Page 47 of I Think Olive You

Did Giuliana really have to leave this early or is she hiding from what happened between us? Is she running the way I did?

Chiara joins me after breakfast, careful not to divulge anything to Nonna. But Isabella takes in the rips on my hands, the scratches along my arms and legs. When she asked about it Chiara primly responded that it was a surprise for Giuliana and we weren’t going to say a word.

Isabella gives a rare, genuine smile, and a little nod to me as if to say thanks for taking Chiara along with me on this fool’s errand. Chiara spends the majority of the morning with me, dragging what she can into the living room. We empty out kitchen cupboards and scuttle away when we hear scratching sounds that have to be a mouse. By early afternoon Chiara loses interest in the “renovation” project and I’m left to my own devices. It’s hard not to panic at the scope of what I’m attempting.

Matt Palmer has never had to clean a damn thing his whole life, so I have no idea why my Italian alter ego, Matteo de Palma, decided to overhaul an old farmhouse. Heat bakes into the stone building. Lack of ventilation has sweat pouring off of my body and I have to shuck my shirt, pants slung low on my hips. I crack open the intact windows to let some of the pent-up dust escape.

Has no one been in here for the last decade?

I lean into the push broom, gathering years of dirt and grove earth that’s blown into the house into a neat brown pile. Dust leaves the back of my throat scratchy, my sinuses heavy with the proof of neglect here. By the time afternoon rears its head I’m on the even-hotter second floor trying to figure out how the hell I’m going to organize all of this stuff.

There’s no plan, no foresight. As usual I’ve jumped into something heedless of the work, ignoring the fact that I have no idea what I’m doing. Just like when I came here, and every second since. I collect broken pieces of glass and ceramic from windows and tiles, dropping them into a bucket I found under the kitchen sink with a clink.

Where the hell am I going to put all the furniture? Do I keep it? Toss it? I can’t talk to Isabella about this (and not just because of the language barrier) because I’m not sure if Giuliana has mentioned the B&B aspect of things. I don’t want to cause a fight between them if I can help it. For now, I’ll try my best to clean it all up and I’ll go from there.

My bones ache by the end of the day. Dragging heavy wood furniture does have consequences, it seems. A layer of grime lines my skin. It settles in the cracks on my hands and the furrows in my forehead where I’ve wiped sweat away too many times.

God, I need a shower. And a meal. And twelve hours of sleep.

Slinking back into the big house, I leave my gross shoes by the front door, shirt draped over my forearm. Smells drift down the hall from the kitchen and my stomach gurgles in response. Although I’d prefer to soak in a tub for at least an hour, I content myself with a quick shower—punishingly hot and fucking amazing. I watch brown slough off my body and swirl down the drain, proof of a hard day’s work.

Tomorrow I’ll start the washing portion of the day—counters, windows, floors. I can’t wait to see things gleam. It might be stupid to be this excited for hard work, but I am. The chipped paint will have to be redone; windows replaced.

Isabella and Chiara are chatting in the kitchen when I join them. Giuliana is still nowhere to be seen and when I ask, Isabella is surprisingly tight-lipped about it.

“Nonna says she’ll be gone for a few days, taking care of business. She’ll be back eventually. No big deal,” Chiara informs me, shrugging before digging back into her meal with gusto. Somehow, I don’t buy it. What happened to send her away? Why was Patrizia so worried when we got back?

I dig into the meal—body tired and stomach desperate after a day of physical labor. I’ll feel it tomorrow. I’m not unfit, but my muscles have never been used for this kind of work. I’ve exercised bits of myself I didn’t even realize existed. Conversation flows mostly between Chiara and myself. She takes time to talk to Isabella too, however that conversation does not get translated for me.

I might have to convince Chiara to teach me some Italian. Not so that I can snoop, of course, but so I can be more helpful.

Yeah, right.

It’s mild, barely a negative thought, but I’m surprised my brain still has the energy to want to fuck with me. I’ll have to speak to someone about this, a professional or something. There can’t be a coincidence that it started last year and has only gotten worse since. I can’t outrun myself, that much is clear.

I keep the thought, ruminating on it through dinner until I collapse onto the bed and pass out within a few minutes.

Ithought I was being resourceful, using YouTube to learn how to turn the water on at the mains. Brown liquid pours from creaking kitchen taps, spurting to a stop before exploding back out and onto me.

So resourceful. Super glad you decided to get this disgusting water all over yourself. Might as well take a bath in tetanus.

It can’t be that bad, surely? The brown has to be dirt and maybe a little rust? Nothing dangerous, I hope.

Eventually I’ve gone around the farmhouse, opening each tap and running it until the sputtering water turns from a gross russet to mostly clear, if a little beige. Only then do I fill the bucket with water and soap. Warm water would be better, but beggars can’t be choosers, especially when this is supposed to be a secret project.

Chiara checks in with me a few times to bring me some bottled water and a sandwich around lunch time. Since the majority of my work includes cleaning, she makes herself pretty scarce.

With each dip of a rag into the water—every bucket replaced once the water is gray with filth—things start to take shape.

The kitchen has beautiful handmade tile on the backsplash and floor. Although there are no appliances, just cupboards and the heavy farmhouse sink, it feels homier. The bathroom is a harder endeavor. I’ll need something stronger than dish soap to tackle the years of water rings and yellowing ceramic. I’ll bother Isabella for some bleach or something later. I have no idea how long Giuliana will be away and I want to get as much done as I can.

I haul my tired body upstairs, eager to see the transformation there before the sun sets and visibility is too poor to work in. Repeating my process from downstairs, I drag furniture out of the way to sweep and wipe and wash. The bedframes stand like skeletons of a past life—ghosts of comfort and home.

In the second bedroom I move a desk away from the wall to sweep when I hear a clatter inside the wood. Most, if not everything, has been cleared out. What could possibly still be in here?

Tugging open a deep drawer, pens and pencils roll with the motion. There’s a paperweight and some notepads. Nothing out of the ordinary. I’ll need to bring a tote or something to put this stuff into. There’s no point tossing it out if it can be repurposed somewhere else. Pulling the desk further away from the wall I feel part of the wood move under my hands.

A small compartment under the lip.

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