Page 25 of I Think Olive You

My eyes fall on the journal I took from the hotel, the contract beside it. If I get some of this out of my system, my mind won’t hate me as much. So, I sit—tucking the contract back between the books in the drawer—and open the journal. Flipping to the first page, it calls to me blank and waiting. I find a pen in the top drawer of the desk and start writing.

I shut the notebook, not daring to reread the words I’ve purged onto paper, and go in search of food. Bread and olive oil sounds pretty damn good right now.

Giuliana doesn’t rest. She functions at a level I envy and loathe. Up early each morning followed by a quick breakfast with more strange looks from Nonna, and chatty Chiara, before we head out toward the grove for lessons. Giuliana sets out with a bag draped across her shoulder and I follow her like a lost puppy, excited to learn but mostly basking in the opportunity to be around her.

A few rows into the grove, Giuliana sinks onto her knees, hands splaying into the dirt.

“We test the soil acidity with a meter. My father used to dig up with a trowel and collect samples for test strips, but it’s more streamlined now. We like to keep our soil between 5.5 and 7.5 and we increase the pH using lime or decrease it using sulfur if it’s less than ideal.”

She hands me the meter she’s brought along in the bag, urging me to stick it into the earth she’s uncovered.

We wait for a moment, the device beeping with the results and she smiles when the number hits 6.4. Wiping her dusty hands on the front of her coveralls, she looks more adorable than she has any right to.

“We’ll test at multiple points in the grove. Thankfully it’s just maintenance at this point. Years of soil conditioning have paid off. The other thing we need to keep an eye on is rain and water levels. Since the trees are bred to withstand the hot summer, at this point we have to make sure the soil retains its humidity. Rain and supplementary water are far more important in the spring and autumn.”

Walking from row to row, we alternate between checking the soil acidity and feeling it for moisture. I didn’t think testing dirt could be tiring, or understand how huge the grove was.

Not big enough to be considered a large grove, my ass.

But my skin starts browning under the warm sunlight and my hands roughen from working with the earth. I fall into a routine quickly. By two weeks since that first day in her office, I have it down.

Mornings start with a soft knock on the door and Giuliana’s attempt at a whisper forcing me from bed. I can swear I hear her mutter something about alarms before she walks off. Dressing doesn’t take very long, though I’m running out of clothing suited for time outside, doing physical work. Down to my last clean linen button-up t-shirt and shorts, I shove my feet into incredibly dusty sneakers and head down the stone floors of the house toward the kitchen.

Chiara explains to me one morning why the floors are made of stone. “The big house was built a long time ago. It’s from before Giuliana and she’s old. So, Papa built it like in the olden days to keep the house cool in the summer.”

I don’t want to contradict and say it must be miserable in the winter. Not when she pads barefoot over the cool stone floors, a huge buck-toothed smile on her face.

The little girl is a shadow, quiet until you notice her and once you do, she becomes a whirlwind of words. I don’t dare bring it up to Giuliana—don’t want to project my own damage on the situation—but I recognize the frantic energy of loneliness in my brief conversations with Chiara.

“What do houses look like in New York?” Chiara asks.

“There are a lot of different kinds, same as here. I live in an apartment at the top of a tall building. It has lots of windows and I can see plenty of the other skyscrapers around me, most of them long and skinny.”

She considers this for a moment. “Is it scary to be up so high?”

“Sometimes, but you get used to it. My father’s office is even taller and I hate going there. It feels too far up. But sometimes the views can be very pretty. People and cars look like little ants on the ground.”

Her mouth rounds into a “wow” of wonderment and I can see she's about to launch into another question, burning curiosity behind her eyes.

Giuliana steps in. “Chiara, give Matteo a break from questions. We have a lot of work to do today. You should try to find some time to play or read.”

Nonna tuts, grumbling at Giuliana in Italian. She even throws in a pointed “Giulia.” Giuliana bristles and I wonder if it’s one of the nicknames she doesn’t like. The cycle of scolding continues until they’re all grumpy but put in their place.

Once we walk to the grounds again, I work up the urge to ask.

“So, I can’t help but pick up some tension between you and Isabella…”

Giuliana gives a big sigh before she levels me with an annoyed look—and one which would have had me pulling back if this was a normal situation. But there’s nothing normal in living with your boss (technically), especially after having slept with them.

“You picked up on it?”

“Hard not to. I may not speak Italian, but I’m not a total idiot. I know what that tone of voice means, Giulia.”

My assumption is correct because she huffs at the name. “No. No Giulia. It’s Giuliana to you.”

“I’m teasing, you know. I’m not trying to piss you off.”

I stifle my smile and she softens a little, sucking in a shuddering breath before responding.

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