Page 45 of I Think Olive You

Tugging the ring from her finger, Giuliana places it in my palm and curls my fingers shut around it. The stone cuts into my flesh and I tighten my grip, hoping it’ll break skin.

Giuliana looks like she wants to say more but then Patrizia comes rushing out the front door, a slew of frantic words barraging us. Wasting no time, Giuliana heads into the house and throws over her shoulder like an afterthought, “Something important has come up. Why don’t you take some time off for the weekend and we’ll start back up on Monday, okay?”

Not waiting for my response, she disappears inside. The walk to my room is slower, reluctant. The backpack slips from my shoulder onto the floor. I drop my phone onto the bed and then proceed to fall face first onto the mattress. I unleash a burning scream of frustration into the covers before I collect myself. Unzipping my backpack, I reach inside for the ring box. I tuck the ring inside and throw the box and my journal back into the desk drawer, hidden. Out of sight.

The following morning, I change into my grove clothes and head down toward the old farmhouse. Giuliana never said whether she intended to convert either the main house or this older building into the B&B, but it’ll need to be inspected and cleaned out.

The grove is quieter than I’ve ever experienced with most employees away for the weekend or their midday rests—something I wish was a staple in the US because disappearing to eat and relax in the middle of the day would be amazing. Mostly, my father never even took a lunch break.

The untamed brush near the house almost swallows the path. I’ll have to tackle that soon to get wheelbarrows and stuff through here. There’s a broken window on the lower level but the walls are still in good shape. No cracks that I can see. Part of the facade is covered in beautiful creeping greenery. The door needs a new coat of paint. It hangs lazily off the hinges when I push my way inside and I add new mounting to my growing mental list. Screws pull away from the doorframe and the wood drags along the stone floors. I have to prop it up just to swing it all the way open.

I’m not sure what I was expecting but it wasn’t furniture. Not much, like the main house, but there’s a small console near the door and I can picture old envelopes of mail tossed there along with house and car keys.

The narrow foyer leads into a heavy staircase against the wall and beyond that an open door to the kitchen. The settee in the living area hasn’t fared well. Feathers and padding are scattered around the floor along with leaves and dust. Some animal made its home in the cushions at one point since this place was abandoned. This is the room with the broken window and it shows.

To the left is a dining room and a sturdy wooden table scarred with age and years of disuse. Four chairs sit around it and I’m unsure if the set is incomplete or if it’s only supposed to be four.

My feet pull me up the stairs and I’m helpless but to follow the whim of my body. I can picture what this place must have looked like when it was loved and cared for. Did Giuliana ever live here? Or did they move into the big house before she was born? The ghosts of laughter—of lives—seem like they’re embedded in the walls.

History. All I feel in Italy is a history I’ve never had the luxury to have. Thomas and Genevieve Palmer changed residences as soon as they stopped feeling en mode. Only the best, only the newest, to distract from the restlessness of their lives. No wonder I’m so unsettled and unable to stand still.

Did my father walk these floors? Did he know the family living here or was he a silent partner? Just what was his involvement because I really can’t picture it? I can’t marry the images in my mind of the aloof man I knew and the type of person who would’ve helped this grove.

Upstairs is emptier. The bedrooms are naught but bed frames and furniture too heavy to move out, or too old-fashioned to be considered worth it. The bathrooms are revolting. Thick rings line the insides of toilets with no water in them. Sinks and tubs are yellow with age, and the musty smell of stagnant water permeates the space.

It’s going to be hard work. It’s going to take a while. If I throw enough time and money into this, I could potentially have it ready for her by the end of the month. Before I get cut off.

Hiding it from Giuliana—or potentially asking her to leave it up to me—is going to be near-impossible. But this is my chance to make amends, to fix what she doesn’t realize is broken, and prove I can do something on my own.

It’s not running a grove. It’s not a business takeover. Fixing the old farmhouse is not what Alan or my father had in mind when they told me to make something of myself. But it’s an opportunity I’m grabbing with both hands. Firstly, I’m going to need to clean—clear out the brush and the rooms, then I can tackle the walls and the floors.

I trek back to the big house and encounter Chiara, the young girl leaving the kitchen with red sauce on the side of her mouth and the unbridled energy of someone who’s been made to sit still for too long.

“Buongiorno, Matteo.”

“Buongiorno, Chiara. Is Nonna nearby?” Isabella is the only one I can think to ask who might keep this secret for me, at least for today.

Chiara gestures with her thumb to the kitchen. “Do you need me to come with you?”

“Yes, please.”

Both of us file into the room where a plate waits. I’m not sure who it’s for but Isabella makes me sit with a wave of her hand and an insistent “mangiare” which again isn’t hard to decipher with context clues.

“It’s called ‘melanzane ripiene’ and they’re stuffed eggplants,” Chiara informs me.“I, uh… Giuliana told me to keep myself busy so I thought I might do some yard work?” I explain between mouthfuls. “Do you have any gardening equipment, gloves and the like to protect my hands?”

Best she believes it’s for vanity—me not wanting to rip up my soft palms (although I already have some calluses from helping on the grove).

Isabella gives me that look again, the one where she makes it very clear she’s aware of my bullshit, but for whatever reason she lets it slide. She makes Chiara promise to take me out to the shed for anything I need and I finish my delicious meal.

“Nonna says I have to show you the tools and stuff. It’s dark in the shed but you can look inside. I’ll just wait with you.” It’s cheeky and I kind of love that Chiara is making the limits of her help very clear.

“Grazie, Isabella… Chiara. Seriously, you’ve both been a big help.”

Chiara translates and I get a wry smile from the old woman, her response relayed through her granddaughter as we head back out for my secret mission.

“She says don’t mess it up. And also, you can call her Nonna.”

“Grazie, Nonna.”

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