Page 67 of The Road to You
I let the night hold me. Let the summer wrap itself around my bones, and I fall asleep smiling, already dreaming of him sneaking in again tomorrow night.
23
MICHELE
The morning sun filters through the lace curtains, casting soft shapes across the terracotta floor. The scent of freshly brewed espresso wafts through the air, mingling with the earthy aroma of the masseria. I balance a tray with two cups, a small bowl of sugar, and a plate of almond biscotti as I tiptoe down the hallway.
Lena’s door is slightly ajar, and I push it open gently. She’s still nestled under the linen sheets, her hair a tousled halo around her face.
“Buongiorno, tesoro,” I whisper, setting the tray on the bedside table.
She stirs, blinking sleepily. “Mmm, what’s that smell?”
Her voice is groggy from sleep, and I smile when she peels an eye open to peek at me. She is adorable when she’s all sleepy and confused.
“Espresso. Thought you might need a little pick-me-up. You know, after my performance last night,” I tease her.
She groans and puts the blanket over her head. “You are terrible.”
“You weren’t complaining last night. On the contrary, you seemed very, very pleased.” I smirk at her and she gives me the side-eye, but a smile tugs at her lips.
She sits up, and the sheet slips to reveal her bare shoulders. “You’re spoiling me,” she says, eyeing the tray on the nightstand.
I hand her a cup, our fingers brushing. “Only the best for you.” I wink and she blushes, hiding a smile behind the porcelain rim.
We sip our coffee in comfortable silence, the morning light dancing across her features. Outside, the cicadas begin their daily chorus, a soundtrack that reminds me of my childhood.
After dressing, we make our way to the pergola-covered patio where my mother, father, andnonnaare already seated, enjoying the morning breeze.
“Buongiorno, Lena!” my mother exclaims, rising to greet her with a kiss on both cheeks. “Did you sleep well?”
I translate for her, realizing how much work my cousin and sister did yesterday to keep the conversation flowing and merging the two languages.
“Very well, thank you,” Lena replies, smiling warmly.
My grandmother pats the seat beside her. “Come, sit. Eat. You must try the fresh focaccia,” she says in Italian, and I translate for her.
We join them, plates filled with sun-dried tomatoes, olives, and slices of pecorino. It’s so late for my family that they’ve already had breakfast and are at their mid-morning snack. If we can call it that. There is enough food on the table to feed a family for several days.
The conversation flows easily, laughter punctuating stories of family and local gossip. My mother and grandmother don’t refrain from telling Lena about my embarrassing moments when I was a kid. They chuckle when she throws her head back in a sincere laugh and ask questions that my mother eagerlyanswers. My father, always a man of few words, looks between his wife and Lena and smiles, from time to time throwing a glance at me. I know he has something to say, but he will keep it for himself until we are alone. He is not a man who shows his feelings easily.
I watch Lena interact with my family, her laughter blending seamlessly with theirs. She fits here, in this moment, as if she’s always been a part of our lives. The thought fills me with a warmth I can’t quite describe.
After breakfast, I take her hand. “Come, I want to show you something.”
We walk through the olive groves, the ancient trees standing sentinel over the red earth. Their gnarled trunks twist and turn, each one a testament to centuries of resilience.
“These trees are incredible,” Lena says, running her fingers along the bark. “How old are they?”
“Some are over thousands of years old,” I reply. “They’ve seen empires rise and fall.”
Sha gapes at me, but I shrug. I was stunned, too, when they told me how these trees stood proud throughout invasions and wars. It’s a miracle they’re still here.
“No wonder the olive oil is fantastic.” She smiles, and I chuckle.
Lena has discovered fresh-baked bread, or focaccia, drizzled with olive oil, and said from now on she will eat only that for the rest of her life. My mom chuckled at this, especially after she had said the same thing for another dozen plates of food my family had cooked.
“I’ll make sure you’ll always have some, even when you’re in Los Angeles.” I wink at her and she lights up in a grin that takes up her whole face.
