Page 53 of I Think Olive You

Isabella and I have a tentative truce, even though we both know I’ll be causing Giuliana at least a small amount of hurt in the next few weeks. My deadline from Alan is fast approaching and I need Isabella’s help ASAP if I’m going to be able to protect the grove before I lose everything.

We pile into the little Fiat, super close to the ground and tighter than I’d prefer. Isabella does her mirror checks, leans her arm across the back of my seat, and proceeds to reverse out of the alcove the car’s been kept in. Her spin to straight jolts my stomach and I’m a little glad we skipped breakfast this morning because from the look of things she’s a reckless driver.

You don’t have room to complain considering the menace you are on your Vespa.

Fair. Fair.

The drive into Gravina rushes by, although that could have something to do with me spending every second staring out of the window with longing. I didn’t have time to drink it in when I first left for the grove a little over two months ago, but as a passenger I’m gifted with beautiful countryside zipping by. It helps that Giuliana isn’t here to distract my gaze.

Gravina looks like part of the landscape. Its buildings have sprung up and multiplied on top of each other into a small sprawl down the hill. The streets I’d searched before don’t feel as novel now, but their beauty isn’t diminished at all. Cobblestones and brick and asphalt all meld together as the old and the new give way to each other.

The lawyer we’ve come to is in the new part of the city and Isabella maneuvers into a tight parking spot in a way that would make anyone from the DMV weep with joy. I follow her like a duckling into the office building, glass doors closing behind us and a sleek secretary greeting us with a bright smile.

We’re shuffled into a private room, an empty chair at the desk across from us. I want to ask her how she found us an appointment so quickly, or how we’re going to pull this off, but questions are wasted on Isabella. Her determination is something I won’t challenge or question—not if I want to avoid getting chewed out.

The lawyer doesn’t keep us waiting long. The first thing I note is how he looks nothing like Alan. His face shows the proof of living and all the emotions that come with it. Lines fan out from the corners of his eyes—years of smiling and squinting into the sun. A few deep-carved lines run across his forehead in a physical show of rumination and worry. Dark hair interwoven with silvery strands is coiffed away from his face and so thick I’m sure Alan would sell a kidney for that kind of volume.

We rise to greet him—me with a handshake, Isabella with some cheek kisses and she ends up patting the side of his face with affection.

“È bello rivederti, Isabella,” he says to Nonna and she gives what I’m pretty sure is a giggle? I didn’t even know she could do anything other than sarcastic snorts and huffs of humor.

“Anche per me.” She gestures to me before speaking again. “Questo è Matteo. Lui è Americano.”

“Ah.”

I know what that “ah” means. I’ve heard it multiple times since arriving here. “Ah, I have to switch to English.” or “Ah, he can’t understand us.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Matteo. I’m Andrea. What can we help with today?”

I pull my passport and the contract out from the folder Isabella so graciously provided, one containing the plans and other business-related documents I found in the old farmhouse. Andrea accepts the mess I’ve tried to smooth out—corners still curling and creases I’ve worried my hands over to try and flatten.

“I came into a stake on some land. Since I have no interest in upholding the original agreement my father made by claiming a non-return on the investment, I’d like to relinquish it all to the current co-owner, Giuliana Santoro.”

The words take a weight off my chest, one I hadn’t even realized was choking me. Isabella rests her hand on my bouncing knee, so much like her granddaughter had at that wedding. Though hers is dappled with freckles and age spots—papery skin with veins like tributaries branching up her fingers.

Andrea takes his time scrutinizing the contract and pauses on the last page, much like I had, his fingertips tracing over a different signature. He takes a deep breath before he turns his attention to us again.

“So, you’re Tommaso’s boy?” It drives a sharp pang through my body, radiating out from my chest.

It’s different. Other. It doesn’t rankle the way the question usually does—the one I’m used to. Someone muttering “Oh, you’re Palmer’s kid” followed by a disappointed once-over. This is wistful. I nod, unable to muster much else around the weird lump in my throat.

“My father helped them negotiate this contract. I knew Tommaso as a boy. I’m sorry to hear he passed on.”

There it is again—a weird swirl in my gut like I’m about to dissolve under too much pressure. Maybe it’s because he didn’t phrase it as being sorry for “my loss” since all that usually does is prompt my inner asshole.

Can’t lose what you never had.

No, this phrasing emphasized Tommaso no longer walked among us. Not just gone from Italy but the world. There’s more than a hole. The absence is absolute this time.

Get it together. You never gave much of a fuck before. There are more important matters to deal with.

“It would be simple enough to arrange a new contract, one where you state you’re relinquishing your father’s claim and the caveats around the investment.”

“It’s time-sensitive.” I know it’s rude to push it, but I have no idea what Alan will do or how things are going to look now. I have to make this work before I lose agency.

Andrea lifts his brows, those forehead lines moving in question.

“My father left very specific instructions in his will when he died. If I don’t prove I have what it takes to run the company by the anniversary of his death, I lose the right to my inheritance. The grove was my test—one I failed since I have no intention of jeopardizing Giuliana or her family. It’s imperative I get this sorted before the deadline so the Santoros don’t lose Abundantia to Palmer Enterprises.”

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