Chapter 36
It is surprisingly easy to break into an olive farm, especially when your accomplice lives there and knows his way around.
We stash the half-empty bottle of limoncello and the shot glasses in the fork of an olive tree on the way up the Fiores’ drive.
The Fiore olive groves are far bigger than ours, so it’s a long walk up the lane to reach the house.
I’m panting by the time we get to the top, but try hard to mask it, wishing I’d done more cardio recently and wasn’t quite so obviously out of shape.
Nicolo doesn’t seem fazed by the uphill hike.
Maybe it feels like a piece of cake after hauling big rocks with Lorenzo all week.
Keeping to the shadows under the trees, we creep quietly as soon as we come in sight of the Fiores’ ancestral villa. It’s a tall, commanding stone structure with two long wings and an expansive view of the lake.
The front of the house has a veranda overlooking a series of terraces that nestle into the hillside, each one filled with perfectly pruned, orderly rows of citron trees.
These are an especially rare and delicate variety of citron called cedro di Salò that grows well in the climate around the lake.
Once, citron fruits were prized for use in medicines, liqueurs, and to make the famed local citron water, though now their popularity has waned.
Citron trees have been grown here at the villa for generations and are a treasured part of the Fiore heritage.
Violetta babies these trees like they are her children.
Nicolo’s BMW is parked in the driveway of the house along with Violetta’s older-model Mercedes. There is a light on in the main floor of the villa and a blue glow seeps through one of the windows. Someone is watching television.
“It’s good timing. My grandmother is watching Il Commissario Montalbano , the detective show she likes.
She’ll be distracted,” Nicolo whispers in my ear, motioning for me to follow him.
We’re both buzzed from the limoncello and high on adrenaline and the joy of breaking the rules.
I feel like a teenager again, sneaking around with the forbidden boy from next door.
Following Nicolo’s lead, I tiptoe behind him across the wide gravel driveway toward the main outbuilding.
My heart is pounding with excitement and a touch of fear.
We’re having a caper. I don’t remember the last time I had a caper.
Probably when Nicolo and I were together all those years ago.
What is it about this boy that gets me into mischief? I wonder. Whatever it is, I like it.
The thought of finding the recipe is thrilling.
The thought of doing it together with Nicolo even more so.
I want to find the recipe now more than ever.
It feels crucial somehow, in a way I can’t explain but sense deep in my gut.
I want to see my future happiness so I know if I’m making the right choice, if I am choosing the right hard thing.
The Fiore farm is large enough to have several outbuildings with various purposes related to harvesting olives and making the oil.
Through the darkness I can see the dim outline of the infamous stable where our romance was so unceremoniously put to an end, a few sheds for machinery and equipment, and the main building that has been converted to a store where customers can purchase items from the farm.
“Violetta’s office is in there, at the back,” Nicolo whispers, pointing to the main building. He’s standing very close to me, his breath a brush of warmth against my temple. “Follow me.”
He glances around as we reach a side door, fumbling for a moment with a set of keys from his pocket before he finds the right one.
We sneak inside. We appear to be in a storage room.
Lots of olive-themed merchandise is stacked neatly on shelves and it smells strongly of olive oil, a rich, unctuous, peppery scent.
It’s dark in here, just a shaft of pale moonlight streaming through a high window and falling across the shelves.
Nicolo crosses silently to the door at the other end of the room and motions to me to come.
“Jules, this way.” He opens the door a crack and peeks out.
I scuttle over to him, peering over his shoulder into the main hallway.
All is dark and silent. I’m so close to him I can feel the rise and fall of his breathing as his back presses against my rib cage.
I swallow hard. My heart is pounding, although I tell myself there is no real danger.
What’s the worst that could happen? Violetta discovers us?
Nicolo is her grandson and the heir to this entire operation.
Still, sneaking around in the dark feels thrilling and illicit.
“All clear,” Nicolo whispers. We tiptoe through the chilly stone hallway toward the back of the building. At a small, unassuming wooden door, Nicolo pauses and tries the handle. It’s locked. “One minute,” he says, searching for a different key.
After a minute he makes a sound of satisfaction.
With a click the door swings open and Nicolo ushers me inside, closing the door softly behind us.
He crosses the room and turns on a small desk lamp, flooding the space with warm, dim light.
The office is chilly and smells of old stone and dried lavender.
It is plainly furnished but elegant, very much like Violetta.
A heavy, ornately carved wooden desk and chair dominate the small space, and a Persian rug covers the stone floor.
Two stiff-looking armchairs sit facing the desk, as though standing at attention.
“Now for the safe,” Nicolo says. He goes to a painting on the wall, a muted pastoral scene, and removes it from its place, setting it aside. Behind it is a small safe.
“Just like in the movies!” I whisper excitedly.
Nicolo grins, a flash of white teeth. “If Nonna V. has the recipe, I’m betting it will be in here.”
I tiptoe over to him. “Okay, clock is ticking.” I glance at the clock on the wall opposite Violetta’s desk. “You bet me you could have it open in ten minutes.”
It takes him a few tries and several mild swears in Italian, but exactly six minutes later we both hear the click when he finally guesses the combination correctly. The safe door swings open and Nicolo stands back and spreads his arms wide, inviting me to come see his handiwork.
“You did it!” I squeal, high-fiving him, elated.
“We did it.” He grabs my hand and pulls me close, twirling me in a circle, both of us euphoric with victory.
I twine my arms around his neck and hold on, suddenly dizzy.
We’re both laughing. Gently, he sets me down, but neither of us steps away.
His hands don’t leave my waist. We’re standing very close together.
I can feel the warmth of his skin seeping through the thin fabric of my sundress, my fingers nestling in the thick curls at the nape of his neck.
“You still had four minutes,” I tell him as my heart rate rockets from more than the thrill of breaking and entering.
“You owe me five euros,” he says, trying to look serious and failing.
He’s grinning. I’m standing so close I can smell him, something familiar in the warmth of his skin—the faintest whiff of his cologne with traces of warm amber and woody, resinous cedar and an underlying herbaceous, peppery note of olive oil that seems to be a part of his essence.
I lean closer, my nose brushing his skin, and he pulls back enough to look at me incredulously. “Are you sniffing me?”
I giggle, half-embarrassed at being caught out. “Sorry, you smell delicious,” I tell him a little flirtatiously.
“Oh, do I?” He watches me, intrigued. “What do I smell like?”
“Like warm honey and the sticky sap of a cedar tree. Like you,” I pause and consider.
“You’re all grown-up but I feel like I still know you.
You smell like…like coming home.” There is a comfort in his scent, a sense of safety.
It brings a lump to my throat. His eyes soften and he reaches up, tucking a wave of hair behind my ear.
The rough pads of his fingers brush across my earlobe.
“It is the same for me,” he says gently. “How is that possible? All these years later, and I still feel as though I know you. As though the years apart have all just melted away.” He pulls me a little closer, his eyes on mine, his gaze so warm I feel like I’m the one melting.
I nestle closer to him. “You were my first love. I know we were young and naive, but I opened my heart to you, and that isn’t something I can just close up quickly. I still feel so open to you.” It feels vulnerable to admit that, but I find I want to be vulnerable with him.
He reaches up and traces the curve of my jaw with his thumb.
“I loved you from the moment I first saw you, Jules. You got out of the car, straight from the airport, wearing a T-shirt with cupcakes on it, your hair in braids, with your mouth full of braces and those big brown eyes. You looked at me and smiled, and it felt like the sun had just come out from behind the clouds, like the world was suddenly brighter and warmer. For the first time, I didn’t feel alone.
” He stops and meets my eyes intently. “I never forgot you, Juliana. I always hoped our paths might cross again. And now here you are. It feels like a gift.”
“I…I feel the same way.” I swallow hard, darting a look at his mouth.
I remember that mouth, what it felt like caressing the tender skin of my collarbone.
Nicolo doesn’t answer, just pulls me closer until his body is pressed against mine.
My pulse quickens. I can’t seem to remember how to breathe.
He lowers his head, his lips brushing the sensitive pressure point at the hinge of my jaw just below my ear.
“Sei bella,” he whispers huskily, the warmth of his mouth making me shiver.
“Tesoro mio. La mia stellina.” Beautiful.
My dear. My little star. I recognize the words.
He whispered them the first time he kissed me.
I turn toward him, hungry and eager and searching.
And then his mouth is on mine, and a searing sense of knowing arcs between us like a current of electricity.
He makes a little growl, low in his throat, his lips on mine at once tender and fierce.
My knees buckle and he tightens his grip to hold me close and keep me from falling.
I smile against his lips, then pull his head down more firmly toward me.
Whatever this is between us, I want more.