Chapter 10
The air is a perfect summer evening temperature when I pull my bike up to Nico’s house. He’s waiting outside, Luce hopping along beside him, spinning in circles of glee.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” he asks, for what has to be the twentieth time.
Nico’s hesitancy is comical next to the overt enthusiasm from Luce. You’d think he was experiencing the greatest excitement of his life, based on the wiggly joy emanating from his little body, rather than an evening out in his own backyard.
“I’m here. I’m wearing white as requested.” I motion to my outfit, and he nods.
“Good. I’ve also got reflector vests.” He tosses me a yellow vest that’s noticeably too large. “I don’t want to take any chances of them not seeing us.”
“Do you think Gia would be more or less upset if we got shot instead of a cow?” I tease.
Nico puts his head in his hands. “No joking about getting shot.”
“Maybe for you,” I argue. “But if we’re really going to sleep outside to try and thwart aggressive boar hunters, I’m gonna at least need to be able to joke about the absurdity of it all.”
“That’s . . . fair,” he says, handing over a rolled-up sleeping bag. I notice he has a much longer, stiffer bag that he’s slung over his shoulder. I don’t want to guess what’s inside.
He starts walking into the grove, and I follow, Luce bouncing at our heels.
“We can take shifts when we need to sleep,” he says as we make our way toward Gia’s gate. “I brought two chairs out this morning so we have somewhere to sit, but with the sleeping bags, we can lie down if we get too tired.”
“Sounds like a good plan,” I reply, wanting to sound like I’m taking his instructions at least a little seriously.
We reach the gate, which is closed this time. I’ve never seen the cows penned in, but I guess that makes sense if he and Gia want to keep them safe and accounted for. We go into their area, and sure enough, two camping chairs are leaning up against a large tree.
But Nico hasn’t mentioned anything, because he’s examining a hole in the fence. “Someone ripped a piece of this,” he says, crouching down to give it a closer look. “It wasn’t like that earlier . . . I wonder if they already came by and are trying to send us a message.”
“You think they’re vandalizing your property?” I counter. “That’s a pretty big step.”
“I don’t know what to think anymore,” Nico says resignedly.
He sits down with a heavy sigh and opens up his bag. He pulls out a battery-powered lantern, some beers, a bag of snacks, and a rifle. It’s like something out of a scene from a Western by way of Italy.
I sit down next to him. “What happens if you’re asleep and they come and I need to shoot the rifle?” I ask.
He looks up, startled at the question. “The rifle isn’t loaded, Kit?”
“Well, what’s the point of it then?” I ask, flabbergasted.
“To scare them a little if they come near us!” he says in a tone that implies I should’ve found this obvious. “I’m not going to actively point a loaded rifle at someone, especially someone who technically has a right to be on the land.”
“Oh.” Right, that makes much more sense.
Okay, maybe I’m not the best partner in crime for this particular activity. They don’t teach you how to ward off potentially dangerous hunters at culinary school in Manhattan.
“Gia’s experience—and my hope—is that just by knowing we’re doing this, they won’t even come on our land.
But if they do and they see us, they’ll quickly leave.
Tommaso talks a lot, but all the people he’s hunting with aren’t from around here, and they’re paying him to go on an expedition.
Tangling with angry local people wouldn’t look good for his business. ”
“That’s a relief,” I reply honestly.
He opens a beer and hands one to me. Our fingers brush, and I hear him inhale softly. I quickly move away and try not to focus on it. It’s going to be a long night if I’m grumbling internally about my embarrassing attraction to this man I’ve somehow volunteered to sleep next to.
We sit for a moment with the sounds of an outside evening—crickets chirping, wind rustling in the leaves. It’s soothing. I’m too wired to even think about sleep yet.
“Tell me more about your grandfather,” I finally say, wanting to soak up the stories of this place as we pass the time here. When we’re at Belpagna with Emilia, we usually talk about food or the town, but I know that anytime I can bring up Nico’s grandfather, he’s especially happy.
“Well, he lived in the house I’m now in,” he says.
“I know I should update it because some parts are a little ridiculous—there’s a bathroom with no door, just a curtain.
The heater is fully powered by olive residue.
” He chuckles, and I love that the warmth of this topic makes any lingering awkwardness immediately dissipate.
“And his decor consisted of a lot of dream catchers, even though he never actually went to the US or a reservation.”
“He had a vision.”
“He certainly did.” His smile is soft. “Every time I think I should change something, I can’t bear to lose the memories associated with the space as it is.
I love his warped table where we had meals together.
I love this photo he has on the wall from when I was finally old enough and trusted enough to get up on a ladder and rake the olives.
There’s an old, run-down chair with a falling-apart ottoman that I know I should get rid of, but it’s where we sat and talked about so many important things.
It’s where I convinced him to open the mill, despite his total lack of interest in the machinery. ”
“It makes sense you don’t want to let go of important parts of your foundation.”
He nods, reflective. “What about you?” he asks, turning it around on me. “Did you start cooking with your family when you were little?”
I shake my head. “Not really,” I answer honestly.
“But I think I honed my drive as a kid, and that’s been a huge part of my career.
I’m focused like my dad. And he saw that early on, so he pushed me.
When I started rowing, he became sort of obsessed with it.
He’d train me when I wasn’t in practice, always thinking I was beyond what my coaches could provide. ”
“Was he right?”
“Probably,” I sigh. “I mean, I don’t think I would’ve gotten as far as I did if he hadn’t been stretching me to be better.”
“What did that look like?” He opens another beer, ready to listen.
“Well, in the beginning it was extra practices, mostly. Summers at camps, getting on the radars of top coaches. In high school I got picked for the junior national team, and so my dad really laser-focused in on technique after that. But it was worth it in the end—we won Junior Worlds, and then in college my team won the national championship.” I pause, not wanting to get into more than that.
“Then I discovered cooking, fell in love with it, and went to culinary school in New York.”
“And you think sports helped with that?”
“It made me clearheaded,” I say honestly.
“I knew how to push, how to win. It taught me how to set a goal and achieve it. And while I liked rowing, I loved cooking. The ability to constantly learn, to be creative while also being precise . . . it fit me perfectly. And living in New York was like I’d found a place that matched my intensity.
It’s the perfect controlled chaos for me. ”
“I’ve always felt that way with Rome too,” he says.
“You did?”
“Yeah, I loved growing up there.”
“So what made you want to be here for more than just harvests?”
He’s silent for a bit, and I wonder what nerve I’ve hit. He runs his hands through his hair, the habit I’ve noticed he has whenever he’s lost for words.
“I fell in love with my wife,” he finally says quietly.
My chest twinges at his words, sad for having opened this heartache for him again with my question.
“Lorena grew up here. She was a couple years younger than me. We always knew each other because Gia and my grandfather were next door to each other. And while they never really got along, it didn’t matter because .
. . well, you can see how the fence is never closed and this town is so small.
Lorena didn’t want to go to college because all she wanted was to take over for Gia.
So she was here. And I fell in love with her, and it seemed worth it to me to stay.
I loved Rome, but I loved her more. And I truly loved it here too.
As I got older, it felt more like home than Rome.
It seemed like the perfect life, really. ”
He takes another long sip of beer. He’s staring into the darkness as though ghosts might come out of the shadows. That melancholy is back, and I want to reach out to him, even though I know it’s probably a bad idea.
I can’t stop myself from asking the one other question I’ve been wondering. “When did she die?”
He jerks toward me, and I’m afraid I’ve said something extremely wrong. Weren’t we kind of talking about it? Was that taking it too far, though?
But I did not expect the next thing he says. “She didn’t . . . die? Why do you think that?”
My mouth falls open. “You said . . . ? You said your wife was gone? And so did Gia? I just assumed . . .” I don’t think I could’ve put my foot further into my mouth. My whole face is heating up, and thank goodness the only light is from this small lantern, because I feel like a complete moron.
“Man, you and Anita really don’t talk about family things, do you?” he asks, and I can’t tell yet if he’s offended or amused.
“I mean . . .” I think about it. “I guess not. Anita hated my boyfriend, so that made us avoid talking about wider stuff.” That’s a depressing thought, but I guess it’s sort of true.
“I always assumed you knew that,” he says quietly. “This town is so damn small, I figure everyone knows my wife left me.”