Chapter 40
“Are you okay?” I ask Nicolo as we pick our way slowly down the darkened lane. A few hundred feet in front of us the Fiat Panda’s taillights wink red as Nonna creeps back to our farmhouse.
“That was a shock,” Nicolo says slowly. “I had no idea.”
“About Alberto and Violetta?”
“Yeah.” He gives a dry, disbelieving laugh.
“I knew they weren’t happy together. I knew my grandfather could be a hard man.
But no, I did not know how bad it was. And I had no idea about…
about Nonna V. getting pregnant with my mom, or that Alberto and Bruna had once been engaged.
That’s crazy.” He runs his fingers through his hair, a gesture of consternation, I’ve come to realize.
We walk side by side down the graveled driveway through the silvery olive groves alive with night sounds—the cooing of doves and the whir of insects.
There is a full moon, but the night is half darkness under the cover of the trees.
A light breeze is ruffling the leaves, and their papery whisper sends a shiver down my back.
Somewhere an owl hoots and another answers far off.
I think of the revelations from tonight.
We only meant to steal back the missing half of the recipe, but instead our little caper resulted in an evening of revealed secrets and perhaps a long-standing rift now mended. I’m still a little stunned by it all.
“Do you think Nonna and Violetta could ever be friends again?” I ask.
“I hope so. They need each other, though they are both too stubborn to admit it,” Nicolo says dryly.
“All those years. All those secrets…” I shake my head in wonder. “It makes me want to tell someone all my secrets immediately.”
“Do you have any secrets?” Nicolo asks. He sounds curious and a little amused.
“Everyone has secrets,” I tell him gravely, but then I can’t think of a single one to confide.
We’ve reached the olive tree where we stashed the limoncello.
Nicolo stops walking and just stands there for a moment, gazing at me in the light of the moon.
His face is all planes and angles, but his eyes are black and intent on my face.
He reaches out and brushes his thumb over my cheekbone.
His expression is pained and a little hungry.
“I know it’s only for the summer, but I’m glad you’re here,” he says.
I lean into his touch. “I’m glad I’m here too.” I pause, then ask playfully, “Do you have any secrets?”
He nods, then asks softly, “Do you want to know one?” His face is so close to mine I can see the inky line of his brows, the fan of dark lashes framing those deep, soulful eyes.
I nod, my heart pounding in my chest. “Yes, please,” I whisper.
He leans forward until his lips brush my ear and whispers, “I watched every one of your shows.”
“Every one?” I ask, dumbfounded, pulling back to look at his face. That’s five years of content.
He nods solemnly. “Every single one.”
“But you don’t cook, do you?”
His lips quirk in a little wry smile. “I didn’t watch it for the recipes,” he says, his voice unexpectedly husky.
I don’t know who moves first. I step forward.
He meets me halfway. Our mouths find each other, picking up where we left off in Violetta’s office.
He pulls me closer, wrapping his arms around me, pressing us together from forehead to toes.
His mouth is hungry on mine, and he makes a sound in his throat, a little desperate groan.
He moves me back a few steps and pins me gently but firmly against the trunk of the olive tree.
I can’t think; the darkened world spins and slips away and there is only this man against me, murmuring endearments in my ear in Italian, pressing hot kisses into the soft skin above my collarbone.
The knobby trunk of the tree is wedged against my back, but all I can concentrate on is the heat of his body, his desire and mine, a potent alchemy that’s making me dizzy.
I can’t quite catch my breath, but I can’t stop touching him, kissing him.
I don’t want an inch of night between us. I want to stay like this forever.
And then my phone rings. I ignore it, pulling him even closer, but the ringing goes on and on.
When it cuts off, it starts up again. I stiffen and he lifts his mouth from mine immediately.
I murmur an apology and fumble in my purse, intending to turn the phone off, but then I see the screen.
It’s a giant photo of Drew looking tanned and windblown.
Instantly, I come crashing back to earth. Why is Drew calling me for the first time since he left? I check my phone record. Drew called twice in the space of a minute. Is there an emergency?
“Is everything okay?” Nicolo asks. He sounds a little winded. He glances at the screen and frowns.
I hesitate. “I’d better take this. It’s my housemate Drew. I think something might be wrong.” I’m still reluctant to step away. What rotten timing.
“Of course,” Nicolo says reluctantly. “Do you want me to walk you back home?”
“I’ll be fine. I’ll call him on the way.” I hold up my phone.
“Then good night, Juliana. Thank you for a very memorable evening.” Nicolo presses a final kiss to my temple, then stoops and gathers the bottle of limoncello and the glasses.
I take them from him and tuck the glasses in the pockets of my dress.
The bottle I carry carefully. And then I walk away from him, picking my way down the dark driveway until I reach the road.
I feel the heavy warmth of his eyes on me with every step.
When I turn into our own driveway, I tuck the bottle under my arm and slip my phone from my purse.
“Jules!” Drew picks up immediately. “Hey, roomie! Thanks for calling me back.” I feel a rush of warmth at the sound of his voice, but also an unfamiliar hesitancy.
It still stings to think of him sending the audition tape to Keith without telling me.
I understand why he did it, but it still feels like a betrayal.
“What’s going on?” I ask a little breathlessly. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, everything is great,” Drew assures me, but I know him too well.
There’s a note of hesitation in his voice.
There’s something he’s not saying. “We’re wrapping up filming in a few days, actually,” Drew says.
“The producers decided to just do a four-episode initial series and see how it tests with viewers.” In the background I can hear a lot of noise and some sort of high-energy soundtrack.
“This week we’re in New Mexico, filming at this great little roadside diner that has bison burgers and these famous Hatch green chile hot dogs.
You’d love the vibe.” He sounds upbeat, a little too upbeat.
“It’s been an awesome experience to get to do this, like life-changing.
” It feels like there’s a “but” coming, but I wait and it doesn’t come.
“So how’s Italy?” Drew asks. “How’s the cookbook going?”
I glance back over my shoulder knowing I cannot see Nicolo anymore through the grove of olive trees separating our two driveways. I’d bet five euros he is still there waiting, though, making sure I get home safely. Sure enough, my phone dings with a text, an Italian number.
Let me know when you get home safely—Nico
My heart gives an almost painful thump. He’s protective of me. It’s a marvelous thought. I have to struggle to concentrate on my conversation with Drew.
“It’s going pretty well,” I tell Drew. “Being back in Italy has been honestly amazing and I’m making good progress on the recipes.” I don’t dive into the complexities of the farm and Nonna Bruna’s magical cookbook, or mention Nicolo.
“Aw, that’s great, Jules. Good for you,” Drew enthuses.
“Hey, send me some pictures, okay? I want to see what your life in Italy is like. And if you want to bounce any new ideas off me, I’m here.
How’s it going? Got any new ideas you might want to pitch to Keith?
” His tone is studiedly casual, but I get the impression there’s a reason he’s asking. I wonder what it is.
“Maybe,” I hedge. I don’t really have any ideas at present, but I want to keep the door open in case I do.
“Oh yeah, like what?” he asks. He sounds a little too eager. I hesitate. I used to tell Drew everything, but I feel a little cautious now, like I need to be careful.
“Nothing concrete yet,” I tell him truthfully.
“Well, let me know if you want to talk anything through…”
“Thanks, I will.” Our conversation feels awkward, a little stilted. It makes me sad. We used to chat for hours, back in the pandemic lockdown days. He was my best friend.
I come in sight of the farmhouse. The outside light is on, bathing the gravel courtyard in a warm yellow glow.
“Listen, Jules, I gotta get back to the shoot,” Drew tells me. “Let’s talk soon, okay?”
When we hang up, I send him a couple of photos—Alex and me at the market, a few of the dishes I’ve been working on, a photo of the farmhouse amid the olive groves.
Then I include the @OlivesandAmore account information on TikTok, letting him know he can see more of my life in Italy there.
I know Alex has been diligently posting on the site. He might enjoy the content.
Before I go into the house, I text Nicolo.
Home safe.
Then I pause, hand hovering over the screen. I want to write more, but what can I say? Thanks for the best make-out session of my life. Sorry we got interrupted. I settle for Thanks for being my partner in crime tonight.
The answer comes back quickly.
Of course. Anything for you, Jules, even petty larc eny.
Grinning, I slip my phone back in my purse and quietly let myself in the kitchen door. Everything is silent and dark. It appears I am the only one awake now. I go to the sink and run a glass of water from the tap, drinking deeply. I don’t want to feel those shots of limoncello in the morning.
I can’t stop thinking about Nicolo, about those moments under the olive tree.
I brush my fingers over the tender skin of my jaw, still sensitive from the rough scratch of his beard stubble.
I like him so much it’s scaring me. He is a strong, intelligent, hardworking man who sacrifices for his family.
He doesn’t quit when it’s hard. He doesn’t back down from a challenge.
He’s funny and thoughtful and kind, and as Nonna so succinctly put it, he’s such a fine piece of man.
But we are living completely different lives.
How could anything work between us? He is tied to the land, to Italy and to his family’s legacy.
And I am heading back to Seattle at the end of the summer to keep pursuing my dream for the show.
It’s always been my plan, and I stick to the plan.
But I can’t deny how my heart is pulled toward Nicolo.
I think again of the farm, of Nonna’s hope that I will stay, and immediately feel a familiar wave of panicky anxiety.
If I stay, I am throwing away five years of work and giving up on my show, and for what?
A Herculean task I am very likely to fail.
I cannot do what Nonna wants me to do. I don’t know how to save this place.
But if I don’t try…it will be lost anyway.
It continues to feel like an impossible puzzle, one that makes me itchy and irritable.
I turn to head to bed, tired of going around and around in my mind.
As I pass the table I spy the cookbook and beside it a familiar yellowed envelope.
I pause for a moment, then pick it up. For the first time in sixty years, we have the recipe, the whole recipe, for Orange Blossom Cake.
Could this be the answer to my quandary?
If I make the recipe and take the first bite of cake, will I really see my future happiness?
Could it help me make the right decision?
Intrigued by the possibility, I head for bed.
All of a sudden, I can’t wait for morning to come.