Page 32 of I Think Olive You

Following behind me, Giuliana tastes from the same glass my lips have just touched and I simmer inside. If I kissed her right now, I know exactly what it would taste like. In my distraction I spill some of the oil onto my hand instead of the slice of bread. Shit, gotta focus.

Arturo’s watching me, those friendly lines drawn into a look of concentration. Jesus. What is it with this older generation and the staring? Between him and Isabella I’m developing a complex.

Giuliana stops the flow with a napkin before it meanders over my wrist, the heat of her hand scalding through the cloth. Once sufficiently cleaned of oil, I savor the soaked bread, and relish the slight bite at the end.

“It reminds me of artichokes for some reason.” I say and Giuliana translates.

Arturo and Giuliana smile, his response sounds pleased though how the fuck would I know when it’s in Italian?

“He says you have a good palate and wants to know if you have family in the area. You look familiar to him. I assured him you’ve never been here before, it’s just his old eyes.”

They laugh and I join in but it’s hollow. Worry creeps up my ribs like a vine. How could I look familiar to him? Do I remind him of someone else or has my father been here before?

Tasting over, Giuliana and Arturo discuss the specifics of the upcoming harvest as we walk back to the little car. It’s silent save for their low conversation in Italian. Our feet crunch on the path, birds flitting around and chirping to each other. The trees dance and swish around us from the wind, soothing my nerves enough for me to remember our interrupted conversation. I wait until we’re on the way back to the grove before broaching the subject again.

“How bad is it? This volunteer thing can’t be more than a temporary stopgap.”

Giuliana takes a deep breath, launching into it like she needs to get it out all in one go.

“We’re in the red. Those last few years with my dad hurt us and I can’t keep running it the way he did before. The bank’s given me a lump sum—almost all of it went to Umberto—and the umbrella payment…” A breath sticks in her ribs, shuddering out and I understand the pressure she’s under with more clarity.

“If I don’t come up with something soon, I’m not sure I’ll be able to claw my way out of it. I’ve been doing some research on other farms and how they’ve had to pivot when the product alone wasn’t enough.”

Shifting in my seat to look at her, my stomach drops at her grave expression. Although the words should fill me with joy—this is the kind of stuff Alan wants me to collect, to report on—I feel worried for her sake.

“The volunteer program seemed like a temporary way to hit two birds with one stone. Workers are scarce and a program like this would drum up interest in Abundantia. Once we gain traction, I can turn Abundantia into a working-vacation destination for tourists. You’ve seen the old farmhouse. If I could somehow refurbish it into a bed and breakfast, I’d have people paying to stay on the farm—and occasionally helping to lighten the workload.”

She lays it out with little excitement and I force myself to keep my hands in my lap—to not reach out and squeeze the top of her knee for reassurance.

“I think it sounds like a great idea! You should do it.”

“Matteo, I don’t know if you’ve realized it yet or not, but I have no idea what I’m doing. The night we met I was so desperate to forget all the responsibility waiting for me at home I picked up a total stranger. Do you realize how risky and out of character that was for me?”

Now that she mentions it, taking someone you just met to a secluded spot under a bridge is dodgy as fuck.

“Everyone is counting on me and I don’t even know where to start.” Giuliana's voice catches and it breaks me. Knowing the woman I met is still there but she’s drowning under trying to take care of her family, her workers, and her legacy—it’s a punch to the gut.

“You said there are other farms doing the same thing. Why not go check it out and see how they’re doing it?”

Flicking away an errant tear, she turns to me again as she considers it.

“At worst it will be an excuse to take a little break from the grove. At best it will give you a way to make Abundantia your own. What do you say, sweetheart?”

“I say I’ll do it if you stop with the stupid nicknames.”

Tension broken, we chuckle and some of the stress melts from her shoulders. A few minutes later we turn off the main road onto the familiar path toward home.

I suck my teeth in mock regret, shaking my head. “No can do. We did things on your terms last time, now it’s my turn.”

This is a bad idea. This is a colossal, inescapably bad idea. I shouldn’t have probed. I shouldn’t have encouraged Giuliana, and I sure as shit shouldn’t have volunteered to come with her. Because thanks to Isabella needing the Fiat to run errands, here we are again in a painfully familiar situation… Giuliana’s nestled between my thighs on the Vespa as we wind through the Italian countryside. But this time I have to pray I don’t get too excited by her being pressed against a certain part of me—one that doesn’t understand she is OFF LIMITS.

Fighting the urge to wrap one of my arms around her body, I keep my distance as much as possible. Navigation and driving are her focus. My only task is keeping my grip stiff and professional on her waist. Now is not the time to reminisce on how the swell of her breast felt in my palm.

We meander around twisting roads and hills, passing through a few small towns on the way. Far enough for Giuliana to be less recognizable. The drive takes around an hour, and by the time we both shift off of the Vespa and onto solid ground, I have to adjust myself. It doesn’t help that my arms are half numb from the bike’s vibration combined with me keeping them so rigid. The backpack I’ve brought along with water, my journal, and our chargers hangs on my back.

The villa rises up in front of where we’ve stopped in the semi-circle turn-around. It’s light brown, almost golden in some parts, and stands tall in front of us. Terracotta tiles adorn the low-pitched roof, and inviting us in is a large, arched entryway leading into a small courtyard.

I’m so caught up in my physical discomfort and trying to distract myself with the scenery I nearly miss Giuliana’s unease. She wrings her hands together, keeping her breaths measured and deep.

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