Chapter 43
By the time I finish up at the Fiore farm, it’s growing dark.
Nicolo and I worked through dinner and my stomach is growling.
We sat side by side for hours, brainstorming, crammed together in the storage room office.
Now we have a bare-bones marketing and branding plan laid out as well as a punch list of items for Nicolo to introduce to Violetta slowly—ideas for a website, new signs, an updated logo, and better customer interfaces.
As soon as he gets her approval for the items, he can get to work.
I feel satisfied that I’ve done a small part to help the Fiore olive farm hopefully thrive once more.
At the same time, I feel a little guilty that I’m not helping my own family in this way.
But the reality is that our farm does not need a marketing plan.
We are not a business like the Fiores. We are a small, family-run olive farm in desperate need of a new generation to take over the care and running of the place, to carry on the legacy.
And unless I’m willing to take on that role, there is not much to be done to help our farm.
That’s the truth, and it’s a hard pill to swallow.
If only I could solve our family’s problem with a new logo and a glossy brochure.
Nicolo goes into the house to make us sandwiches, and I step outside to stretch my legs.
Twilight is falling, that magical moment between day and night where it feels as though the world is holding its breath.
Golden lights glimmer far below on the tranquil surface of the lake, spilling from the houses and hotels along the shore.
From the nearby trees drifts the sleepy twittering of birds.
Violetta is inside the villa, mostly likely watching her favorite detective show.
I can see the dim blue light through the window.
I look at my phone. I’ve had it on silent all afternoon and forgot to check it until now.
It appears that a lot has happened in a few hours. The first text I see is from Lisa.
How r my girls? She includes a photo of her new pottery piece, which looks kind of like a bud vase shaped like a vagina. It’s a mottled pink color. Unleashing my feminine power! she captions it.
I shudder but text back Everything is great. I send her a photo of Alex helping me in the kitchen, and she hearts it immediately. With Lisa, that’s about all I can expect. I’m used to it by now.
Aurora has sent a two-minute audio text complete with the children’s new penny whistle / flute / violin quartet playing discordantly in the background, and at the end, a few seconds of panicked yelling when Doris is discovered inside the mudroom eating Meadow’s rubber rain boots.
I make a note to send her a long audio text back, updating her about everything that has happened since we last spoke.
She is going to be over the moon when she hears about my safe-cracking and make-out session with Nicolo last night.
Alex has also texted twice.
Our video from this morning is really popular. People love this magic cake idea. We’re at fifteen thousand views already, and a thousand shares.
An hour later she texted again.
Now it’s got fifty thousand views and five thousand shares. This is crazy. I think this might be going viral.
I check the @OlivesandAmore TikTok account.
Yep, Alex is right. The video is trending.
Even as I’m looking at the post, people are commenting.
I scroll down through the hundreds of comments—some enthusiastic, some skeptical.
A few trolls. The usual mix, but so many more people than I’m used to. I see a comment from Drew.
This is awesome! Jules, call me! I need to talk to you.
I close TikTok, feeling astonished and also thoughtful.
Where does all this publicity lead? We’ve got momentum, but what do we do with it?
Is there a way we can leverage it to help the farm?
But even if we did leverage it, to what end?
I am leaving at the end of the summer. Who would carry on the momentum?
I see I’ve a missed call from Drew. He texted too.
Call me. Keith wants to talk to you.
Frowning, I reread the text. Keith wants to talk to me? Why? Is there renewed interest in our show?
I call Drew’s number, heartbeat quickening with a nervous hope.
He doesn’t answer. Disappointed, I leave a message telling him to call me and hang up just as Nicolo comes out of the villa, laden with sandwiches and glass bottles of a fizzy yellow drink.
He hands me a bottle and I recognize the Tassoni label on their famous citron-flavored soda.
They once used citron from the Lake Garda region for the flavoring, but now use a different variety grown in Calabria.
I learned that tidbit from Dad, who loved this beverage.
“I spoke to Nonna V. about your idea for the Orange Blossom Cake,” Nicolo tells me, offering me a sandwich on thick, soft bread, “and she’s agreed to come over tomorrow morning to see if the cookbook will show us the recipe.
I told her if it does, the plan is that we make the cake together and then all take the first bite at the exact same time. ”
“She said yes? That seems suspiciously easy.” I take a big bite of the sandwich, layered with peppery mortadella (heavenly Italian bologna that puts American bologna to shame), cheese, and sliced ripe tomatoes. I stifle a groan. It’s so good.
Nicolo chuckles. “She was skeptical until I mentioned that Bruna was going to participate. I told her how exciting it would be that Bruna would finally get to see her happiest moment. I was banking on Nonna V. being competitive enough not to want to be left out.”
“Clever you.” I take a sip of the citron soda, the bubbles tickling my nose. It’s refreshing and citrusy and aromatic. I’d forgotten how unique the flavor of citron truly is.
I reach out and clink my bottle to Nicolo’s. “Cin cin,” I say, the casual Italian version of cheers. “To second chances.”
He raises his bottle in a little salute. “And to the promise of Orange Blossom Cake.”
We drink.