Chapter 42
“How long has it been since your logo was updated?” I scoot forward in my chair next to Nicolo and squint at the slightly blurry hand-drawn olive tree logo displayed on the ancient desktop monitor on his desk.
It’s late afternoon and we’re in his office nook, which is actually just a corner of the storage room we tiptoed through last night.
It’s not even an office, just a chair and desk surrounded by merchandise for the storefront and extra rolls of toilet paper and bottles of cleaning fluid.
It looks different in daylight. Way more Office Max and less James Bond.
“I think Violetta’s cousin drew this in the sixties, so it’s been…a while,” Nicolo admits, running his fingers through his curls. Increasingly, he has an air of exasperation as we go through all the marketing and branding materials related to the farm. It’s in a sorry state.
“Oh wow, okay.” I scribble “new logo” under the other items on the ever-increasing to-do list. I clear my throat and try not to think about last night.
We’re trying to be all business today, but it’s hard to think clearly with Nicolo sitting so close our elbows are brushing.
I can feel the warmth of his skin through the thin cotton of his shirt, and I keep getting distracted thinking about those heated kisses in the darkness under the olive trees.
Nicolo peers at the list. “Thanks for helping us with this,” he says. “I can handle the legal end of things, and I’m good at overhauling the business practices to maximize our efficiency, but marketing is not my strong suit.” He grimaces.
“I’m happy to help. You’ve been incredibly kind to Nonna and Zio Lorenzo.
It’s the least I can do.” I fiddle with the list and try to maintain a professional composure when really I just want to grab Nicolo by the collar and kiss him senseless.
I clear my throat and squint hard at the desktop, trying to corral my overheated thoughts.
If only he didn’t smell so good. I want to lick him.
Focus, Jules, focus, I tell myself sternly.
The Fiores need my help. I majored in marketing at Seattle University and minored in English.
I’ve always been interested in marketing and branding.
What draws people and creates instant brand appeal?
How do you make good on what your advertising promises?
I love exploring these topics. I’ve spent the past five years building my show’s brand from scratch, so while I’m by no means a marketing professional, I can certainly improve on what the Fiore family business has now. Which is essentially nothing.
I force myself to concentrate on the marketing plan, and try to ignore Nicolo as he frowns at the screen, quirking those delicious lips and muttering to himself in Italian.
“You need a fresh logo and some basic marketing materials,” I tell him briskly, scooting my chair a few inches away from him and fanning myself with an old brochure I found on the desk.
It’s hot this afternoon and the office is not air-conditioned.
An ancient fan wheezes asthmatically in the corner but the air around us doesn’t stir.
“I have a few people we can ask for an estimate for those,” I add.
“And I know someone who can build a website for a pretty decent price. You’ve got to bring your advertising into this century at least.”
Nicolo groans. “I agree, but Violetta is very set in her ways. I can’t promise I can get her to budge on anything.
” He blows a breath out in exasperation.
“It took me weeks to convince her to change the brand of toilet paper in the store bathroom. The old stuff was like sandpaper.” He winces.
“This is what my life is now, arguing with a stubborn old woman about toilet paper.” He leans back in the chair and laces his fingers behind his head, meeting my eyes with an expression of fatigue and exasperation.
“Some days I’m not sure I can do this,” he admits.
“I don’t know if I can get her to change enough to save this place. ”
I don’t know what to say to that, but I can see the cost of what he’s given up and how hard he’s trying now.
“Okay, that’s enough strategy for the moment. Let’s go outside,” I suggest. “We can brainstorm some good locations around the farm to photograph for the new website and tourism ads. I’ll bet we can hire Alex to shoot them for us.” I hop up and head out the side door. He follows.
It’s a beautiful day, the late-afternoon sun bathing everything in a golden honey glow.
The air is filled with the scent of lavender and the industrious buzzing of bees.
Around the side of the villa I can just catch a glimpse of the terraces filled with tidy, glossy rows of citron trees.
The unripe fruit hangs from the boughs, huge and green as limes.
They will gradually turn bright yellow as they ripen through the summer until they are harvested in late fall.
It looks like it will be a good crop this year; the boughs are heavy with fruit.
I wonder if Violetta still makes her candied citron.
We loved to sneak tastes of the special treat when we were younger.
There are a few cars parked in the wide gravel parking area between the villa and the gift shop. Through the shop window I can see a young saleswoman assisting a few middle-aged tourists wearing waist bags and floral T-shirts.
“Now picture this.” We stand back from the entrance and I describe my ideas for improving curb appeal with a bigger sign sporting a new logo, a sandwich board down at the bottom of the drive to attract the attention of passing motorists, and some brochures to leave in local hotels to draw tourists.
I’m halfway through my description when I hear the crunch of footsteps on gravel.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
We both whirl to see Violetta striding toward us, looking imperious.
“Nonna V.,” Nicolo says, forcing a smile. “Jules is helping us with some new marketing ideas for improving the business.”
Violetta looks down her long nose at me suspiciously. “And what would she know of running this business?” she asks pointedly.
“I don’t know the ins and outs of running an olive farm, but I can give some good suggestions about branding and marketing,” I tell her calmly. “I studied marketing in college.” What is it about this woman that always makes me feel like a scolded child?
She ignores me and turns to Nicolo. “We don’t need to change anything,” she insists. “This farm has been in our family for five generations. We stand proudly on tradition here.”
Nicolo clears his throat and glances at me, then lowers his voice.
“You know as well as I do that this place is no longer profitable,” he says firmly.
“You know we’re at risk if we don’t manage to increase our profit margin somehow.
I’ve shown you the numbers and how this all plays out if we don’t turn things around soon. ”
“And you think you know how to do this?” Violetta sniffs scornfully.
“We have been doing things the same way in our family for generations. It is the way it has always been done, and yet you think you can come in here with your modern, fast ideas, and change things any way you want? You think you can improve on hundreds of years of tradition?”
I glance at Nicolo, noting his rigid posture, his jaw clenched in frustration, as he tries to reason with his grandmother. It isn’t right that he has sacrificed his career, his entire life, to try to help his family, and she treats him like an incompetent child.
“He can, actually,” I pipe up, surprised by my own temerity to stand up to Violetta.
This is becoming a habit. “You should listen to Nicolo,” I tell her, standing up straighter and meeting her shocked gaze.
“He has great ideas and good business instincts. He knows how to grow a business. Farms like yours and ours are failing and being sold all over this region.” I think about what Nonna and Lorenzo said the night I eavesdropped on their conversation.
It’s such a tragic thought it almost makes me want to cry, to think of the family farms scattered across the hillsides of Lake Garda being gobbled up by foreign investors or bigger olive-farming businesses.
It cannot happen to the Fiores. It cannot happen to our family either.
It’s unthinkable. There must be another way.
“If you don’t find a way to modernize this place, you’re putting your family and legacy at risk,” I tell Violetta firmly.
“You have to change with the times, or you may not have anything left to pass on to the next generation of Fiores, and that would be such a loss for your family, the community, and this region. Farms like this are what makes Lake Garda so special. Don’t get stuck in an old way of doing things and miss the opportunity to save your family’s legacy. ”
I pause for breath, surprised by my own passion for this subject. Violetta is staring at me as though I’ve suddenly sprouted two heads. Nicolo is staring at me with a look of such astonished admiration it makes me blush.
“Sorry,” I mumble. “Just giving you my thoughts.” My phone vibrates in the pocket of my jeans. I want to peek at it, but Violetta’s sharp eyes are trained on me. I just let it vibrate until it goes to voice mail.
“Well, next time you can keep your thoughts to yourself,” Violetta retorts tartly, but I see her dart a glance at Nicolo and then at the list in my hands.
She hesitates. “But perhaps a few changes would not be a terrible idea,” she says finally, reluctantly.
Silently, I whoop with glee. Victory! She holds up a warning hand.
“But not too much. Nothing flashy. We must protect the dignity of the family name.”
Nicolo glances up in surprise, then hastily agrees. “Nothing flashy,” he promises her, then throws me a sly wink. “I guess we can forget that disco ball in the entrance hall to the gift shop,” he says.
Violetta looks startled. “Disco ball?” she repeats in a scandalized tone.
“Joking, Nonna V.,” Nicolo tells her. “I’ll show you some of our ideas this evening. We’ll keep it tasteful, I promise.”