Chapter 21
“I don’t understand …” I stammer, gazing at Nicolo in confusion.
Why are they waiting for me? What good am I to the farm?
I know very little about olive farming. But before I can question him further, we’re interrupted by a tinny growl heralding Lorenzo’s return.
He bumps up the grassy track in his baby blue Piaggio Ape.
It’s a ridiculous vehicle, equal parts cute and absurd, with its improbable three wheels, a tiny cab barely big enough for Lorenzo to squeeze inside, and a small bed for tools and hauling things.
It looks like a cross between a Vespa and a pickup truck, almost like a toy.
Lorenzo, broad shoulders and stout belly straining his work shirt, hunches over the steering wheel as he drives up to us and cuts the engine. The silence is abrupt.
I open my mouth. I have so many questions, but I glance at Lorenzo as he gets out of the cab with a grunt. This is not the time. Instead, I spring to my feet, brushing grass from my romper. “I’d better get back to the kitchen,” I tell Nicolo. “It was nice to catch up with you.”
He looks up at me intently, then glances at Lorenzo and nods. “It’s good to see you again, Jules. I’m glad you’re back.”
I give a stiff little nod and turn to leave. On my way past, I hand Lorenzo his packet of biscotti and the second bottle of now-tepid caffellatte, then head back down to the farmhouse.
As I walk down the lane between the olive trees, I mull over my conversation with Nicolo. It has unsettled me. Is what he said about the farm, about Nonna and Lorenzo true?
As I approach the farmyard, my steps slow and I gaze around with new eyes. The old stone farmhouse is looking tired. The green paint is peeling from the shutters and doors. Across the courtyard the low-slung stone barn is sagging at one end.
I see it more clearly now. What I initially saw as charming and rustically aged, in the bright glare of the mid-morning sun and Nicolo’s observations, looks more like neglect. Is Nicolo right? Is the farm in trouble?
I think of Aurora’s comment before I left, her hesitation and her sense that something is amiss here.
I think of the unspoken thing between Nonna and Lorenzo when I first arrived, the sense I have that there’s something they’re not saying.
Combined with what Nicolo said, it ratchets up my concern.
I need to find out what is really going on. What secrets is this place hiding?
As I head toward the kitchen, one thought is still niggling at me.
Nicolo’s words about how they’ve been waiting for me.
Waiting for what? Are they hoping I can save them somehow?
Because if so, I’m afraid I’m going to sadly disappoint them.
I adore Nonna, Lorenzo, and this slice of land that is so close to my heart, but I’m not even sure I can save myself, much less an entire farm and a hefty family legacy.
They need someone braver, stronger, more capable.
Someone who knows how to run a farm. Someone who has their life in order.
Someone who isn’t going to fail them. If this place needs saving, I am not that girl.
Early the next morning, a metallic crash wakes me from a light sleep.
It sounds like it came from downstairs. I check my phone.
It’s just past six thirty in the morning, but already my bedroom is filled with the mouthwatering aroma of simmering meat sauce and pasta.
That’s weird. Why is Nonna cooking hearty dinner foods at the crack of dawn?
I pause, listening. Several unfamiliar voices drift up from the kitchen along with Nonna’s voice.
She’s telling someone to stir, stir with gusto.
What in the world is going on down there?
Curious, I slip out of bed and tiptoe to the window, cracking open a wooden shutter and peeking out. There are several cars in the driveway—a shiny Audi and two less flashy hatchbacks. Who is here at this early hour? I yawn and stifle a groan.
Softly, I creep downstairs, intending to just take a peek.
I can hear women talking animatedly in Italian.
Wary of repeating the Nicolo disaster, I am cautious not to be seen.
I’m wearing my cute pajamas, but still prefer not to meet strangers at this hour and in my sleepwear.
I peep around the corner into the kitchen.
Three young Italian women are clustered around Nonna, wearing aprons over what looks like smart office attire.
They are all gathered around the heavy table in the center of the room, dishing up pasta.
Their hands and aprons are dusted with flour, and the room is a mess.
They’ve clearly been cooking for a while.
I sniff. The enticing scent of fresh pasta and savory sauce hits my nose.
One of the young women, a slim girl with her long brown hair in a chignon, ladles what looks like gnocchi into a takeaway container.
“I hope this works,” the girl declares in Italian, giving a nervous laugh.
“I like him so much, but I think he sees me only as a friend, just the girl in the next office.”
“After today, that may change,” Nonna says with a small, mysterious smile. “Feed him the pasta and see what happens. This recipe is powerful for love.”
“Two years we’ve been dating and no engagement yet,” another girl with a jet-black bob says to Nonna.
She’s spooning a different pasta and sauce, maybe rigatoni, into a plastic carton.
“My cousin told me about you. She had a very nasty boss at work, and you made fish soup with her and the next week he had taken a job in Shanghai. If anyone can make that boy set a date for the wedding, it is Bruna, she told me, so I came to see you.”
“My mother is despairing of me ever finding a boyfriend, so she sent me here. Bruna will make it happen, she assured me.” This from a petite, curvy girl with chunky glasses.
She’s carefully sliding cooked tortellini into a container.
They are each boxing up a different type of pasta.
What is going on? An early-morning cooking class? I’m so confused.
“No, no, I don’t make it happen at all.” Nonna looks satisfied.
“The cookbook shows us what we need to do. All will come out as it should with each of these dishes. Mark my words. But remember, you must serve this food today, while it is still fresh. That’s important if it’s all going to work correctly.
” She grabs a spoon and carefully ladles some sauce from a pan into the curvy girl’s container of tortellini.
I can smell the butter and sage from here.
“Offer a taste of this to anyone who catches your eye today. Whoever is destined to be your first love is going to adore this pasta,” Nonna says.
My stomach rumbles, and I shrink back into the shadows of the hallway.
Which cookbook is Nonna talking about? What is happening?
The young women take off their aprons and grab their containers of pasta.
Each kisses Nonna’s cheek, pressing a wad of euros into her hand as they file out the door.
A moment later I hear their cars drive away. And then I sneeze.
“Ciao?” Nonna hurries across the kitchen and comes into the hallway, tucking the euros into the pocket of her apron. I spring back, hopping back up on the bottom step so it looks like I’m just coming down the stairs. Nonna peers into the dimness at me. “Juliana?”
“I thought I heard voices,” I tell her, trying to sound sleepy and nonchalant. I yawn. I’m a terrible liar. “What’s happening?” I brush past her and head into the kitchen, curious.
Nonna hesitates. “Just a little cooking class I offer sometimes,” she says finally, reluctantly. “A few office girls wanting to impress their men with homemade pasta.”
“It smells amazing.” I go over to the leftover pasta and glance into the bowl. I recognize it instantly. Tortellini nodo d’amore, love-knot tortellini, a specialty of the region, dripping with butter and sage. Another pot holds gnocchi. A third contains Rigatoni alla Bolognese.
And then I see it, the blank recipe book. Except it isn’t blank. It is lying open on the table beside a bag of flour. A handwritten recipe for Tortellini nodo d’amore is clearly visible on the open page.
“Where did this recipe come from?” Puzzled, I lean forward, trying to make sense of what I’m seeing. I know this entire book was blank, but before I can read more, Nonna snaps the cookbook shut.
“I need to tidy up before Lorenzo wakes up and wants breakfast,” she mutters, not meeting my eyes and making a shooing motion, urging me back upstairs. “Go back to sleep, and when you come down we can make those almond biscotti you loved as a girl. It’s a good recipe for your collection.”
Absently, she pats the wad of euros in her pocket and busies herself cleaning up.
Clearly, I am dismissed. Reluctantly, I head back upstairs, but I don’t fall asleep.
My mind is racing, trying to make sense of what I just saw.
I am obviously missing something and it seems to center around the cookbook.
And why is Nonna being so secretive? What is she hiding and why?
Wide-awake, I lie there as the sun rises, determined to do whatever I have to do to peel back the layers of secrets wrapped around the cookbook and figure out what is really going on.