Chapter 58
“How do you feel?” Nicolo asks, helping me gather up all the financial papers and empty espresso cups.
It’s late afternoon and we’re all exhilarated and exhausted from planning and brainstorming and mapping out a possible future.
Nonna is inside lying down. Lorenzo is in the stable tinkering with machinery.
Alex has gone inside to get ready. Tommaso and a few friends are coming to pick her up and take her to the best gelato place in Bardolino.
He texted her earlier to invite her. I took one look at her excited face and agreed, as long as she keeps her phone on and is back by eight.
That leaves Nicolo and me.
“My head is spinning, and I think there’s a decent chance I’m going to mess this all up and lose the farm that’s been in my family for generations, but also after today I feel sort of weirdly hopeful.
We might just make this work.” We reach for a cup at the same time, our fingers brushing. Neither of us pull our hands away.
“You’re really staying,” Nicolo says, meeting my eyes. It is not a question. He says it like he’s testing it, deciding if he can put weight on it.
“That’s my plan.”
“Good,” he says, and his eyes crinkle at the corners. His smile is pure joy. “I’m so glad.”
I nod. “Me too.”
“Are you still afraid?” he asks, his gaze searching.
I nod again. “I’m terrified. But someone wise once told me that the secret to life is not in staying safe, but in finding something worth taking a risk for.
” I look out at the olive groves, at the lake sparkling in the afternoon sun, back at the farmhouse where love and warmth are spilling from the open door. “I think she’s right. So here I am.”
Nicolo’s eyes are warm and heavy on me. “And is it only this place that calls you back?” he asks with a touch of hesitation. “Only your family?”
There’s a note of vulnerability in his voice that reminds me of Nicolo when I first met him, the tenderness of his heart. I think I know what he’s asking.
“If I’m honest,” I tell him, leaning closer, “it’s not just the land and my family. It’s the neighbors too. I think they’re pretty amazing. One in particular.” I smile at him, meeting his eyes, mine alight with joyful anticipation.
His face breaks into a boyish grin and I see flashes of young Nicolo once again. How extraordinary that our lives have come full circle. How improbable, yet how marvelous.
“I’m still scared,” I admit. “But I want this so, so much.” I don’t explain what the “this” is. I’m not sure I fully know yet. It’s family and place and a sense of belonging. It’s Nicolo and the possibility of a future together.
“You are not alone in the wanting,” he says simply.
I put down the papers and cups and his arms come around me, encircling me snugly. He presses his cheek to my hair. “I am here,” he whispers. “I want you too, so much.” I feel him brush a kiss across my forehead, my temple, the hinge of my jaw.
I think of the start of our love story, that sweet, doomed summer.
Sneaking out to meet under the oldest olive tree, high on pheromones and forbidden love.
The moment everything was wrenched away from me.
Now we are older, steadier. We know who we are, what we value in life.
We’re friends who are once again turning into so much more.
I could not have predicted this. It feels like the best kind of surprise.
“Will you write me another sonnet?” I ask, my voice muffled against the worn cotton of his work shirt.
For some reason I’m thinking of the sonnets we wrote each other and left in the fork of the olive tree, so poorly done, but so earnest. We were so besotted with each other. I have a feeling we might still be.
He laughs, a deep, warm rumble against my cheek.
“I’ll write you a sonnet for every day we were apart,” he says softly, his voice a velvet rasp in the shell of my ear.
“For what I felt then is still true today. Juliana Costa, my heart is yours. I think somehow it always has been.” He nips my earlobe and I squeak in surprise.
I press my cheek against his chest, squeezing my arms around him, hearing the steady beat of his faithful heart.
He nudges my cheek and I lift my face to his, our noses brushing, then lips, and as the kiss deepens, I lean into him.
The road ahead is shrouded with uncertainty, risk, and the very real possibility of ruin.
But I am taking the chance because I have finally found something worth fighting for.
“Mamma mia!” Nonna’s exclamation bursts our bubble and we break off the kiss abruptly.
I have no idea how much time has passed, but now Nonna is standing at the top of the steps, hand on her heart, beaming at us.
Well, that ratchets things up a notch. We break apart, feeling a little self-conscious.
She motions to us. “Come, there is one more thing I think you need to do. You too, Nicolo.”
Curious, we follow her into the kitchen. The cookbook is lying on the prep table. Nonna motions us over.
“In all our plans today we neglected one thing,” she says solemnly. “We did not consult the cookbook. We did not ask if it had any help to give us.”
Nicolo and I exchange a look. I am not sure how any recipe is going to help us solve our financial issues, but Nonna seems insistent, and what could it hurt? We humor her and both put our hands on the cookbook. This time Nicolo flips the pages open. There is something written there.
“It’s a recipe for agrumato,” he says, sounding surprised.
I roll the unfamiliar name in Italian around on my tongue. “Agrumato? What’s that?”
Nicolo’s brow is furrowed. “I don’t exactly know,” he admits. “I’ve heard Violetta use the word.” We turn expectantly to Nonna.
She explains, “It’s the term for olive oil that is combined with other things,” she says.
“When the olives are crushed, sometimes whole fresh fruits, herbs, or vegetables are crushed alongside the olives. It gives the oil the rich flavor of whatever is crushed with it, more so than infusing the oil with other things after it is pressed.”
I scan the page with interest. “What does the recipe call for?”
Nicolo reads silently. “It uses Casaliva olives,” he says.
“That’s the type we grow,” I exclaim.
Nonna leans between us and peers at the recipe. “And cedro di Salò citron,” she says.
Nicolo and I exchange an astonished glance. “That’s the citron we grow on our terraces,” he says slowly. “It’s extremely rare.”
“Violetta’s prized citron and our olives,” I reply. A recipe that combines the fruits of both our lands. Interesting.
Nonna clicks her tongue. “I have had this agrumato once before, many years ago,” she says. “The flavor was divine, as if from heaven. I have never forgotten it. If you made this, the value would be high. It would be a prized item for those who want the highest quality and rarest ingredients.”
I bite my lip, thinking. It’s a risk to make something so niche. What if there is no market for it? But then again, what if the cookbook is trying to give us a solution to part of our problem?
“Want to give it a try?” I ask Nicolo. “Would Violetta let us use some of the citron from her trees?”
Nicolo nods. “I think she’d be happy to see it put to good use. She doesn’t do anything with it now, and she hates to see it go to waste.” A slow grin breaks over his face. “Let’s see what happens.”
“Trust the cookbook,” Nonna tells us wisely, looking decidedly pleased with this turn of events. “It is always right.”