Page 52 of Pomegranates and Olive

"Where do you live now?"

He shrugs as he leans back beside me. "I move around a lot. I don't really have somewhere I call home."

"Why?"

"Why?" He repeats my question with confusion.

"Yes, why don't you have somewhere you call home?"

I stay quiet and let him work through whatever’s on his mind. He’s silent for a while, just staring out at the water before he sighs.

"I need a reason to stay somewhere... and if I can't find a reason then I move on. Right now, I don't have that reason, but when the approval comes through I'll be back." He stands up and dusts off his shorts. "You really need a seat here, don't you?"

"You'd probably never be able to get rid of me if there was."

"Tempting idea." He chuckles before whistling loudly. "Right, I've got a meeting later so how about some breakfast?"

"I guess. Sure."

He holds out his hand and I slip mine into his.

Zing!

"Come on then."

Cazzo!

Betty returns carrying a stick and we walk for a few more minutes along the ridge. Deniz points out where the main resort will be, where the infinity pool will spill out over three tiers, where his private villa will be situated, and how it will all blend into the olive grove with minimal environmental impact, until we finally stop outside an old building. Just like Aydin and Ginny's home, the outside of the building is deceptively antiquated, almost as if to disguise the modern mill and warehouse within, but there is nothing that could disguise the intoxicating aroma of incredibly fresh olive oil.

Deniz slips on his shirt (finally) and opens the large wooden door before he turns to Betty. "Git, Betty." Betty drops his stick at my feet and I give him a pat for being a good boy before he turns around and trots back down the hill.

We enter the mill through the warehouse. It is a hive of activity with men in overalls rushing back and forth between machines. At the centre of the room are three large granite wheels set onto a large tub turntable, a conveyor belt and what I can only guess to be a wall of hydraulic presses behind it. There are also four huge stainless steel tanks in the opposite corner. "So, this is where the magic happens."

"I guess that depends on what type of magic you're expecting."

Ignoring his innuendo, I continue asking questions about the mill like it is the most interesting thing in my world. I point to the three granite wheels in the centre of the large room. "You still make your olive oil the traditional way with stone wheels?"

"The taste is purer but we've modernised in other ways. We have presses as well now which saves alotof manpower."

"And you don't operate all year round?"

He shakes his head. "Not by a long shot. It's busy because it's harvest season, but we can also be contracted by specialty stores, like the one that Eve runs. That work can carry us through winter."

The divine creation that is Eve.

I roll my eyes which evokes a smirk from him as he indicates the door at the far end of the room. "This way."

Deniz and I pass groups of men unloading their harvests off the backs of small trucks and piling them inside the warehouse. Crate after crate filled with freshly picked green olives interspersed with the occasional black one are stacked waist high. We manoeuvre through the maze of crates to cross the warehouse. An older lady with a clipboard appears through a doorway and the men all rush to her side. Deniz leans in. "That's my girl, Gamze. She's giving them delivery times. Everyone wants to be first because the sooner you get your olives milled the sweeter the taste. They will now argue with each other over who should be first, but they won't argue with her. She's as tough as old boots and if you annoy her, she'll bump you to the bottom of the list with a smile."

Sure enough, as soon as she posts the list the five men begin to squabble amongst themselves.

Gamze laughs at them and rounds up the men to appease them with tiny tulip-shaped glasses of tea."Tamam çocuklar. Gel, çay içelim!"

Deniz is satisfied that Gamze has everything under control and points the way out of the warehouse. We cross a stone courtyard, to another white wash building. "This is the house where my mother was born."

He opens the wooden door and steps aside so I can enter first.

I step in and turn, taking in the space. It isn’t much more than one open-plan room which has been divided into separate areas by bookshelves overflowing with books from floor to ceiling. The kitchen looks simple but functional, but the coffee machine on the counter is not. It is a top of the line Jura. I'm already fantasizing about the coffee that bad boy can make.

---