Chapter 49
I head for the patio, looking for a place to be alone, but stop short at the top of the stairs. Alex is sitting in a chair at the table under the olive trees with her arms crossed, her expression tight and angry. I hesitate. “Hey,” I offer tentatively, trying to figure out what is going on.
She turns on me, radiating disapproval. “You’re going to LA?” she asks, her tone accusing.
“It’s just a possibility,” I tell her, approaching the table cautiously.
No one has cleaned up from the cake fiasco earlier and the sweet mess is attracting bees.
Nonna usually whisks plates away as soon as the last bite is consumed, but she had bigger things on her mind.
I gather the dirty plates and stack them.
There are some crumbs from the cake scattered around, and I brush them away with my hand.
Already the ants have found them. “But don’t worry,” I hasten to assure her.
“It wouldn’t be until the end of the summer.
We’ll stay until you go back to school, like we planned. ”
“You think that’s what I’m worried about?” Alex scoffs. “Staying here until the end of summer?”
“Um…no?” I’m really feeling at a loss here. I gather forks, not sure what else to do.
It seems I’ve touched a nerve. She levels a hard stare at me. “Fine, whatever. You’re right. I’m leaving anyway. Do whatever you want.” She stands and grabs a few empty espresso cups and saucers, the porcelain clanking together alarmingly. She doesn’t seem to notice.
I’m genuinely puzzled. “Why does it matter what I do after the summer is over?” I ask, trying to adopt a reasonable tone. “This was only ever supposed to be for the summer, right?”
She stiffens, not looking at me. “Right. Of course.” She grabs the stack of plates and stomps down the stone steps. “Tell that to Bruna, okay?”
“Hey, what do you mean by that?” I demand, following her. I’m carrying the remains of the cake, a fistful of forks, and a teetering stack of plates, which, in hindsight, was a little ambitious.
She whirls on me at the kitchen door. “I know the farm is in deep shit financially, okay?” she hisses.
“I hear everything, by the way. None of you are quiet and sound carries in this house. I know Bruna was hoping you were going to come and save the farm, that you could save the family legacy. And I know you have zero interest in doing that.” She pushes open the door and goes in.
“Alex, wait.” I trail her inside, carefully balancing the dishes and the leftover cake.
Thankfully, the kitchen is empty. Nonna must have gone upstairs.
I don’t know what to say. “That was never the deal,” I stammer.
“I came for the summer, that’s it. I’m not the right person to take on this place.
That was never even on the table.” I gently deposit the forks and dishes in the sink.
Alex slams the saucers down on the counter hard enough that I am afraid she’ll shatter them. “So you’re just going to let this whole place go?” she challenges. “What’s going to happen to Bruna and Lorenzo?”
“I mean…I’ll send them money and help as much as I can.” I carefully set the cake on the kitchen table.
“Oh, that’s big of you,” she says sarcastically, rolling her eyes.
“Hey, that isn’t fair,” I protest, growing annoyed. “And frankly, I don’t think it is any of your business what I do or what happens to the farm.”
“Why, because I’m not really a Costa?” she asks. There’s a hard edge to her voice. I feel ambushed. I can’t tell what’s riling her up, and I feel like she’s catching me up with her words.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” I say, trying for a conciliatory tone. I just want to escape to a quiet place where I can think. Having a provoking row with my half sister is not high on my to-do list today.
“Yes, you did,” Alex says quietly. There is something in her face that gives me pause, a challenge I don’t know how to counter.
I wait silently. “Do you ever think about anyone but yourself?” she asks, her tone conversational, the words brutal.
When I don’t respond she continues. “Do you realize this is the most normal family life I’ve had in my entire life?
You know what it’s like with Mom and Dad.
There’s not a whole lot of parenting going on in our house.
But here…” She pauses, sounding a little wistful.
“I was beginning to like this place. It feels good to be part of something for the first time. I know I’m not a real part of the family.
” She rolls her eyes. “I know I’ll never be a Costa, but I felt like here it didn’t matter so much what my last name was.
” She falls silent for a moment, then says softly, “Nonna Bruna called me her granddaughter. For the first time, I feel like I might belong somewhere, like I’m wanted, like I have a family who cares about me.
” Her face clouds with anger as she stares hard at me.
“And now you have to go and ruin it all with this stupid TV show no one is going to like or watch.” Her mouth is pinched tight with anger.
“Good to know that all that talk about family sticking together wasn’t real.
At least next time I’ll know not to believe you.
” Quickly, she turns on her heel and rushes from the kitchen, but not before I catch a glimpse of her face crumpling with hurt.
“Alex!” I call in exasperation, but she is gone.
I hear her feet pounding up the stairs, and then a moment later the door to her room slams hard.
I start to follow her, but stop. I’m at a loss for words.
I’ve never seen her so vulnerable. What she’s saying isn’t fair or true, but I can sense the emotions underneath those harsh words.
She finally found a place to belong and she’s scared it’s going to be taken away again.
I understand that feeling. I’ve had to live for years with the loss of my safe place.
The problem is that even if she loves this place, Alex is going back to Manhattan in a few weeks, and I am going to…
well, I have to figure that out and fast. Drew is coming in the morning, and I have to have an answer by then.
I cast one last glance at the ceiling. I hate quarreling, and having her mad at me feels awful.
We were just starting to connect. I don’t want to lose that, I realize in surprise.
I will miss her when she’s back home in New York.
With a sigh of frustration, I cover the remnants of the cake with a clean cotton towel to help it stay moist, then head outside.
Maybe stretching my legs will bring me clarity.
I’ll go up and talk to Alex when I get back.
I head up the lane through the olive groves at a brisk pace.
Surprisingly, when I reach my favorite olive tree, I see the green patch of grass underneath it is already occupied.
Nicolo is sitting propped against the trunk of the tree, shirtless and wearing work pants and suspenders, drinking a bottle of Peroni.
He looks a little dusty. He takes a swig of beer, sees me, and inclines his head to the side in tacit invitation.
I hesitate briefly, unsure, then drop down beside him.
From here I can see the pile of rocks sitting along the broken bit of wall has shrunk and the new wall has grown.
Apparently, Nicolo has been busy lifting heavy things.
“That kind of day, huh?” I ask, gesturing to the beer. I’m not sure it’s even noon yet.
“That kind of day,” he says and offers me a sip.
I accept. The beer is cold and crisp with a bitter, citrus note.
I hand the bottle back. We sit in silence for a long moment, listening to the hum of insects.
I take a deep breath, trying to quell the panic I can feel roiling just under my breastbone.
“What are you doing out here?” I ask quietly.
“Trying to see the future without the aid of a magical cake,” he says, a dry note of irony in his tone. “And contemplating all those bad sonnets I wrote you when we were young.”
I smile despite myself. What is it about this man that makes me feel instantly reassured and calm? My world is in turmoil, but here with Nicolo I’ve entered a little pocket of peace. “I still have them,” I tell him. “No one else in my life has ever written me a sonnet.”
He tilts his head and gazes at me. “If you were mine, I’d write you a sonnet for every day of the year.”
“Sounds labor-intensive,” I gently tease, reaching for the beer again. I put my mouth where his just was on the rim. “Can you write me a bad sonnet about a magical cake accidentally prompting an eighty-year-old to propose marriage?” I ask wryly.
“I may not be able to do that surprising turn of events justice,” he retorts, his eyes crinkling at the corners with amusement. “I admit, I didn’t know what would happen this morning, but I did not expect that.”
“This entire day has been unexpected.” I hand the bottle back to him.
He glances sideways at me, raising an eyebrow. “This entire summer has been unexpected,” he parries.
“True.”
We fall silent.
“So that was Drew,” he says at last.
I blow out a breath. “That was Drew,” I confirm.
“I recognized him from your show.”
“Oh, right.”
Nicolo waits a beat. I can sense he’s curious but not going to pry.
“He wants me to host a new show with him, in LA,” I blurt out. I still can’t believe this is happening. I haven’t even finished my cookbook, and the thing I was working so hard to achieve has literally fallen into my lap. Why am I not delirious with joy right now?
“So your dream comes true then?” Nicolo says lightly. “Lucky for you.” There’s a tight set to his jaw and he takes a big swig of the beer.
“Yeah, I guess so.” I nod uncertainly. “I just wish I could know for sure that saying yes to Drew is the right thing. I wish I’d gotten to eat that bite of cake. Maybe it would give me some peace of mind, you know, shed some light on what is really going to make me happiest.”
“Jules.” Nicolo’s tone is faintly chiding. I turn my head and look at him. His eyes are dark and intent on my face. “You don’t need a bite of cake to decide your happiness,” he says. “Just be honest with yourself. What do you want?”
I shake my head. “I don’t know.”
He narrows his eyes. “Not true.”
I feel a flash of annoyance. “How do you know what I want?” I ask. Why is everyone challenging me today?
He doesn’t take his eyes from my face. “Because I know you,” he murmurs, and the words make me shiver. “I know the essence of you, Juliana. All those nights we lay here trading kisses and secrets. I know the real you, deep down, and I know you’re hiding.”
“Hiding from what?” I demand, piqued by his insinuation that he knows so much. Everyone seems to know what’s best for me but me.
“From yourself. From your life. From all the things that scare you.” His tone is a challenge. He looks a little irritated and my temper rises. Why should he be annoyed with me about this? He has no claim on me.
“You knew me once upon a time,” I counter, my voice tight.
“When I was fifteen. You knew me before the really bad stuff happened. You knew that version of me, the Jules with pretty dreams and big aspirations, the Jules who still trusted that the world was good and kind and right somehow.” I lean toward him insistently.
“But you don’t know me now, Nicolo. Don’t fool yourself and think that you do.
You don’t know the me that’s spent the past fifteen years trying to rebuild my life, rebuild a sense of safety and home and hope.
I am not that girl anymore. I wish I was, but I’m not.
She’s gone, and I’ll never get her back.
She vanished that day in the lake. And there will never be another day where I get to be that girl again. ”
I stop abruptly, realizing I’m crying. There are fat tears rolling down my cheeks.
I sniff and look away, but then Nicolo’s hand is there caressing my jaw, turning me to face him.
His thumb brushes away the tears tenderly.
I glance at him, expecting to see understanding or compassion, and it is there, but he looks disappointed and a little sad and angry too.
“She’s not gone,” he says softly. “That girl is not gone. You’re just afraid to let her have a voice, afraid that if you do, you might start to trust that you can be happy again, that you might start to hope…
and dream…and that feels dangerous, doesn’t it, Juliana?
Because hopes and dreams are fragile things, easily shattered.
” He leans closer, so close I can smell the sun-warmed skin of his neck, feel the raspy stubble of his cheek as he presses his face to mine and whispers, his breath warm in my ear, “You think it’s better to build thick walls around that tender heart of yours so you don’t get hurt again.
You’d rather go without than risk losing something you care about.
You’re rejecting what you care most about, your right hard thing, because you’d rather fail from the start than give it a try. You’re a coward.”
I jerk away from him, scrambling to my feet in outrage. He stands too. We face each other, locking eyes warily. His jaw ticks.
“You know nothing,” I inform him icily.
He crosses his arms and arches a brow maddeningly, a challenge. “Prove me wrong then,” he says. “Tell me what you really want. What is in your heart, Juliana Costa?”
“None of your business,” I huff, brushing bits of leaf and grass from my skirt.
He sits back down with a smile that is at once both disappointed and infuriating. “I thought so,” he says, and drains his bottle of beer.
As I march back toward the house, huffing in frustration, I feel his eyes following me until I’m out of sight.