Page 19 of I Think Olive You
“Threats?”
Warring sides of me pipe up. Giuliana is understaffed and Umberto’s threats could prove useful—I should reach out to him to gather proof. But the other part of me is strangely angry that someone would threaten her at all.
“It’s handled. Or it will be. As long as this harvest goes well the threats won’t matter. That’s why I need this volunteer program to work… so if another man decides to undercut me, I won’t be on the brink of ruin because of it.” Giuliana’s expression is dark with resolve and I feel a frisson of fear. Heaven help me when I’m on her bad side. The only way to do what is required of me for now is to be nice.
“I didn’t mean to cause trouble for you. From here on out I will be a model volunteer. You say jump, I’ll scrounge up a trampoline.” I try to inject some levity into my response, a half-smile curling up my face despite the guilt slithering around inside of me.
Whether I mean to cause trouble or not, it comes regardless.
And you have no plans of stopping it now.
“Do you have experience with farming of any kind?”
“No, uh… I’m a city boy, trying out a new adventure to get away from the suffocating vibe in New York.”
Giuliana reaches around to grab a notepad off her desk, scribbling in that sure handwriting of hers.
“This is perfect. It will give me a chance to gauge how intensive we need to make the program in order for a newcomer to understand the process.”
Something about the way she phrases it has my breath catching in my chest. Newcomer—not a stranger, not an outsider. It feels open. She’s welcoming me—a freaking Trojan horse—into her home and showing me the family business. All I can do now is play my part.
“We have less than three months until the harvest. Future volunteers won’t stay as long, if anything they’ll likely only help out with the harvest itself….” Giuliana carries on almost as if she’s talking to herself and not me. She bites the back of her pen as she considers things, then goes back to the scratch of ink to paper. Sunlight crawls deeper into the room, shafts of light in window shapes reaching in to heat the floor, and casting specks of dust into glitter in the air.
“But if I teach you—give you a crash course—we can figure out what the most important things to know are and I can model the program around that!”
Giuliana pushes off from the table to pace in front of the desk and I fight the laugh sitting on my throat. Seeing her talk herself through the process, watching her mind turn in real-time is strangely entertaining.
Stay focused, asshole. Stop thinking about how cute she is when you’re going to fuck up her life.
“We’ll go over the cultivars, explain how they impact taste and what we use each for.”
She ticks it off on her index finger. So much like our first meeting. Hurt blooms inside me for a split second as the memory of her skin flits through my mind. Giuliana plans out the next three months of my life and I watch her—hungry and exhilarated. I’ll have to figure out how to set the bits of shame I feel aside. No room for that now. Which means I’ll have to keep her off my scent and lean into the image of the useless playboy I am.
“And will I get a final grade for all this? How do I know if I pass?” It’s meant to be a joke but Giuliana takes me seriously.
“You raise a good point. I’ll give some thought to incentives. Perhaps each volunteer could get their own personalized bottle of olive oil at the end?”
One with the Palmer logo on the front?
It’s a traitorous thought and I know it’ll be a long few weeks dealing with the discord inside of me.
“Anyway, let’s get some food in you before we start the day. Nonna will never forgive me if I deprive her of getting to feed you.”
My rudimentary Italian knowledge helps me with that one.
“Your grandmother?”
“Yes, on my father’s side.” It’s a little abrupt, as if she’s done enough talking about her personal life for today.
Giuliana stalks ahead of me down the corridor, expecting me to follow. Once again, I’m rushed through the house, toward an eat-in kitchen. The tantalizing scent of strong coffee hits me first (thank god), followed by the homey feeling of a kitchen abuzz with activity.
An old woman with more salt-than-pepper in her hair is trying to wrangle a girl—no older than seven or eight—who’s hurling rapid-fire questions while bouncing on the balls of her feet. I don’t need to understand Italian to read the tired frustration on the old woman’s face, or to sense this is a regular occurrence in the household.
Giuliana’s entrance breaks the spell, the sudden quiet in the room leaving me uneasy.
I glance around at the arches over the doorway and windows. The warm walls suck up the early summer sun and radiate it around the room. Handmade tiles serve as a backsplash behind the stove, and they glisten with teal accents.
“Nonna, Chiara… Questo è Matteo.” Giuliana gestures toward me and I give an awkward little wave. “Matteo, this is my grandmother, Isabella, and my sister, Chiara.”