Page 54 of My Big Fat Italian Break-Up

And then it dawned on me. For him especially, our Tuscan dream was not only a burden, but it was also slowly turning into a nightmare. A nightmare that he was silently enduring for my sake. But what could I do? We were in this together, right? In sickness and in health.

But – and here’s the catch – we weren’t married just yet. If he was unhappy with me, he could still back out. I knew he wouldn’t, probably out of sheer decency, and I knew that he loved me. But he’d have to be a fool not to think long and hard before he committed to this life completely, right?

This morning, it was all hands on deck. Paul, who got in later, my aunts, our farmworkers and even Marco’s family and staff, all clearing away the damaged crops, first on our land and then on Marco’s. It was a time that had brought us all even closer, if possible, our families lunching and dining together practically every day for a week. It was the adversities that brought people together. But every day of it, Julian got gloomier and gloomier.

Luckily, Maddy and Warren shared the same kind of affinity with Renata’s kids and spent these hot summer days absorbed in their friendships, safely biking on the paths between the two properties when they all got bored with one or other house. I was so lucky to have Renata as a friend. I was surrounded by people I loved. Maybe Julian would realize how lucky we were, after all. Things just had to turn out fine.

A few days later, as we sat down, just the two of us, to a lunch of veal and grilled vegetables, Julian put his hands together and sighed. He bore the traces of the hard times in the new lines around his eyes.

I reached out and took his hand. ‘What is it, honey?’ Was he as despondent as I was about having to postpone the wedding again?

He stared into space for a moment and then shook his head as if to shake off a horrible thought. ‘The town won’t give me a license to open the riding facility. Not with the land looking like this.’

Which was a big blow. We’d been banking on the school. I poured some of my special homemade iced tea with fresh mint and lemon. ‘Who did you speak to?’ I asked, passing him the cool glass.

‘The secretary of a certain Leonardo Cortini, head of the council for Tourism. He’s a real piece of work. I can never get a hold of him on the phone but I see him around town in a Ferrari acting like he’s God’s gift to women.’

‘That’s impossible,’ I grinned. ‘Youare.’

Julian smiled weakly but said nothing.

‘Tell you what. Let’s go to the town hall tomorrow, see what we can do,’ I suggested, but Julian shrugged and then yawned.

We’d barely got over one hurdle and here was the next already. And he was tired of it, of course. I could see it. I wondered if I hadn’t been pushing him along too hard.

Who was I kidding? I’d dragged the man of my dreams to a beautiful country where things worked at a very slow pace. Most of the time, getting past bureaucracy was an uphill battle. How much longer could Julian handle being a foreigner in Italy? How long could he bear the cross of a different life?

I pushed the ridiculous thought away. Yes, times were tough, but Julian was an extremely intelligent and resourceful man. Up until two years ago, he ran an entire school. Trouble was, he didn’t seem to want to run A Taste of Tuscany anymore. Or had he ever? Granted, we’d agreed on the fact that I’d run the B & B and he’d take care of the horses and write. But the demands of running a farm merely messed up his career plans. The more time he spent on the farm, the less time he had to globetrot and PR his work. And that was a fact.

He yawned again. ‘You know what, Erica, don’t bother.’

I eyed him. ‘What do you mean?’

He shrugged. ‘I’ve worked my ass off for the past two years – not that I didn’t want to – but already with the rebuilding of the vineyards and the olive groves, I’ll hardly have time to write.’

Maybe it was his polite way of saying a riding school had never been that important to him, after all.

‘OK.’ I shrugged.

His eyebrows lifted. ‘You don’t mind? I thought you wanted a riding school.’

I shrugged. ‘I want what you want.’ It was true. I wanted him to be happy. ‘We’ll hire more farmhands. Youshouldwrite more. You’d be crazy not to. It’s virtually the royalties that are keeping us afloat,’ I acknowledged, not without a shade of misery. I hated that A Taste of Tuscany wasn’t helping out one bit.

He nodded, relieved, and again I wondered if Julian hadn’t made a mistake following me to Italy to run a farm and a B & B when what he thrived on was literary recognition.

‘Fine, then,’ I concluded. You write your books and oversee the produce, and I’ll take care of the business. Maybe hire a couple more farmhands.’

‘Are you sure you don’t mind?’ he repeated.

‘Of course not. You do your job, I’ll do mine.’

‘Brilliant,’ he said, beaming, the weight of the world (or simply of the farm) off his shoulders.

‘Brilliant,’ I repeated, and we clinked glasses.

But deep inside, I couldn’t help notice how our dreams were going in different directions.

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