Epilogue
Three years later
I’m counting on the men to bring this home. I’m still salty about losing our race yesterday. Imposto’s Martina hasn’t stopped taunting us.
This year’s Palio has been plagued by rain, but it seems like the men’s teams are getting a break as they’re about to start their semifinal round.
The weather hasn’t hindered anyone from celebrating—the food stalls are still out, the band has set up under a tent, and the people of Manciano are determined to enjoy themselves.
Except, of course, the six men from Cassero and the six men from Borgo who are about to roll a barrel as quickly as they can down wet, slippery stone streets.
“Andiamo!” Anita shouts next to me, while Emilia does that two-fingered whistle I’ve never been able to master. They are pumped and ready to go. Which is easy enough, since we all have beers in hand and don’t have to do anything now other than cheer.
I take in the absurdity of the scene surrounding me—wet people, ecstatic and overhyped friends, good food, and a not-so-ancient barrel-rolling competition—and I’m starting to understand the root of that stillness that Nico’s always had.
It’s as hectic externally as it possibly could be, but inside I’m calm.
This is the cherry on top of having what I need.
The last few years have been a whirlwind.
Almost immediately, Nico trialed living in New York with me as his primary residence, although he came back to Manciano for the full month of October for harvest and bottling.
And then he’s traveled a fair amount to meet with clients in the offseasons.
He’s also submitted a patent for his filter and has spent a lot of time on expanding that.
He goes back to Manciano otherwise every couple of months to check in, but, as he said to me the first time I went to the grove, the olive trees don’t really need anything from him.
New York didn’t faze him, having grown up in Rome, but we were both particularly thrilled to see how much Luce loved his new city life. I guess constant noise and excitement is a way better fit for a small insatiable dog.
My first year back was filled with a double dose of planning as the new restaurant got built out.
When summer came back around, and we’d scheduled the new space to open in the fall, I decided to make good on my need for rest and inspiration.
I took the whole month of August off and gave over my restaurant to four rising chefs to do weeklong pop-ups instead of our regular menu.
It was such a success I’ve done it every year since.
And instead of being judged, other chefs have embraced the concept with open arms—that pressure to always be in the restaurant might be some people’s perceptions, but I’ve stopped caring what anyone other than my diners think about me.
I can give back to my community while also staying true to my need to not overdo it.
The new restaurant opened with a smash. The New York Times gave us a rave three-star review and said the food and space were “impeccable.” We’re booked out the minute reservations come online.
But as we’ve built up, I’ve also allowed myself to take a day off every week, letting my chef de cuisine run the kitchen, and giving more responsibility to the rest of the team generally—Nico was right, I do benefit creatively from having time to marinate.
Gia’s been especially smug about inspiring that particular lifestyle change.
So it’s my fourth Palio, and at this point I wouldn’t miss it for the world. And since I’ve been coming back for the festivities, it’s also nice that for the last couple of years, Anita’s planned her annual trip around them too.
Although in this particular moment, I’m wondering why we insist on doing this to ourselves instead of coming during a quieter time.
The gun goes off and there’s a scramble.
Nico and Antonio are in the second position again, so initially they’re just following behind.
The screen is harder to see with so much rain still clinging to it, but our guys appear to be behind straight from the jump.
They round the corner and take over, Nico and Antonio still in sync after all these years.
Emilia and I are holding on to each other, jumping up and down and screaming as though we’re WAGs of professional athletes and not the slightly drunk significant others of two dudes in a random barrel-rolling competition.
They’ve got a decent lead as they pass off to the next men on the Cassero team. It seems like a lock. We’re shouting as loud as our lungs will let us, which I’m sure I’m going to regret tomorrow. But it’s hard not to let the moment take over.
It’s neck and neck coming into the piazza.
But with inches to go, I can see that Borgo’s starting to pull ever so slightly ahead.
It’s like watching a car crash in slow motion as they approach the finish line.
All four men on both teams are trying so hard, and their expressions are so serious you’d think everyone’s lives depend on it.
But it’s not meant to be this time. Borgo’s barrel has a late surge that has them coming in right before ours.
Red-and-white-clad people erupt, applauding and spilling out into the street as all our maroon and blue Cassero compatriots dejectedly take swigs of their drinks and start to walk away.
Cheers and exhilaration and men on shoulders are in the foreground, while our exhausted warriors slump their way back to us.
Nico’s cursing under his breath as he comes to me, and I pull him in a hug. He tries to pull away after a minute, but I keep holding him there, as tight as I can muster.
“You’re doing the cow thing again, aren’t you?” he asks.
I giggle. “We’ve already established it’s helpful.”
“I don’t need a cow hug,” he sighs. “I need a drink, a shower, and a long nap.”
“All of those things can be arranged.”
I pull back and tug at his stupid sweatband with a grin. “I’d start with the drink, though, because I feel like this sweaty-barrel-man look is working on you.”
I get my own mischievous grin back, all exhaustion immediately out of his expression. “Oh yeah?” he says. “On second thought, let’s just go home then.”
I give him a kiss on his cheek and grab his hand. “No sore losers at the Palio.”
“I’d say trying to get you into bed is the opposite of being a sore loser,” he retorts, playfully pulling me back and away from the crowd. “Who can blame me if I want to lick my wounds and also—”
“Can you stop bringing disgrace to Cassero with both your barrel rolling and your inappropriate language in public?”
I swivel around and see Gia standing behind us. She’s got a wry look on her face that tells me she’s heard at least the last few parts of our conversation.
“I expect you to be rolling the barrel next year,” Nico says to her, pulling me closer to his side with absolutely no attempt at even pretending we were talking about anything else.
“Pandering is beneath you,” she retorts, and his laugh booms louder than the crowd.
Luckily, Tommaso also joins us at that moment. “Gia! I’ve been looking for you!”
No one was more surprised than me when a couple of years ago, Gia and Tommaso buried the hatchet and actually started working together.
After his night in the grove with Nico, Tommaso softened a bit toward both of them. And it gave him a new idea for a way to bridge the gap with Gia—turns out, he wanted to expand his weekend tourist repertoires to include not just boar hunting, but a much less gun-focused type of hunting: truffles.
When he found out that one of the best forests for truffle hunting was actually part of Gia’s property, they struck up a deal.
He’d avoid her property entirely with the boar hunters, he could truffle hunt freely on her land, and, in exchange, he’d give her half the truffles he foraged.
She got a fresh supply for her restaurant that she didn’t have to pay for, and he got a dedicated place to take his people without any competition. Quite the win-win for everyone.
“I dropped today’s batch off with Marna earlier,” he says. “We had a very successful morning—I think the truffles have been loving the rainy weather.”
“Good,” Gia says. “Then that means at least Cassero can drown their sorrows in truffles tonight.” She gives Nico a pointed look, and I get that big laugh again.
“We can’t win every year,” he says. “We’ve had a pretty great run!”
But Gia just rolls her eyes at him and walks off with Tommaso, discussing the rest of the season’s truffle schedule.
We stick around for a little bit longer, enjoying the crowds and revelry. We stand together to watch Borgo win the final against Imposto—Nico pretending not to care but secretly breathing a small sigh of relief that the people who beat them beat everyone.
The party starts immediately after, and from one look at Nico’s expression, I know it’s time for us to go home.
I go to say goodbye to Emilia, but she’s engaged in some kind of dance battle with a preteen, and I’m not getting in between that.
Anita is recording enough video of the entire thing for all of us, so I give her a kiss on the cheek and go to hop on Nico’s scooter.
It’s freeing, letting myself hold on to him without even needing to open my eyes to see where he’s going. He’s got me. I can breathe in the timeless, earthy scent of Maremma with the wind on my face.
We pull up to the house and Luce is there, bouncing in circles to greet us. So is one of the cats that used to hang around my apartment and Belpagna, whom Gia eventually decided to officially rescue and keep with the cows. She apparently loves Luce too.
But instead of heading in straight away, we walk into the grove, enjoying the quiet.
We both naturally find ourselves walking to the trees that burned a few years ago. We’ve come out here a lot over the past couple of weeks. Looking at what stands here now never gets old.
The trees have begun growing back, slowly and steadily. By the winter after the fire, a thicket of shoots was sprouting from the stump where the burned part of the tree had been cut away. And now, three years after so much went up in smoke, the tree has olives again.
It feels like a little miracle. A proof that if you let time do its work, good things will grow.
We sit on the ground—my back against Nico’s chest, our hands intertwined—and stare up at the trees, blanketed in the early-evening light.
There’s something deeply satisfying about finding the peace to know you have nothing to prove.
I can keep pushing and evolving and adapting without needing to win just for the sake of it.
I can run a great restaurant and focus on my guests without needing the external validation.
And it never stops amusing me that that harmony all started because of fire.
Fire burned down my restaurant; it burned down part of this grove. But from both of those fires, something even more beautiful grew in their place. And now because of fire, years later, I can sit here with the moon shining on me and just watch the slow, simple process of an olive growing on a tree.