Chapter 52
The lake is cool and so clear I can see all the stones at the bottom. I can’t touch now, and I kick my legs, treading water like Dad taught me. It’s hard with the sodden dress dragging me down, but I manage to keep afloat.
It feels strange to be here, swimming once more.
I’ve tried so hard not to think about this place, attempting to blot out the terrible memory it holds.
Losing my dad was the worst day of my life.
He was the most loving, constant presence I had growing up, and now I am reminded of how cold and alone I felt with his death.
But as I swim out a little farther, I’m also reminded of so many other memories.
Not just that awful day, but the hundreds of good and beautiful days that preceded that terrible one.
Dad went swimming right here at this beach almost every day of our vacation, and most days I joined him.
He taught me the backstroke and breaststroke and how to tread water for twenty minutes.
After we worked hard at a lesson, we’d lie on our backs and watch clouds, looking for familiar shapes of animals and vegetables and shouting out the names of them in Italian.
Il gatto. L’elefante. La carota. La patata.
I’d forgotten those silly, carefree moments.
Some of the happiest memories of my life are tied to this place.
The saddest memories are too. I’ve spent years avoiding the sadness here, but I see now that this has robbed me of the joy too.
I’ve been trying to avoid pain, but in doing so I’ve also avoided so much of the good.
No more, I vow. I’m going to embrace all of it, the hard and the happy, the sour and the sweet.
I flip onto my back and float spread-eagled, staring at the clouds. “La tartaruga!” I call out, spying a cloud shaped like a turtle.
Alex looks startled. She translates the word in her head and looks around excitedly. “A turtle? Where?”
“There, that cloud right above us. It’s a game I used to play with my dad. Name all the cloud shapes in Italian that look like animals or vegetables.”
Hesitantly, she floats on her back too, staring up at the clouds.
“Zucca,” she calls out, pointing to a cloud that does indeed resemble a pumpkin.
I laugh and she joins me, chuckling wryly.
The game is ridiculous and cute and funny.
We spend a few more minutes identifying a cabbage, a rabbit, and a bunch of grapes.
I spy one that looks like a jellyfish. “La medusa!” I shout.
Then we fall silent for a few minutes, floating.
“So what are you going to do?” she asks.
“About?”
“Are you going to LA?”
I blow out a breath and flip over, treading water once more. That is the million-dollar question. “I don’t know yet.”
She nods and we float in silence for a few minutes, lost in our own thoughts.
Alex is on her back, drifting gently away from me, watching the clouds.
I catch sight of the farmhouse on the hill far above us, the white plaster walls shining bright in the sunshine.
The sight of it steals my breath, and a wave of tenderness washes over me.
It represents the embrace of love, home, and family.
How often has that place beckoned me back to its warmth?
It has been waiting patiently for so many years while I was running away.
“Here I am…finally,” I murmur. I stare long and hard at the farmhouse, nestled like a sugar cube amid waves of silver olive trees spreading out over the gently rolling hills.
A lump rises in my throat at the thought of it ceasing to be a place that beckons us home.
Who would I be if not for this place? Who would I be without the love and embrace of the family within those walls?
What would I have left if all this were gone?
The thought makes me shiver. The world would feel unbearably cold and lonely.
The farm is special not just because of the history and the olives or the magical cookbook, but because it is a gathering place for us.
Those who are lonely find it a place of love and acceptance.
Those who are wounded find a place to be made whole.
It isn’t in the stones or the olive wood or the dirt of the hills.
It is in the long history of family meals, births, deaths, marriages, and heartbreak, love lost and found.
The coffees and pasta, the dreams we dream there safe in our beds at night.
It is the life that happens on that patch of land, within those stone walls.
What a precious gift. Looking at it now, I realize this place means everything to me. It always has.
And not just me. All of us. My dad while he was alive.
Lorenzo and Nonna and now Alex. I think of my family.
Nonna Bruna, who has only ever shown me such wisdom, devotion, and acceptance.
And Lorenzo, who laid aside his own life when Carlo died to take up the load and care for his cousin’s family.
And Alex, smart, lonely Alex, who is desperately seeking a family and a place to belong.
Alex’s harsh words from earlier echo in my mind, demanding to know if I ever think of anyone but myself.
Harsh, but true. I have been thinking only of my own grief and loss and fear and need for safety.
But now I see this question is much bigger than me.
What does it mean for them if I say no to taking on the responsibility of running the farm and instead move to LA?
What would it mean for all of us to lose this place?
What would it mean for the community around Lake Garda?
Nicolo said farms like ours are being sold all over the area.
The loss is gutting the region as big olive farms and foreign corporations gobble up small places like ours, erasing generations of family legacy. If I say no, ours will be the next.
I think of Nonna Bruna’s words in the kitchen earlier, releasing me from obligation. It is my choice. Truly my choice. Her words come back to me now.
Ask yourself this, Juliana. What if the most important thing in life is not feeling safe? What if it’s to love something or someone enough that they’re worth risking for?
Gazing up at the farmhouse, treading water in the liminal space between my past and my future, I realize this is the only question that matters. And between one breath and the next, in a moment of illumination, I realize I know my answer.
“Yes,” I whisper aloud, softly, then louder. “Yes.”
I love this place enough to take the risk.
I love my family and our home more than anything in the world.
I cannot let it be lost, not while there is breath in my body.
I must find a way to save it. I have no idea how.
I have no money, little knowledge of running an olive farm, and probably even less skill.
But I will do whatever it takes. I am choosing my right hard thing.
Slowly, I let the gravity of my choice sift through me, down through my blood and bones and into every crevice of my heart. I am making a commitment, no matter the cost. It is sobering and thrilling and feels so right.
Decision made, I feel a rush of relief followed swiftly by determination.
How am I going to make this work? And what do I tell Drew?
In the light of my decision, I consider Drew’s offer again.
If I say yes to the show, I am assuring the farm’s financial security.
We can afford to do all the repairs, pay the taxes, whatever it needs.
The idea is appealing. Maybe going to LA is not running away.
Maybe it’s provision—just for a time, a season of taping the show, or a few seasons if it gets renewed.
Maybe me saying yes to LA is the best thing for our family.
But I also know that Nonna and Lorenzo are at the end of their capacity to keep things running.
They’re not spring chickens. They are tired and aging.
They need someone to be physically present on the farm, to lift the burden from them as soon as possible.
But if I say no to LA, where in the world will we find the money to keep things running? How can we possibly survive?
The options feel like a Gordian knot. I don’t know which is best. How can I choose?
I think of the Orange Blossom Cake we’ll taste tomorrow morning if all goes well.
Maybe that bite of cake will help me. When I see the happiest moment of my life, perhaps I’ll find it contains an answer for the choice before me.
Suddenly, tomorrow morning can’t come soon enough.