Page 75 of I Think Olive You

Alan is going to have a motherfucking field day with this. I wonder if we’ll drop in points again, like when some of my escapades made the papers the last time I was in New York.

If you’ve managed to avoid the pictures online (good for you ‘cause I certainly haven’t), let me get you up to speed. I pretended to be a volunteer on an olive grove in order to gain the intel I needed to manage a takeover. Only, during my weeks and months in Italy, all I managed to do was fall for the enemy: Giuliana. Gorgeous, strong, wonderful Giuliana. The actual owner of the grove. I’ve since released my stake on the land—it belongs squarely to her and her family. But my lies kept building. First was my identity and my reason for being there. But later it stretched as far as staging a fake proposal to help her research avenues to make the grove more profitable. Imagine my surprise to find pictures of that moment splashed across the internet. And her shock when she found out I’ve been nothing but a liar from day one. I fell in love with her family—the way they treated me with kindness and care—the jokes shared around the kitchen table and during long hours working the grove.

I fell in love with her in the quiet moments in between. I can’t make it right, not in the way that counts. So, the best I can do is tell you all about how amazing she is and her plans for the future. I hope you’ll feel inclined to help an incredibly hard-working woman achieve her dreams of honoring her legacy, and providing others with the tools to do the same.

Here goes nothing—one of those favors I asked my friends to help with. I insert some of the pictures I’d taken of the grove. Front and center are the farmhouse’s before and after, and the link to the website I had my friend design. In the email I’m sending Giuliana is the instructions on how to access her website and my friend’s information. Free for her and he’ll do whatever she needs. Formatting will tidy up the rest of the article and make it decent for publication but I’m on borrowed time.

Giuliana’s worked this land her whole life, tradition dictating that she wasn’t supposed to inherit. But despite expectations and societal prejudices, she excels. Her workers are happy, made up of mostly women (after the men on her father’s payroll left when he died) and a breeding ground for a program she hopes to implement with money from a B&B onsite. It’s called agriturismo, and it’s a way to get a feel for Italian farm life while on vacation.

In turn the profits will be going toward a scholarship program for women in agriculture and hands-on mentorship. It will give those women a chance to seize their own destiny in the overly male-dominated agricultural field. It’s impressive and it’s difficult and I’m going to help however I can, even though I’m the last person she wants to hear from. Giuliana deserves success and being featured far more than I do. My notoriety and name have been woefully underutilized. So, I intend to use whatever platform I have left to amplify her voice and the voices of those like her: people who care deeply about community and the betterment of others.

Beneath that lies the other favor I called in: a fundraiser for people who would like to donate—not just to Giuliana but to other female-led farming initiatives in Italy and the United States. Rich people love nothing more than tax breaks and the illusion of philanthropy. But it works in our favor now. These women get what they need and my “friends” get to pat themselves on the back for helping their fellow man—or woman in this case.

Pressing send, my email is loosed into the internet ether and I don’t know if Giuliana will want to open the article before it posts, or if it’ll end up in the trash. But this is something small I could do to atone and make up for my multitude of mistakes. Giuliana deserves more, and I’m going to keep trying to make it up to her in whatever way I can.

I dress for my big meeting with Alan. He expects me to come in and sign my life away. But he doesn’t know my mom is coming, or Charlie. I have no intention of going quietly. If I go down, I’m taking him with me. There are other shareholders capable of running my father’s company, shareholders that aren’t despicable assholes. We’ve been in contact with a few, and Alan’s involvement is looking shadier by the day.

All we need to do is get Alan to admit he’s been lying.

Making the trek up the elevator to his office, I try to ignore the sick lurch in my stomach as the floors dip beneath us. He’ll know by now that I haven’t come alone since the receptionists no doubt recognize my mother.

As for the grizzly old man she’s brought with her, well… he’s not what I expected. Charlie looks like he’d sooner be doing pro bono work than high-level inheritance and family law. But I like him immediately. He’s scruffy with a white beard, kind eyes, and a host of wrinkles beside them. Like a courthouse Santa, only of average girth, and without the sack full of presents.

Alan’s secretary tries to protest when we head straight for the office but my mother levels her with a look I’d hate to be on the receiving end of. I thrust the door open with all the courage I can muster. His eyes dart between us, and I realize I’ve never seen him so nervous.

Alan looked sleazy the last time I saw him—a little questionable. But I’ve never seen him look cowed before. Alan is smaller, lesser than I remember. Or I’m the one that’s changed.

“Matt, nice of you to finally show up. I was worried you might be going back on our agreement.”

“A worry that was well-founded, Alan, since I have no intention of signing anything.”

Settling into the seat directly in front of him, my mother slides into the one beside me.

“Genevieve,” Alan sneers and she scoffs in response, not even bothering with a greeting.

“This is my lawyer, Charlie. He has some questions for you regarding the validity of my father’s will and the supposed clause you keep shoving in my face.”

Charlie might look like Santa but it turns out he’s like a bulldog on a leash—only contained as long as his master commands and then he’s ready to rip into the threat.

“We managed to get a copy of the real will, Mr. Becker. Not only has it not been updated since prior to the divorce of Mr. and Mrs. Palmer, but there is no addendum stating that Matteo is in any danger of losing his inheritance.”

Alan ignores him, staring me down. “Matteo, huh? Really leaning into the lie?”

“It’s not a lie. It’s the truest I’ve ever been to myself. Now, you better start talking or things are going to go very badly for you.” Voice shaking with anger, I’m unable to keep the resentment at bay.

Because of this man and his threats, I was sent down a path that cost me everything I care about. Because of this man I’ve spent the last few months in fear. I will not waver again.

“The will is sealed, the probate not settled. There’s no way you got your hands on it.”

Alan sounds so fucking smug. I want to wipe that little constipated smile off his face. I still don’t know what the fuck a probate is but Charlie assured us it’s all in hand. Alan’s lying through his teeth.

“You underestimate me, and my mother. Unlike the way you conduct your business she hasn’t burned every bridge in this city on her way through.”

Alan swallows hard, the cracks starting to show—ones that will spread and shatter the facade of his threats.

“We compared the redacted document you provided with the bonafide will we received and it appears some changes were made. Unauthorized.” Charlie’s voice is a rough gravel, like Sam Elliot without the drawl. I have no idea where my mom found this guy but he’s fucking great.

Leaning forward, I rest my forearms on the desk as I stare my father’s old lawyer down, taking in the too-smooth skin and the neck that surgery can't hide before I speak. “You know, Alan, fraud is such an ugly word. And in your position, how far you’ve climbed…” I chuckle, sick satisfaction burning through me. “It’s a long way down.”

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