Chapter 56
“So are you staying in Italy?” Alex asks tentatively. I look up from my half-eaten slice of cake to see all eyes on me. I swallow a forkful down with a gulp of cold espresso. Bolstered by sugar and caffeine, I nod slowly.
“I’m staying,” I say firmly although my stomach is clenched in a hard little knot of anxiety. “I’ll do the best I can. I can’t promise I’ll succeed, but I’ll try my hardest.”
Lorenzo whoops with glee. Nonna nods with a small, satisfied smile. Nicolo lets out a breath I didn’t know he was holding. Violetta looks long-suffering, but there’s a tiny quirk to her mouth that looks almost…pleased. Alex looks contemplative.
“But my biggest potential source of income just drove away in that sedan,” I say soberly. “Now I need a new plan.”
I stare down at my plate with a sinking heart. How in the world are we going to make this work? The reality of what I just committed to starts to sink in, and my anxiety ratchets up, a sharp squeezing in my chest. I press my hand to my breastbone, trying to ease the pressure.
“You mean we need a new plan, right?” Alex says with a reproving note in her voice.
I look at her quizzically.
She rolls her eyes. “You’re acting like you have to be Superwoman or something and figure this all out on your own, but we all love this place. We can figure it out together. I mean, I’m not an expert, but isn’t that what it means to be a family? We do things together?”
“But of course.” Lorenzo looks astonished. “You cannot do this alone, Juliana. No one can.”
Nonna nods vigorously. “Certamente. We do it together. You are not alone, Juliana.” She reaches for my hand and squeezes it. “Thank you for saying yes, Nipotina. I am so deeply glad. We will help you, all of us.”
I’m touched, looking around the table at their eager faces.
They mean it. I am not alone. They will help me, stand by me, whatever comes.
It has been many years since I felt so supported.
It brings tears to my eyes. I draw a shaky breath, feeling steadied by their care and commitment.
Over the lake, the dark clouds of the thunderstorm have passed by completely and a golden light streams down over the hills and on the water, limning everything in a radiant glow.
“Grazie mille,” I murmur. I am not alone. The warmth of that realization seeps slowly into my lonely heart like a balm.
Violetta gives a prim little nod. “You are right to help your family,” she says. She reaches out and pats Nicolo’s hand stiffly. “Like my Nicolo,” she says. “You honor us all. There is nothing more valuable. We are grateful to you both.”
I glance at Nicolo. He is looking at his grandmother in shock.
I don’t think I’ve ever heard her say a complimentary word about anyone.
Whatever she saw with that first bite of cake must have been a doozy.
Nicolo glances over at me and meets my eyes.
He looks like he might be getting a little choked up.
I slide my sandaled foot over to his side of the table and find his loafer, resting my foot against his.
His gaze flickers up in surprise and then he relaxes and gives me the sweetest smile and a nudge with his shoe.
The barest hint of pressure, but it brings a warmth to my chest. Whatever this is that is blooming between us, now that I’m staying, there is a chance for us to let it grow.
The thought makes me feel radiant with anticipation and joy.
“I’m staying, but I have no idea what I’m doing,” I say, clearing my throat and trying to keep on task, even though Nicolo is still foot cuddling with me. “ We need a new plan.”
“First we eat,” Nonna says firmly. “No one can think on an empty stomach. First we make pasta, then we make a plan.”
An hour later, we are all seated around the patio again, tucking into bowls of Trofie al pesto, a chewy slightly spiraled pasta drenched in freshly made pesto.
It’s simple and utterly decadent, one of my favorite recipes.
It’s going to be a great addition to my cookbook.
I used to beg Nonna to make it every summer because I loved to help shape the spiral noodles.
Today it was fun to make them again. Alex gets a few good shots of the pasta glistening with fresh pesto, and then Nonna says a quick grace over the meal.
The sun is out again, the air fresh and clean.
The world looks newly made. I am feeling a little more hopeful.
How can you not on a sun-drenched day in Italy eating homemade pasta?
“Mangiate, mangiate,” Nonna urges us, spooning generous portions onto our plates.
Eat. Eat. We do, enjoying the food and sipping glasses of light, dry local red wine.
The day has turned sunny and warm. There are insects buzzing under the rustle of the olive trees, and from far below us, we can hear the faint road noise and see the flash of blue water, smooth and calm.
We don’t linger, though. We have big work to do.
“How bad is it?” Nonna asks, doling out early-afternoon espressos to Lorenzo and me.
Nicolo left to take Violetta home after lunch and is handling a few business matters at the farm.
He’s due back at any moment. Alex took a break and is finishing her third Italian lesson of the day and no doubt texting Tommaso.
“It’s not terrible, but it’s not great.” I sigh and massage my neck where it’s cramping from being bent over the numbers for too long.
We’ve spent the past two hours since lunch trying to piece together a complete financial picture for the farm, and the patio table is covered with ledgers, receipts, and official letters in Italian.
The first step, we agreed, was to understand how much it costs to run the farm before we can start brainstorming how to meet those costs.
I show her the numbers. The yearly operating budget for the farm isn’t really a huge sum, but it might as well cost the moon since we have no viable way to pay for it.
Plus the needed repairs are well over six figures.
Lorenzo and Nonna both have a small pension that covers their personal expenses with a little left over to chip in for utilities and gas for the car, that sort of thing.
Still, that leaves my personal expenses, the farm operating costs, and the huge backlog of repairs.
How in the world are we going to raise the money?
I take a swallow of espresso and try to calm my racing thoughts.
Nicolo comes back as we are sitting around glumly staring at the numbers. He zooms up the drive on a vintage red Vespa, which he parks at the bottom of the stairs.
“What happened?” he asks, taking off his helmet and coming up the steps to the patio. “This feels like a funeral.”
I tell him the numbers and he whistles. “Okay, so what’s the plan?” He takes a seat.
“There isn’t one,” I admit. “Doing the show was the plan.”
“Good riddance.” Nonna spits on the ground, her mouth puckered like she’s tasted something sour.
Lorenzo nods. “It was a bad plan,” he says solemnly.
“Obviously, we need a new plan,” Nicolo says firmly. “So let’s think of something.”
We all are silent for a moment.
“What about letting people stay on the farm?” Alex pipes up, looking up from her phone.
“What do you mean?” I ask her.
“Like a bed-and-breakfast but with farm stuff,” she explains.
“They call it an agriturismo here,” Nicolo says. “It’s sort of like a rural bed-and-breakfast. Guests come spend a few days on a local farm. They pick vegetables and eat foods grown in the area. It’s very popular here.”
“We have those two extra bedrooms no one is using,” Nonna muses. “We could clean them out and make them into guest rooms.”
“How much do people pay to stay in one of these places?” I ask.
Alex shrugs. “Let’s look it up.” She pulls up Google on her phone and shows us a few listings for nearby agriturismos. The farms look similar to ours and the money is good. Surprisingly good. This might not be a bad idea.
“This farm near Garda Town offers wine and olive oil tastings,” I say slowly. “We could do that too.”
Nicolo runs his fingers through his curls and they spring up excitedly. “Bruna, you could offer cooking classes. A lawyer friend of mine took a class in Provence last year in a private home. She paid two hundred euros for a couple of hours.”
“So much money for a few hours? I can do that with no trouble,” Nonna agrees.
“Authentic Italian cooking classes with a real nonna,” I muse. “Like real-life Pasta Grannies.”
“I know better recipes than those women on the YouTube,” Nonna says with a sniff.
“They don’t have a magic cookbook, so cut them some slack,” I tell her dryly. I drum my fingers on the table, thinking through the idea. “But where would we get people who want to stay?” I ask. “How would we advertise the agriturismo and Nonna’s cooking classes?”
Alex looks surprised. “Oh, that’s easy. Social media. I’m getting more and more messages from people asking if we host guests, if they can use our patio for a wedding, if they can come open Nonna’s magic cookbook. At least a few a day now are sending me messages asking about stuff like that.”
“Really? That many?” I stare at her. I had no idea.
Alex shows me some of the messages. From Alabama, California, Canada, Brazil, Malaysia, South Africa—all from people asking to come stay with us, wanting to meet Nonna, wanting to see the cookbook, wanting to come learn the recipes we are making.
My mind races with the possibilities. It is a surprisingly good idea.
As Nonna pointed out, we have those two unused bedrooms next to Nonna’s room upstairs.
We could empty out the junk and spruce them up with a little elbow grease and some new décor.
I do some quick calculations. Even if we have reservations only part of the year, it would bring in a fair amount of income.
Not enough to cover everything we need, but it would certainly go a long way toward helping us stay afloat.