Chapter 29
“Juliana, where is your head? In the clouds?” Nonna thumps the prep table in exasperation.
She looks remarkably alert after her late-night meeting with Lorenzo.
I do not. I feel like I’m walking around with my head wrapped in cotton wool.
Everything is fuzzy. I tossed and turned for hours last night, thoughts going round and round in a fretful, helpless loop.
“Sorry!” I snap to attention to find that I can’t remember how much salt I’ve added to the brioche dough.
Guiltily, I pinch a piece of the dough off and taste it, then add a bit more salt before mixing in the softened butter.
This morning I’m a mess. I’m spacey and forgetful and distracted.
I keep thinking of the conversation last night.
There’s a hard knot of worry clenched in the pit of my stomach that will not ease.
We are attempting to make the two most iconic Northern Italian pastries this morning, brioche and cornetto.
They are the cornerstone of Italian breakfasts, along with a caffellatte.
Espresso is usually reserved for later in the day, drunk black and accompanied by a glass of water to cleanse the palate.
Creamy, sweet caffellattes are just for the morning, the perfect accompaniment to a fresh pastry. Italians love a sweet breakfast.
I am supposed to be mixing up the brioche dough, but I’m having trouble concentrating on it.
It should be easy. Aurora loved making these for breakfast, and she and I have helped Nonna a dozen times or more, but I’m forgetting everything today.
I try to focus on the dough. It will rest for an hour or so and then we’ll form the brioche into little bun shapes with a knob of dough on top.
The buns will be filled with apricot jam in a nod to Aurora.
It’s her favorite flavor of jam. There are few better ways to start a day in Italy than with a caffellatte and a freshly baked round of this sweet, buttery pastry bread.
As soon as the brioche dough is resting, Nonna mixes up a batch of fresh, cold lemonade and pours it into small glass jars.
“Take this to the men while we wait for the dough to be ready to shape,” she urges me, handing me the jars. “They’re working on rebuilding the wall today, a hard job. They need a little refreshment.”
There doesn’t seem to be any room to demur, so I slip on my sandals, slick on some tinted rose-scented lip balm, and set off to find the men. I’m wearing a red dotted sundress, and I realize after I’m already out the door that I forgot to take off my apron. Oh well.
It’s midmorning but promises to be a hot day. Already, the air is filled with the buzzing of bees, and the sun feels strong on the top of my head. By the time I reach the crest of the hill, I’ve sweated through the underarms of my sundress.
Nicolo is alone when I find him at the far end of the property, rebuilding a partly collapsed section of the ancient drystone wall that separates our land from that of the Fiores. Lorenzo and his little truck are nowhere to be seen.
“Ciao, Juliana.” Nicolo waves to me as I approach, wiping sweat from his brow with one gloved hand.
He’s shirtless, which takes me by surprise, dressed only in work pants and heavy boots.
He’s tanned a beautiful olive golden color, slick with sweat, with broad shoulders and a compact, muscular frame.
I look away from the faint V of dark hair that trails down his chest toward his navel, feeling embarrassed by how drawn to him I am.
I lick my lips and stare over his left shoulder as I hand him a lemonade.
“Nonna sent this for you,” I tell the space over the top of his shoulder. “Where’s Zio Lorenzo?”
“Gone into town. He’ll be back soon.” Nicolo strips off his gloves. “Grazie mille.”
He gulps the cold lemonade and makes a low sound of satisfaction that catches me off guard. I’ve heard that sound from him before, and it had nothing to do with a fizzy drink. I feel my cheeks flush.
“This is delicious.” He holds up the glass bottle gratefully, then reaches down and picks up his shirt. To my equal parts dismay and relief, he slides it on and buttons it smoothly. The hair on his forearms is lightly dusted with a fine layer of soil.
“How’s the wall coming along?” I ask, eyeing the progress.
They are painstakingly restoring the crumbled section, rebuilding it with the age-old traditional method that uses small stones and dirt instead of mortar, hence the term “drystone wall.” These types of walls dot the hills and fields of Italy, an integral part of the landscape.
“Slow, but we are getting there. This kind of repair cannot be rushed. It takes the time it takes.” Nicolo slips his gloves on again and surveys the wall.
They’ve built the smaller inner wall that stabilizes the entire structure and are starting to build the outer wall.
I wander over to the piles of repurposed materials they’ve gathered and sorted from the collapsed sections—dirt, small stones, and a big pile of large stones dotted with lichen. Nothing is wasted in this process.
“You were right,” I tell Nicolo abruptly, suddenly needing to share the weight of the information I’ve been carrying all morning. “When you said they were waiting for me to come back.” I briefly tell him what I overheard last night.
He listens carefully. “I’m not surprised,” he says with a sigh.
“It’s impressive that they’ve managed to keep it running this long.
They’re strong and stubborn—their entire generation is.
” He leans down and sifts a few pebbles from the dirt at his feet, tossing them on the tall pile of similarly sized pebbles. “So are you going to stay?”
I’m already shaking my head before he’s done asking the blunt question.
“I’m only here for the summer,” I tell him, feeling a little defensive.
“That was always the plan. I can’t stay.
I’m trying to save my show, and if I stay, I give up on that dream and five years of work.
Besides, I’m not like you. I don’t know anything about olive farming.
” I gently stub the toe of my sandal into the mound of pebbles, and a handful fall in a little avalanche.
Guiltily, I scoop them up again. “Violetta and Alberto trained you to run your family’s business.
I wasn’t raised for that. I think the plan was that my dad would take over someday, but then…
” I lift my hands helplessly. When he died, that plan obviously ended too.
The only problem was that apparently the plan B, me, had been whisked away by Lisa and never returned.
Nicolo laughs but it’s humorless, dry as dust. “They may have trained me to run the farm,” he concedes, “but Nonna V. won’t let me change anything. She wants my help, but only on her terms. She maintains full control. She won’t listen to a word I say, and it’s slowly choking the business to death.”
“That sounds really frustrating,” I empathize, waiting to see if he wants to share more.
“Tremendously,” he agrees with a sigh. He stands back and surveys the pile of large stones, then chooses a big flattened one and hefts it aloft, muscles straining with the effort.
“I left a high-powered career I liked to come home and be treated like an overgrown child,” he tells me, carefully fitting the stone into a space in the wall with a grunt.
“And the worst part is, the farm is in trouble and it doesn’t need to be.
It’s big enough that if it were properly managed, it could be profitable.
But she won’t mess with tradition or allow anything new.
” He eyes the stone he just set, nudging it more firmly into place. He looks thoroughly exasperated.
“Well, my family wants me to take over a job I don’t want and am not qualified for,” I chime in glumly.
I come to stand beside him, surveying the foundations of the wall.
I helped Lorenzo rebuild a small portion of one of these walls when I was younger.
I still remember the painstaking process.
I eye an empty space, trying to picture what sort of stone it needs to fill it.
“I have a feeling you could do anything you put your mind to,” Nicolo counters with a half smile. “Remember the tree house we built that first summer we met?”
I squint, trying to remember.
“You got the idea from an old American movie,” he prompts.
“ Swiss Family Robinson ,” I say in surprise. I’d forgotten all about that.
“You were tireless, scouring the neighborhood for scrap wood and pulling rusty nails out and pounding them straight. By the end of summer you’d managed to collect enough for us to build a tree house.”
“Which was about four feet long by four feet wide if I remember right,” I say with a laugh.
“We could barely both fit inside once it was all built. I’d forgotten about that.
” I choose a long, flat stone from the pile and wedge it carefully between two larger stones in the wall.
It’s a good fit, I note with satisfaction.
“You’ve always been good at that, making something out of very little,” Nicolo responds, and there’s a fondness and admiration in his gaze that surprises me. He sees something in me I forgot was even there.
“You were the one who worked tirelessly putting it together,” I remind him. “By the time we were done, I think you had smashed both thumbs trying to hammer in those old bent nails, but you didn’t give up. You were tenacious.”
He chuckles. “I did it for you,” he confesses, crossing his arms and shaking his head. “I would have done anything for you, Juliana Costa.”
I clear my throat and glance down, feeling self-conscious. “I wish I had that kind of confidence now,” I confess. “If only succeeding at life were as easy as building a tree house.”
Nicolo raises an eyebrow. “Building that tree house wasn’t easy,” he says, looking surprised. “I had two smashed black thumbnails by the time we were finished. Life isn’t easy, now or then. You have to pick the hard that means the most to you. Pick the right hard thing.”
I consider his words for a moment. “Is this your right hard thing?” I gesture to the Fiores’ land. “Even with the challenges?”
Nicolo nods thoughtfully. “I think so. My right hard thing is trying to save my family’s olive farm.
Is it difficult? Almost always. Is it worth it?
” He shrugs. “Time will tell. But I know it is worth the risk. I have to try.” He walks over to the pile of stones and picks up a medium-sized dark gray rock with a white vein running through it, then carefully nestles it between two other stones in the wall. It’s a perfect fit.
“What is your right hard thing, Jules?” Nicolo asks, standing back from the wall and watching me, his eyes alight with curiosity.
I hesitate, thinking back on my string of failures.
Right out of high school I’d applied for and gotten into a culinary school in Seattle only to drop out after two quarters.
I just couldn’t seem to muster any joy for cooking that soon after my dad’s death.
Then there had been a handful of waitressing jobs.
I’d done okay at those, but had finally settled on Trader Joe’s for the better hours.
I felt like a horse that had stumbled at the first turn and somehow never managed to find her feet again.
The only thing I had was my show. That was the only thing I’d managed to build and keep going.
I love it, and I’m proud of it. There is very little else in my life I feel proud of.
“My show,” I tell him at last. “That’s my right hard thing.
It’s the only thing I’ve managed to succeed at, the only thing that’s mine, but recently I’ve…
had some setbacks.” I blow out a breath, trying not to think of Drew off on location with Desiree Reyes, of the last remaining segment waiting for me to post it, and then what?
“Right now there’s a slim chance I can keep it going if I can finish my cookbook in time and it sells well.
That’s why I’m here. I’m trying to save the show and preserve what I’ve worked so hard for. ”
Nicolo looks at me searchingly, then nods.
I’m not sure why, but it feels like he’s taken a step back, even though he hasn’t moved a muscle.
“I’m sure you’ll succeed, Jules,” he says, his voice a little flat.
“You can do anything you set your mind to.” Then he claps his hands briskly, a puff of dust rising from his gloves.
“Thank you for the drink, but I’d better get back to work. ”
Clearly, I’ve been dismissed. I get the sneaking feeling I’ve disappointed him in some way.
I brush dust and crumbles of lichen from my apron, leave the other jar of lemonade for Lorenzo, and start toward the farmhouse.
When I glance behind me, Nicolo is shirtless once again, muscles straining as he hauls a large rock into place.
I walk back to the house feeling vaguely disquieted.
This is what I want, right? I am accomplishing the thing I came to do.
One by one I’m getting the recipes I need.
Everything is going in the right direction.
I should be jubilant. So why do I suddenly wonder if I’m making a mistake?