Chapter 13
“Buongiorno, sleeping head.” Nonna greets me cheerfully as I stumble downstairs late the next morning, still in my pajamas.
I blink blearily, feeling groggy and very jet-lagged, as Nonna bustles about the kitchen.
Alex is already sitting at the table with a cup of milky coffee and a half-eaten brioche in front of her.
She glances up as I enter the room but doesn’t say anything.
She looks haggard and wan. Jet lag must be hitting her pretty hard.
The room smells heavenly, like strong, dark coffee and warm, sweet bread.
The enticing aroma of a true Italian breakfast perks me up instantly.
I give Nonna a peck on the cheek and greet Alex, who gives me a muted, “Hey,” in return.
I slide into a chair across from her, eager to start my day the typical Italian way, with caffeine and a little something sweet.
Then I’m determined to figure out where the recipe book is.
That’s the first and most important order of business for the day.
Without that book, I’m completely stuck.
“You want a caffellatte, Nipotina?” Nonna asks me, and I gratefully accept. She brings it over along with a fresh brioche on a plate. “How did you sleep?” she asks, and before I can answer she looks at me critically and clucks. “You look tired. And thin. Eat something.”
I happily oblige. I am tired. And I feel worn thin.
After I went to my room last night, I gave Aurora a quick call to let her know we’d arrived safely.
Then Solomon texted me three times. First to ask if we had any borax powder.
The answer is no. What is borax powder anyway?
He texted again to ask if Ophelia could sleep on my bed as she “likes her own space.” The answer was also no, and then he texted to ask if they could use my Italian espresso maker.
That one I agreed to, so I don’t seem unreasonable.
Right before I drifted off to sleep, I texted Drew a photo of the farmhouse and the lake.
He texted back a photo of him and Desiree at a retro burger joint somewhere with the caption “Rehearsal.” Desiree was looking lithe, fit, and cute in a sports bra and leggings, her standard outfit.
She was puckering up for the camera. And next to her, arm in arm with her, was Drew.
His hair was styled differently and he was wearing a fitted bowling shirt.
I think they might have bleached his teeth.
He looked a little like a Ken doll. Seeing him made me sad.
He is getting his golden chance. I still have to try to earn mine.
The thought spurs me into action. This morning I have no time to waste.
After breakfast I’m going to do a thorough search for the cookbook.
I take a bite of brioche and my resolve weakens.
I’ll search right after I have a second caffellatte and maybe another brioche.
I forgot how much better everything tastes in Italy.
“Where’s Zio Lorenzo?” I ask around a big bite of brioche.
“Out in the courtyard. Nicolo is helping him fix something on the car this morning.”
The brioche sticks in my throat. “Nicolo?” I cough. Surely, not the same Nicolo. Not my Nicolo. There are thousands of Nicolos in Italy. The last time I saw him, my Nicolo was being packed off to a great-aunt in Genoa after our romantic tryst came to a miserable and wet end.
“Yes, yes, Nicolo Fiore. You remember him. He was always such a sweet boy. Now he is all grown-up and what a fine piece of man.” Nonna clicks her tongue appreciatively.
“He’s back now, running the farm like they always wanted him to.
That Violetta doesn’t deserve him. Che vecchia strega!
” Nonna pretends to spit on the ground for emphasis, her mouth puckering like she is tasting something bitter, the exact same expression she wears every time she says her next-door neighbor’s name.
Alex pauses, her brioche halfway to her mouth. “What did she say?” she whispers, looking confused and cautious.
“Nonna and her neighbor Violetta don’t get along,” I explain in a low voice.
“They’ve got this feud that’s been going on for like sixty years.
” I don’t translate the Italian phrase Nonna just used, although I’m pretty sure she called Violetta an old hag.
Or a witch, depending on the context. Regardless, nothing complimentary.
The property next door belongs to the Fiore family, Nicolo’s grandparents.
With a sprawling olive farm and a large, elegant villa, the estate is far bigger and more prosperous that ours.
The matriarch of the Fiores, a tall, formidable woman named Violetta, is Nonna’s archnemesis.
I’ve never been able to find out what exactly went sour between them so long ago, but they’ve been locked in a feud for over sixty years, or so Dad told me.
He had no idea what happened between them either.
No one seems to know except Nonna and Violetta, and neither of them are telling. It’s a long-standing family mystery.
But now I focus on the most surprising news. Nicolo is back home? And he’s currently in our courtyard? My heart gives a quick little flutter of excitement.
“Violetta is still alive?” I ask. She’s over eighty now. Her husband Alberto died years ago. “And Nicolo is living next door?”
Nonna turns and looks at me narrowly. “Yes and yes, but we do not speak of that woman here,” she says in a tone as sharp as vinegar.
“She stole something of great value from me many years ago. I have never forgiven her.” She speaks with such an air of gravity that I shiver a little, wondering again what in the world happened when they were young to produce such lifelong ire.
“Wow,” Alex murmurs, chewing her brioche and watching Nonna wide-eyed. “Remind me not to get on her bad side.”
A moment later, the kitchen door flies open and Lorenzo bursts in, stomping his feet and talking to someone behind him in rapid-fire Italian.
“Come in, come in,” Lorenzo calls, gesturing.
I catch a glimpse of curly dark hair behind him and my heart stops for a second.
Then I glance down at my stretched-out and ever so slightly sheer Hello Kitty sleep tee in horror.
No. Please don’t let this be Nicolo. I can’t see my first love looking like I just rolled out of bed except…
“Juliana?” That familiar voice. I haven’t heard it in fifteen years. Oooh, I want to sink through the tiled floor. I glance up. It’s him.
“Nicolo!”
He’s standing in the doorway, morning light streaming behind him, illuminating him like the archangel Gabriel painted by an Italian master.
I stare for a moment as he steps inside.
In the fifteen years since I last saw him, he’s grown from a sweet, slightly awkward boy into a gorgeous, self-assured man.
Gone is the faint hint of a mustache over his upper lip, the gangly limbs of his youth.
He stands a few inches shy of six feet. Not tall, but he’s filled out beautifully.
His curls are cropped close to his head at the sides but long enough in the front to fall just slightly over his brow, and his olive skin, straight nose with the slightest bump at the bridge, and full, almost sulky mouth give him an effortless Mediterranean appeal.
And those dimples and dark eyes. I’d kill for those eyelashes, inky smudges like he’s wearing eyeliner. It isn’t fair.
He’s dressed in a pair of dark work pants and a white cotton shirt rolled up at the sleeves.
Like so many Italian men, he looks ridiculously stylish, even if his shirt is smudged with what appears to be axle grease.
I’m achingly aware of my dishevelment and groan silently in despair.
I have a very cute pair of pajamas upstairs.
Of all the days to choose comfort over style…
I try to pull the T-shirt down over more of my exposed thighs.
Did I even touch my hair this morning? Oooh, this is unbearably humiliating.
“Nicolo, you must eat something. You want a caffellatte?” Nonna buzzes around him, clearly adoring.
“I already ate, but thank you, Bruna,” Nicolo says, not taking his eyes from me.
There is a warm familiarity between the two of them that surprises me.
It feels almost like they’re family. I wonder what I’ve missed in the years I’ve been gone.
How much time does Nicolo spend with Nonna and Lorenzo?
Just how long has he been back home? I realize I don’t know much of anything at all.
While Nonna bustles around cutting large wedges from an almond cake, Nicolo leans against the counter and crosses his arms (tanned forearms, leanly muscled, I notice). He meets my eyes. His are so dark you can’t tell the pupil from the iris, and filled with a warm curiosity.
“Nicolo!” I decide to brazen out this excruciating reunion.
There’s no help for it. It’s that or try to sink through the floor.
“You’re all grown-up,” I say, trying to sound confident and a little flippant.
It just sounds cheesy, or maybe a bit creepy.
This is not my best effort. I am giving this interaction a solid one star. Do not recommend.
His smile is slow and a little teasing. “So are you, and as beautiful as ever,” he tells me in perfect, slightly accented English. Across from me I can see Alex watching our exchange in puzzlement.
“I didn’t know you were back,” I plow on, trying to salvage this awkward conversation.
What I wouldn’t give for five minutes with a blow-dryer and a mascara wand.
Heck, I’d even settle for a toothbrush and my decent pajamas.
I tuck my hands under my thighs so I don’t reach up to try to tame my hair. It’s a lost cause.
Nicolo eyes me and his mouth, that lush mouth, quirks up at the corner. “Eventually, we all return home, right?”
I have a feeling he’s enjoying the situation.
He’s always had a mischievous way about him, and that has not changed.
I swallow hard, trying not to remember the last time we saw each other.
The wool blanket we’d spread over the fragrant straw in the stall of the Fiores’ unused stable had been scratchy against the bare skin of my back, but Nicolo’s lips on my neck had blazed a trail that felt like fire.
We’d been caught up in the moment, in the heady passion of young love and lust, unaware of anything except our desire for each other…
until Nonna and Violetta turned a garden hose of icy water on us accompanied by a stream of Italian invectives that still make my ears burn thinking about it.
The pope had been referenced, and all our dead relatives. And the Blessed Virgin Mary.
I thought I would die of embarrassment when they sat us down like two sodden, scolded children and confronted us about our secret romance. And I was convinced I’d die of a broken heart when Nicolo was promptly sent away. Oh, the euphoria and heartbreak of young love.
Flushing at the memory, I glance at Nicolo’s hands, those big, square, capable hands, recalling with a visceral thrill what they felt like wrapped around my rib cage, pulling me closer, tangling his fingers in my hair as he kissed me clumsily, earnestly.
What he’d lacked in experience he’d made up for in sheer enthusiasm. We had been so young.
I clear my throat and look hastily away, gulping more of the rapidly cooling caffellatte. I am thirty years old, not fifteen. I need to get my thoughts under control. I feel like my face is on fire.
“And this is Alessandra,” Bruna says by way of introduction. “Juliana’s little sister.”
I see Alex stiffen, but I can’t tell if she’s objecting to being called little, or my sister, or both. “Alex,” she corrects. “My name is Alex.”
Nicolo tips his head to her. “Molto piacere, Alex.” Nice to meet you.
Alex blushes furiously and buries her face in her caffellatte.
“Nicolo? Let’s go,” Lorenzo says in English, clapping him heartily on the back and stepping out the door, carrying a big wedge of cake in one hand.
“So nice to see you again,” I call after Nicolo as brightly as I can, relieved he is leaving. I catch Alex staring furtively at Nicolo, a dull blush staining her cheeks.
“Nicolo, here is a little something sweet for later. I worry you are not being fed enough at home.” Nonna catches him at the door and presses a paper-wrapped packet of cake in his hands.
“Have lunch with us,” she urges. “Anytime you are here working, you must eat with us, yes? You need good food, a big strong man like you.” She pats his cheek indulgently.
“You are too kind, Bruna,” Nicolo says, giving her a fond look and a quick peck on the cheek.
“Ciao, Jules, Alex.” He glances over his shoulder, catching my eyes. Something crackles between us. I wonder what he remembers of our brief summer of love. He nods farewell and follows Lorenzo outside, Nonna at their heels. I take a little gasp of air.