Chapter 19
“Lorenzo and Nicolo are working hard all day pruning the olive trees,” Nonna says the next morning after breakfast as she and I clear the dishes.
Alex cleared her own plate and headed outside with her phone as soon as we were done eating.
“We should take them a little something sweet.” She wraps up a few of the biscotti we picked up at the market yesterday in squares of brown paper.
“Oh, sure.” I’m busy washing the dishes and don’t register the calculated expression on her face until it’s too late. She makes two caffellattes and pours them into two glass bottles, then hands the packet to me along with the bottles.
“They’re working in the upper groves,” she announces.
Apparently, I am supposed to deliver the snack. I hesitate for a moment. The thought of seeing Nicolo again makes me feel flushed and bothered…and a little eager.
Stop it! Eyes on the prize. You don’t have time to go mooning after old flames . I try to scold myself into compliance. It doesn’t entirely work. At least I’m wearing mascara this morning and my hair is cute, wavy in the heat and pulled back in a cherry-red headband.
“Go before the caffellattes grow cold.” Nonna shoos me out the door.
I narrow my eyes at her, trying to figure out if she’s got some ulterior motive, but she doesn’t meet my gaze.
She looks away, her face the picture of innocence, and busies herself wiping down the table with a cloth.
She’s humming to herself. I take the bottles and the packet with a sigh.
I’ll deliver the snack, chat for a minute, and get back here to the kitchen.
I need to get cracking on more recipes if I have a prayer of being ready by September.
I slick on some lip balm, smooth my hair, and go in search of the men.
Outside, the morning sun is growing warmer.
Up a short flight of stone steps, I skirt the flagstone patio tucked to the right of the house with its ancient olive tree spreading gnarled branches over a long table and eight chairs.
A low stone wall separates it from the olive grove below, and the patio has a commanding view of the lake far down the hill.
There is a dark-clad figure sitting in one of the chairs.
Alex. She has her headphones on and glances up, acknowledging me with a brief lift of her chin before she turns back to her phone.
It looks like she’s talking to someone. She’s staring intently at the screen and her lips are moving. I pass by and head up the hill.
The sun filters through the silvery leaves of the olive trees as I make my way to the upper field, following the grassy track big enough for Lorenzo’s little farm work truck to get through.
Along either side of the track are olive trees, spreading their branches out over the hills.
Our olive grove is old, and the trees are spaced widely but not uniformly apart.
The newest groves in many olive farms have trees planted much closer together and spaced exactly right for mechanical harvesting.
Our olives are still harvested by hand. Everything in this grove is done by hand.
It’s time-consuming, but there’s something so satisfying about working with your hands here.
I remember summers helping Lorenzo in the grove, caring for the trees, looking out for diseased limbs, tramping behind him inspecting and tending and fussing over each one.
Lorenzo treats them as tenderly as babies.
Once, the year Lisa left us, Dad flew Aurora and me back here in late October to take part in the olive harvest. We relished the week off of school and the chance to be part of the family harvest time.
It was hard work, but fascinating to learn how to handpick the olives, using a little plastic olive rake to gently pull the olives from the lowest branches.
Dad and Lorenzo operated the electric olive-harvesting rakes, setting up wooden ladders against the trees and spreading big tarps beneath each tree to catch the falling fruits.
Nonna harvested by hand with us, showing us girls how to do it without breaking the branches. I smile at the memory.
Our trees are the Casaliva olive variety, a special type of olive unique to our northern region.
The Casaliva olives produce a beautifully clear, pale green olive oil with the aroma of almonds and a light, fruity taste with hints of herbs and grass.
The oil is rare and highly prized for its delicate flavor and gorgeous hue.
In Italy, olive oil is used for everything—cooking, illnesses, beauty treatments.
Most nonnas, Nonna Bruna included, firmly believe that there is almost nothing that cannot be solved or at least improved with the application of a little good-quality olive oil.
We all grow up with this philosophy. Our veins all run with the precious, pale gold.
I’m sweating a little by the time I get to the end of the track, from the heat and the uphill climb.
When I reach the upper field, Lorenzo is nowhere to be found, but I spy a stack of tools underneath an olive tree by the edge of the track, and I can hear a rustling noise coming from somewhere farther into the grove.
Wandering between the olive trees, I try to locate the source of the sound.
“Hello?” There is no answer.
Suddenly, right in front of me a figure drops from one of the trees, landing on his feet like a cat. Dark curly hair, laughing eyes. Startled, I jump back with a muffled shriek.
“Juliana.” Nicolo looks surprised by my appearance. His face breaks into a wide smile. Those dimples! Gaah! It’s not fair.
“Oh gosh, you startled me.” I put a hand to my chest, trying to regain my composure, laughing nervously. “I’m looking for Zio Lorenzo. Nonna sent a snack.” I hold out the bundle as proof.
“Ah yes, I see. Thank you. Lorenzo has gone into Bardolino to get a tool repaired,” Nicolo explains easily.
He’s holding a pair of pruning clippers.
“He’ll be back soon. We’re pruning diseased limbs today.
” He brushes bits of bark and olive leaves off his pants and closes the pruning clippers.
His English is excellent, I notice. Yesterday I was too flustered to realize how flawless it is.
When we were young he didn’t speak any English at all.
We muddled through with my almost-fluent-enough Italian.
But now he speaks fluidly, no hesitations.
His accent is still there though, as rich and delicious as espresso.
“Here.” I thrust the package into his hands, feeling self-conscious. My heart is beating a little faster than normal. Come on, Juliana, get a grip on yourself , I scold. You are just running an errand for Nonna. Get it over with and get back to work. I don’t move an inch.
Nicolo takes the package, grinning. “I think it’s Bruna’s secret goal in life to fatten me up.
She thinks my grandmother doesn’t feed me.
Want to join me?” He settles down at the base of one of the olive trees, sets the pruning clippers beside him, and leans back against the trunk.
He makes a gesture of invitation for me to sit.
I hesitate, but curiosity wins out over my duties in the kitchen, so I gingerly lower myself down next to him, and sit cross-legged on the grass beneath the tree, hoping I don’t get grass stains on my cute flower-patterned romper.