Page 15 of I Think Olive You

All I can do now is try to find answers. I want this chance to make something of myself and learn about a life that could have been mine had a few things been different. So, I change into clean clothes and ready my belongings, phone charged, and the contract safely tucked into my backpack.

Breakfast is a quick pastry though it’s practically lunch at this point. Since I’ve slept so late, I ponder my next move as the sun arcs across the sky. My vape is almost dead, and the adapter isn’t the only thing I’ve forgotten in my excitement and haste. I’m fucked with no charger packed and no vape shop I can find in the vicinity. Should I turn back toward a bigger city? It’s an hour in the opposite direction from the farm. Is it worth it or a waste of my time? I don’t want to need it, yet the itch under my skin spreads as I panic a little.

My crutch gone out from under me.

But I’m here for a reason, and the longer I put it off the more bullshit is going to grow in my brain and stress me out. Might as well rip the band-aid off. I opt instead for nicotine patches from a local pharmacy, too vain to consider cigarettes. The smell alone would put anyone off, and stained fingers and teeth do not appeal to me at all.

At worst, I’ll make the drive into one of the cities once I’ve found the farm.

The address is about twenty minutes outside town, roads curving along the landscape. The Vespa rumbles down the streets of Gravina—the fortress where my own stone walls have been compromised, and I ache at the thought of Giuliana back in that bed in town. I wanted to stay, curl my body around hers, and indulge in her again until my brain finally calmed. But I’m not meant for…intimacy. It’ll hurt us both if I try.

I follow the twisting roads, up and down hills between vineyards and groves, and the sweet summer breeze teases my senses. It varies with each turn—the fruit and earth and flowers. Why did I never open my eyes to everything outside New York? All I’ve done is ignore what the world has to offer, which was a mistake. I’ve missed out on so many small delights while I hid in sharp-edged pleasures.

How can a life of excess be so deprived?

By the time I make it to the address, I have a fair layer of dust and sweat on my skin from where the asphalt turned to hard-packed earth and summer made her presence known. The Vespa comes to a stop and I look up at the sign arching over the road. Half a mile to go according to the GPS, straight ahead, but when I get there the name is missing from the sign. There’s no mention of Abundantia. The arched wood has been sanded, or painted over. Something there has been scrubbed away, yet to be replaced.

Still, perhaps I can ask the owner about it. It’s possible I’ve taken a wrong turn.

The bike jerks, bouncing on the uneven ground of the one-lane road. I make it to the top and the view snatches my breath away. Not just a farm. Rows upon rows of olive trees, gnarled and reaching, leaves vivid in the sun. In the valley, I see a glimpse of a stone building with a terracotta-tiled roof, surrounded by overgrowth with no path. On the other side, there’s a larger home. White and villa-like in appearance, it’s where the road I’m on ends.

I follow, taking in the scope of the property as I continue. My driving slows as the pebbles under the tire make the ride difficult. A woman steps out into the road ahead, waving her arms for me to pull over, the cloud of dust behind me choking.

Sun-bronzed skin glints with sweat and her smile is bright and open when I stop. Her dark hair is pulled back and she has wrinkles spreading out beside her smile.

“Buona sera?” she greets me and I feel like a total ass. I haven’t even bothered to learn basic greetings before coming here.

“Hi,” I finish, turning the key to silence the sound of the Vespa, and giving an awkward wave.

“Ah, Americano?” Her eyebrows raise in question.

“Sì,” I say, the only fucking Italian I know besides goodbye.

She claps her hands together in glee and gestures for me to follow her. “Vieni,” she urges, pointing toward the white villa I saw on the hill.

I dismount and push the bike alongside her. I can tell she wants to talk to me—she keeps looking over—but the language barrier is something I have to work on and fast. Frankly, it’s embarrassing and in poor taste. I can’t expect everyone to cater to me or my language. Especially not if I’m going to take over here. But she does speak.

“You here to help? America?” she asks, trying to bridge the gap.

I nod. Because yeah, in the truest sense I am. It appeases her and she gives me another smile, nodding as if she’s happy with the state of events.

Are they expecting me? Maybe there is no new owner after my father’s partner died. I know it’s foolish to hope, but there’s a chance this may go perfectly. If they know I’m coming or want me here—it’ll be what I need to make my new start. This is my opportunity to forge something, to grow away from my past.

The walk up the hill is a little strenuous when one contends with the weight of a bike and bag I’ve strapped to the Vespa, but any exertion is forgotten as I take in the scenery around me. By the time we make it up to the villa I’m filled with the urge to walk the land and marvel.

The lady urges me to stay and wait as she goes inside. Biting back a laugh, I watch her try to command me with gestures and body language alone. Still, it’s effective. Even though she looks like she’s trying to calm a rampaging bull, I stay put.

I can hear faint voices—raised and angry—from the house and behind me in the grove are others. Some laugh, some talk. Birds sing with unfamiliar calls as they swoop from tree to tree, and I watch with fascination as one dives down to peck at the ground. These don’t look like American birds—the plain and small sparrows or the lazy pigeons I’ve grown up with. The bird flitting between ground and sky is a beautiful combination of light blue and green. Vibrant.

I’m so caught up in taking it all in. The trees sway with the wind, leaves rustling as the branches arch and flex in the air. Voices of those within the grove carry on the breeze. I’m so transfixed I don’t notice my guide’s return. She beckons me and I set the Vespa down, kickstand out, to follow her inside.

As we walk inside, a man around my age storms by us and shoulder checks me—rushing out of the house with a sheaf of papers fisted in his hand.

Weird. But my guide doesn’t wait for me to consider what that might be about.

Fans spin in almost every room we pass to circulate the air and combat the heat absorbed by the house. My guide rushes me through the hall and I catch glimpses of the interior of the house. There’s a vague impression of cream and dark furniture, high-contrast. Even within the design of the house—the light walls throw the beams across the ceiling into relief, emphasizing the dark wood lending support to the roof.

At the end of the passage, I see an office. The wall I can spy through the doorway is mostly taken up by windows. A large mahogany desk sits centered in front of the windows, facing outward. The chair behind it is turned toward the windows as well—as if whoever works here wants to be able to see the grove while they do and cares little for greeting people who come through the door. The farm is more important than business, clearly.