Chapter 55
“I apologize for that unpleasant scene,” Keith says smoothly as he draws out a checkbook from the pocket of his jacket. “I was hoping it wouldn’t come to this.” He sighs. “Okay, how much?”
“What do you mean?” I stare at him in confusion.
Keith looks at me. His eyes are hard. “How much for the cookbook? Do you have any idea what a great hook that is? This show is guaranteed to be one of the most talked about programs on whatever network is lucky enough to pick it up.” He licks his lips like he can already see the money pouring in.
“Look, Jules, you’re a great girl. People like you.
I’ll tell you what. How would you like to do a show without a cohost, just you?
Or we can replace him if you want to find someone else.
” He gestures toward Drew, who is climbing into the back of the sedan, still clutching his midsection and wheezing slightly.
Then Keith looks speculatively at Nicolo.
“Have you ever thought about being on TV?” he asks.
Nicolo crosses his arms and snorts. “No.”
Keith shrugs. “Okay, so what’s it going to be, Jules? Do you still want to do the show with a nice hefty advance? Or do you want to just sell me the cookbook instead? Name your price.”
My jaw drops open. “For the cookbook? It’s not for sale.”
Keith laughs humorlessly. “Everything’s for sale,” he says flatly. “It’s just about negotiating the right price.”
I glance back at the patio. Nonna is sitting there watching us.
She has given me the freedom to choose my path.
This is my decision to make. I look at the farmhouse, at the stucco falling in chunks off the wall, at the paint peeling from the shutters.
It would be so easy. I can name the price, do the show or not, and save this place.
I think of leaving here, leaving Nonna and Lorenzo, leaving Nicolo, and trying to find my way in LA.
The thought makes me feel desolate, even if it is for a good purpose.
There is no spark of joy in it. Do I sell the cookbook then?
I recoil at the thought of the book in Keith’s hands.
That book is the heart of our family, a book of blessing, of hospitality and care.
It symbolizes all that is right and good about the Costa name.
It is our history and legacy. It would be like selling the heartbeat of who we are.
“The cookbook is not for sale,” I say flatly, loudly so everyone can hear. “And neither am I. You should go. There’s nothing for you here.”
As I say it, I realize that I am throwing away all our financial opportunities.
But I cannot agree to what he wants. It is terrifying to say the words, but it feels so right.
Still, my heart quails a little. I know I am making the right decision, but it is hard to see the money go.
Above me Alex whistles and claps. Keith looks like he is growing annoyed.
“How about two hundred thousand,” he offers. “I can’t go higher than that.” He actually starts to write the check. Fat raindrops splatters on his checkbook. We are about to get really wet.
“No,” I say firmly. “Not for any price.” I turn away, heading back to the patio. We should clear the table and get inside before the rain really starts. “Have a nice flight.”
Lorenzo lumbers down the stairs like a big, protective bear.
He brushes past me and stands shoulder to shoulder with Nicolo, their bodies forming a barrier between me and Keith, a living wall of suspicious Italian protective manliness standing guard over our family.
I love it. Keith starts to step toward me, but Nicolo and Lorenzo block his way.
“You heard her. It’s time for you to go,” Lorenzo says in heavily accented English. He slaps one fist into his meaty palm. He sounds like the Godfather. I almost laugh at Keith’s shocked expression.
“And if we see your face here again, please know that I am friends with every judge and policeman in this region. You will be arrested, and I will personally make it my goal to guarantee that your stay in Italian jail is as miserable as possible,” Nicolo says conversationally.
“And that goes for your cowardly little Ken doll friend too.” He nods toward the sedan.
I’m pretty sure he’s bluffing, but Keith seems convinced.
“Fine.” Keith flinches and holds up his hands, a placating gesture.
He’s not a fool. He knows when he is beat.
He turns toward the car. “What a waste of a trip,” he says loudly in disgust. Getting into the back of the sedan with Drew, he slams the door hard.
A moment later, the driver starts the engine and the car pulls away in a spray of gravel.
Silently, we watch the sedan disappear down the drive fast. I see them go, feeling strangely hollow.
Slowly, I trudge up the steps to the patio, wincing slightly.
I feel sick with apprehension as the magnitude of my hasty actions sinks in. What in the world am I going to do now?
“You did the right thing,” Nonna tells me as I approach the table. Her eyes are soft with sympathy and suspiciously shiny. Is she…crying?
Alex eyes me with a grudging respect. “That was so hardcore,” she tells me. “Ruth Bader Ginsburg–level cool.”
Even Violetta looks impressed. “You are a strong woman,” she says reluctantly. “Just like your Nonna Bruna.”
I nod wearily and sit down with a thump, ignoring the impending rainstorm.
My wrist and ankle are both aching. I don’t feel strong or hardcore.
I feel scared and tired and a little heartsick.
For so many years I wanted what Drew and Keith just offered me—a hit show with my best friend, a sense of safety and security that all that would bring.
But now I’ve traded safety and security for the unknown, for a chance to save what really matters to me.
And despite my fears and misgivings, I know I have chosen correctly.
This is my right hard thing. I have found the things in my life that are worth taking risks for—this place and those who are sitting at this table right now.
I am determined not to let fear win. I’m practicing courage and trying to let what I truly love guide my choices.
I cross myself and kiss my thumb for luck.
I need all the help Saint Sebastian can give me.
“I think I need some cake.” I hungrily eye the fat wedge sitting on my plate. “But shouldn’t we get inside before it really starts pouring?” No one seems concerned.
“The storm is passing us by,” Nonna says, sliding a mostly cold cup of espresso in front of me.
I glance up in surprise. She’s right. A few olive leaves skitter across the table, driven by the wind, but inexplicably, it looks as though the brewing storm is blowing right past us.
I can see blue sky over the lake and a pale beam of sunlight on the water.
The rain has stopped. I take a bite of the cake, closing my eyes and savoring the delicate flavor and the sudden calm with a sense of relief.
I’ll worry about how I’m going to save the farm later.
Right now I want to enjoy my cake and the satisfaction of having made my decision, having chosen my right hard thing.
I take another bite of cake, and another.
Every one tastes like olive oil and orange blossoms, earthy and honest and a little bittersweet.