so hard she had a lump the size of a quail egg on her forehead.
In that moment, my entire safe and happy world shattered.
And since that day, all of this—the family olive groves, Lake Garda, and Nonna Bruna—has been sour, tinged with the tragic loss. Yet here I am again.
I focus on the view out my window, keeping my eyes firmly turned away from the lake.
On my side of the road the rolling hills are blanketed with vineyards and a scattering of olive farms as well as dozens of small hotels and pensions.
Everything is peaceful and sleepy in the late-afternoon sunshine.
The air-conditioning in the Panda hasn’t worked as long as I’ve been alive, so I keep my window rolled down, taking deep lungfuls of the warm air.
The lake and the hills here create a unique, sunny microclimate that mimics the Mediterranean southern regions of Italy.
Although it should be too far north, the special topography of the lake has allowed farmers to cultivate olives and citrus fruit here for centuries.
This place is like nowhere else in Italy.
I glance back and find Alex with her headphones on, pensively gazing out the window at the lake.
I wonder what she’s thinking about, how she feels about her first glimpse of this special part of Italy.
We pass the small, charming ancient walled town of Lazise, and my heart speeds up a little faster.
We are getting close now. There are tourist attractions advertised everywhere along the road—wine tastings, olive oil tastings, panoramic viewpoints overlooking Lake Garda.
Nearby Lake Como is more famous and draws more American tourists and the glitterati (thank you, George Clooney), but Lake Garda is the biggest lake in Italy and very popular with Italian, German, and Swiss tourists.
Signs for gelato make my stomach rumble.
That tiny square of desiccated chicken was a long time and a layover in London ago.
Lorenzo turns to me and grins. “Hai fame?” he asks. Are you hungry?
I nod ruefully. “Always,” I tell him.
He beams, satisfied. “Soon,” he says in English.
I know what he means. Soon we will be at the farm, and Nonna has never let someone go hungry a day in her life.
I think it’s the solemn duty of every Italian nonna to feed anyone who crosses their kitchen door, stuffing them so full they have to roll out the way they came. I will not be hungry for long.
A few minutes later, we turn off the road and wind up the hillside along a familiar graveled drive. My pulse picks up. Through the silvery scrim of olive trees covering the gentle slope, I catch a glimpse of the red tiled roof and white stucco walls of the farmhouse. We’re here.
“Welcome home,” Lorenzo announces in English as we pull into the flat graveled parking area that sits between the farmhouse and the low-slung stone-walled stable that houses Lorenzo’s apartment and all the equipment and supplies for the farm.
I drink it all in. I’ve been away for fifteen years, but in that time little seems to have changed.
The place has a timeless quality, nestled into the hillside of olive groves with a panoramic view of the lake far below.
The stone farmhouse is two stories tall.
The walls are thick stone overlaid with stucco, some of which has fallen off in places, showing the gray stone beneath.
The windows have wooden shutters painted a dark green.
It all seems a little smaller and shabbier than in my memory, but still, the familiarity of it makes my chest ache.
I hop out of the car as soon as Lorenzo stops, and draw a deep breath as I look around.
The warm air is redolent of sunbaked earth, a tinge of lake water, and the scent of lavender and herbs from the tidy herb bed that runs along one side of the house.
I have missed this place so much. I didn’t realize how much until this moment.
I blink back tears, overcome with a confusing sense of homecoming mixed with grief.
“This is it?”
I almost forgot Alex. She’s standing behind me looking around, clearly unimpressed.
I clear my throat, trying to dispel the lump of emotion lodged there. “It’s amazing, you’ll see,” I assure her.
She sighs and grabs her backpack from the seat. “Whatever. I guess anything beats Camp Complain,” she mutters.
Lorenzo and I exchange a look. He raises a thick white eyebrow and I shrug, then grab my carry-on bag and follow him across the courtyard. As we approach the farmhouse I hang back a bit, feeling suddenly a little shy and unsure.
“Mia bella nipotina!” Nonna Bruna flings open the heavy wooden kitchen door and rushes out before we can knock.
She throws her arms around me and squashes me against her ample bosom, kissing me on the cheeks soundly, then holds me at arm’s length and looks me up and down.
To my relief I see that Nonna is as tiny and stocky and dynamic as ever, her dyed dark brown hair caught up in its signature tight bun, her quick black eyes flashing with joy.
“Santo cielo!” she exclaims in amazement, then switches to English.
“Look at you, so beautiful and all grown-up.” She reaches up and pinches my cheek like I am a child.
“You have your father’s eyes.” She puts one hand to her bosom and her gaze turns sad.
“May he rest in peace.” She crosses herself and I follow suit by instinct, feeling the warm spread of joy in my chest at the effusive welcome, at how normal it all feels.
She wants me here. This was a good idea to come. Then Nonna turns to Alex.
“Alessandra.” For a moment she pauses, taking Alex’s measure.
I wonder briefly how this will go. After all, Alex is no blood relation to her.
Instead Alex is a stark reminder that Nonna’s ex-daughter-in-law left Nonna’s beloved only son to raise their two girls alone while she swanned off and created a new life and new family.
Nonna would have every right to hold no fondness for Alex.
But an instant later her face relaxes into a smile.
“Welcome,” she says warmly. “You are welcome in my home.” Then she embraces Alex and kisses her on the cheek.
Alex stands rigid, looking slightly shocked.
Nonna seems not to notice. She gestures to us both.
“Come inside,” she directs. “You must be hungry.” She issues a stream of rapid-fire instructions to Lorenzo and shoos him back toward the car.
“Lorenzo will get your suitcases.” She waves us forward, into the kitchen. “Now we eat. You are both too thin and pale. But don’t worry, we will fatten you up in no time.”