19. Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Nineteen

C limbing out of the river an hour later, hand-in-hand, we met several locals who proceeded to grin at us and then offered us food. Maybe they thought we were hungry, given how we had been attacking each other's faces. Maybe they just had extra bottles of water, dishes of what I had to assume were Bonetti olives and prosciutto-wrapped melon slices lying about. Donvino was shy, uneasy with the joking taking place. I held his hand, firmly but gently, and joshed back and forth with the folks of Valle Sicuro as we sat in the sun with our treats.

We lounged outside a small meat market where the owner, an older woman with bright yellow hair and a laugh that shook the cobblestones, informed us that she was the mother of Arturo Peralta, the union rep at farm 20. It seemed the good people here knew me somehow. Probably word of a handsome gay gent with killer vests had spread far and wide over the lands of Tuscany. Or, and this was probably why, people who worked at mill 20 were in the crowd and knew me from seeing me there.

"He is so happy now," she said as she buzzed around the tiny table sitting on the sidewalk, delivering us cups of ridiculously strong cappuccino while shooing away the natives who wished to linger and gawk. "Go home! You never see two men eating at my caffè before?" she barked in Italian as she chased after a few old men, using the hand towel from her shoulder to swat at them. "Go! Stop being so old!"

"Sorry if we cause a problem," Donvino said, his eyes much clearer now that he had food and coffee in his belly.

"Is not a problem for us," Signora Peralta said, hands on her rather robust hips, as she watched the old coots shuffling along. "They are old, set in their ways, but many here are happy for new young blood at the farm. Signor Bonetti has done big things already. Given us a bus for the workers and rolled in the Tiber with his Italian boyfriend. Why would we not love you both?"

She waved at the young dude from the restaurant down the street as he walked to us with takeout food containers in his hand. They had a brief discussion as the containers were passed to us, most dealing with slow shipments and bad fishing. I thanked the server again, tipped him a few more euros, and sat back down to finish my coffee with Donvino.

"You two rest. When you go home, tell Signor Bonetti the senior that we all love Bonetti Farms here. Also, if you wish to mention my little butcher shop, please do. Tell your papà that he is welcome here anytime. Was that not the best prosciutto you ever have?"

"It was indeed," I said with a warm smile, for it was the truth. The meat had been perfection, the melons sweet, and the salty olives on the side had been a delightful touch. "I will make sure to mention Peralta Meat Market when we talk next."

She beamed, kissed my cheeks, and then went back inside to return to work. Donvino sat with the sun on his face, his eyes closed, and his hand cradling his cappuccino.

"How are you doing?" I asked, wishing that my wet underwear would dry faster. Was there anything clingier than wet briefs?

"I am feeling funny," he confessed, his head still back, the tip of his hair still damp.

"Three bottles of wine will do that to a man," I teased, taking my bare toe to rub his calf under the table. The coarse hairs on his leg tickled.

"Sì, it will, but the wine is mostly gone now." He exhaled so deeply that his shoulders rose and fell, and then his eyes cracked open. He studied me from under heavy lids. "I have never felt this way." He sat up, his gaze now holding mine. Two kids on bikes streaked by, pulling shouts from Signora Peralta inside the shop to get off the pavement. My lessons had paid off nicely. I hoped my tutor was feeling better. I'd call my aunt this evening to check. "I feel as if people are not hating us for being together."

"Not all, certainly. A few will. I'm not going to blow smoke up your sweet ass here. You will run into those people who will never accept a queer couple. They refuse to learn and change, and that's their loss, for the world is filled with glorious people that they will never meet based on their closed minds. You may never get those kinds to expand their minds. Now, that being said, some people start out biased but are willing to grow and learn, to be accepting despite possibly being confused or unsure. And then there are the amazing folks like Signora Peralta, our families—"

That made him stiffen up, I was sorry to see. "I do not think my family will accept me."

I reached around the platter holding the melon rinds to place my hand over his, still holding that small brown mug.

"I think some do already," I reminded him. He stared at me and slowly bobbed his head. "The others may need some time. We can be gracious enough to give them a chance or two, don't you think?"

"She called me unclean and slapped me. Does that deserve another chance? I do not know."

Wow, okay, that was…harsh. "Perhaps she just needs time. Some people come around to ideals more slowly than others. I know you love your grandmother, so perhaps giving her a little grace is not a bad thing."

"I do love her…so much. She and Alessio raised me when my father died. I want nothing more than to make them proud of me in some small way. I know I will never be the hero Papà was, but I hoped I could be a rower for my country. Now that dream is broken. I do not have the skills or the money to do what my father had to give up to be a family man."

"Why don't you let someone help you? My aunt said she has offered many times to sponsor you."

"I have pride," he shot back by rote.

"So did many other athletes and artists. The Medicis come to mind. They funded DaVinci, Michelangelo, and Rapheal, who went on to be kind of big." He frowned at the tiny joke. Oy vey, did he have pride? "Just reconsider taking some financial help. Why should your dreams wither up?"

As if you have room to talk, steamer trunk slayer.

"I do not want your money."

"Good, because I don't have any to give you, but my aunt does. She supports the arts and athletics is part of the arts." He cocked a disbelieving brow. "I bet the gladiators had patrons."

"The gladiators were mostly slaves, criminals, or prisoners of war."

I blinked. Well shit. "Okay, fine, bad example. How about the Olympians? I bet some of them had patrons so they could train and bring glory to Rome."

"Hmm, yes, that is true." He seemed less offended the longer we talked. "Many athletes were given funds by patrons, city states, and athletic guilds."

"How do you know all this?"

"I like to read about ancient Greece and Roma," he replied, his shoulders loosening as a scooter with two young women passed by, both checking out Donvino. I waved them along with a flick of my hand. Jezebels. "Okay, you make a point. I will consider a sponsor. That makes you happy, yes?"

"It does, but the bigger question is does it make you happy?" I felt as if we were possibly making some big changes in our lives sitting here stuffed full of melon, prosciutto, and my family's olives, which had been pretty damn good. Guess tastebuds did change just like lives could.

"I think so. Maybe?" He shrugged. "I am more thinking about my family."

"Yeah, I feel that perhaps we should contact Bianca to let her know you're okay, and then maybe we should go back to the villa to have a talk with your grandmother?"

"I think my phone is dead," he said as he removed his old cell from his back pocket. Water ran out of it, making a small puddle of Tiber on the table next to his dirty plate.

"Yikes." I slipped mine out of my vest pocket, the only bit of clothing that didn't go swimming, and texted Donvino's cousin. She hit me right back, relieved obviously, to tell me that she had called a family meeting at my aunt's house for tomorrow at noon. They would discuss things with Giada and Alessio in a calm setting. The cousin whom Donvino had punched was not invited because, in her words, he was a pig-suckling bastard. Donvino chuckled over that and then went inside to ask about some rice. I bent over my phone, tapping madly to inform Bianca that her cousin and I had kissed in a river in front of people and he was pretty much okay with the PDA. Her reply was:

YAAAAAAAYYYYYY! ~ B

I truly did adore that girl. Glancing inside the meat market, I saw Donvino smiling down at Signora Peralta as they filled a storage bag with rice. I prayed his grandmother and grandfather could move past old sways, stigmas, and crusty doctrine to see exactly what a fabulous man they had raised. Lord knows my admiration for him was higher than the Apennine mountains.

"Signor Bonetti the junior," I heard as I sat there drying in the Mediterranean sun with my eyes roaming over my lover's lush backside. I turned my head to see Arturo Peralta jogging down the narrow street, his clothes damp and dirty from a day in the orchard. I rose to shake his calloused hand and then waved at the seat vacated by Donvino. He removed his straw hat, shook his head, and held his hat in front of him. "My mother called to tell me you were visiting Valle Sicuro today. Signor Piravino said nothing about you coming. You missed the first shift of work if you were coming to inspect."

"No, nothing like that. Please sit," I said as I too now stood.

"I cannot. My wife has dinner waiting for me but grazie. Signor, I just wish for you to know that many on the farm are happy for you and your man." His dark eyes darted into the meat market where Donvino was laughing over something Signora Peralta had said. "I know it is not what the church tells us is wholesome, but I think if God made you such, then it is his plan and that is good."

"Thank you. It's nice to know we have some allies among the workers. How is the bus doing for you?"

"Oh, very good! Many on the outskirts of town are happy not to walk so far to work. Perhaps you could sit with us when we talk to Signor Piravino about the upcoming harvesting schedules?"

"Sure, I would love to do that." I bit my tongue about me taking over the mill for several reasons, the biggest being that I did not wish for Signor Piravino to find out he was getting the boot via gossip. I'd not yet confirmed I would take the position. I wanted to ensure Donvino had a job. Maybe we could discuss it here while we dried out from our Tiber frolic. At least the man was sober now. "Contact me here." I held out my hand for his phone, and he placed a battered cell with a cracked screen in my hand. No security entry needed, it seemed. I added my number to his contacts and passed it back. "With a time and date. What are the issues?"

"Nothing yet, but soon it will be harvest time and we have been required to work two twelve-hour shifts to ensure production is met. I am hoping to propose three eight-hour shifts to ease the strain on the workers." He worked the brim of his hat nervously.

"That sounds quite rational. Twelve hours in this heat must be awful."

"Yes, sir, very awful. Many times, people faint from dehydrating. Shorter shifts would be better for all, so we ask soon."

"I'll be happy to back your request," I assured him just as his mother and Donvino exited, my man carrying a pie while looking incredibly sheepish.

"Grazie, so much thanks," Arturo said, grabbing my hand to pump it. He gave his mother a kiss on the cheek and then hurried off, rounding the corner to disappear from view.

"Pie?" I asked when Donvino and I were alone once more.

"She insisted. Can you take it to the villa for me? It is not safe on the bike," he said, and I accepted.

We walked to our vehicles, me holding a pie—peach by the looks of the filling oozing out of the slits in the top crust—in comfortable silence. When we reached his bike, we paused. I smiled up at him, trying to read what he was thinking or feeling. He seemed rather washed out might be the best descriptor and not just from our dip in the river.

"Before we go, I found an opening at the mill that you might like." I passed the pie back to him, pulled out my cell, and brought up the inner office job request. "Here. See if this is something that might suit."

He reluctantly took the phone after handing the pie back to me. As he read, some of the trepidation left his face.

"This is not so bad. I thought you meant to wear a suit. English is a funny language," he commented, his gaze lifting from the cell to me. "No harm meant."

"No, you're right. I wonder how anyone learns it. So would you be willing to apply for this position before it goes out to the general public?" The boys on a bike raced past again, pedaling as fast as they could, a small dog with curly fur giving chase. A rousing wind was picking up, shuffling the hanging vines and climbing flowers dangling from the window boxes above us against the rough stucco sides of the buildings lining the road. "You are quite good with your hands." He smiled wickedly. "Not that way, silly goose. Mechanically. You did redo your bike, and you work with Bianca all the time. I'm sure you could handle it."

"Hmm, it sounds very good. Would the men under me be upset for me to come in and order them about?"

I could lie, but instead, I shrugged. "Maybe." I was wondering the same thing about the staff under Signor Piravino if I was given the job he now had. Would they resent me? There was no way to know how loyal they were to him, or if they even liked him. I had picked up some vibes from the workers indicating that they weren't overly fond of the current manager, but that was to be expected. "You can't base your decisions on what other people think, though."

He sighed. "Yes, this I am learning." And with that, he kissed me on the mouth right on the main street of bustling—not—Valle Sicuro. Yes, he was learning. And how he shined! "I will apply, but I do not want your nose into the selection."

"I promise." I crossed my heart with my free hand. "Oh, and your cousin has set up a sit down with Giada and Alessio tomorrow at noon at the villa," his face fell, "to talk about things."

"Talk. She will not listen." He leaned against an old street light post with various sun-bleached flyers taped to it, many hanging on by a mere wish. "She will tell me that I am deviated."

"I hope not, but I do think you should at least talk with them."

"I should come out?"

"I'm not going to tell you how or when to do that. Whenever you feel ready."

He ran his fingers through his hair, the wind rustling the papers on the pole with more gusto. It felt like a storm wind, but the skies were clear and blue. Lord but we needed rain badly.

"Will you sit with me? I feel braver with you. Like today."

How could I resist those deep brown puppy dog eyes? "If you want me there, I will be there."

"Grazie. I love you so much," he whispered, stealing one last kiss before we parted ways.

Oh. Oh lords. He had said he loved me. I nearly cried.

"I love you too," I replied and moved in for a kiss. The pie barred me from getting too close, but his lips moved over mine gently.

I held up the peach pie instead of waving or blowing a kiss. He lifted a hand and kicked his bike over. The engine caught right off, coughed, spit out some smoke, and off he went, rumbling over the cobblestones. I watched him until he was out of sight before heading to my car. The pie rode to the villa with me in the passenger seat, buckled in like a toddler, my hand darting out to keep it from sliding to the grimy floor when someone cut me off at a light. I called him a pig-suckling bastard in Italian. It must have been some damn fine Italian for the guy gave me the "umbrello" gesture, one hand in a fist, and then a slap to the other arm before he sped away. I laughed out loud. I'd have to thank Bianca for that comeback.

"Oh pie, what a day it has been. I cannot wait to see what tomorrow brings!"

***

The following day brought a gathering in my aunt's kitchen.

A very dour, tense, frowny gathering of people who were trying not to look at each other. Donvino was gripping my hand as if it were a lifeline and he was a floundering soul in a violent sea. The rich, oregano-laden aroma of Giada's sauce bubbling on the stove filled the room as we sat there stiffly, all of us unsure how to proceed.

Giada and Alessio were at the scarred table, eyes flitting about, as Bianca handed out cups of cappuccino, then sat down, her sight skipping about the table to land on me. We both lifted a shoulder at the same time.

"Someone must speak," Bianca said, poking her cousin in the side so hard he gasped.

Giada and Alessio said nothing. The tension in this kitchen was so thick you'd need a chainsaw to cut through it. To hell with a knife. I cleared my throat. All eyes flew to me. I tugged down my burgundy vest over a white tee I'd put on just for this meeting. Burgundy was my strength color. The gold shooting through the snug vest just added a wee bit more flair.

"I think we all are here because we all love each other. Perhaps we can start with that as an opener?" I suggested. The feeling in the fingers on my left hand was starting to wane due to his tight grasp on it. The tips were tingling, but there was no way I was shaking Donvino off. Not now. Perhaps not ever. If he needed my hand in his forever, then so be it. Bianca nodded in agreement. Her long hair was freed of any bounds today, resting on her shoulders and then spilling down her back.

"Of course we love Donvino. He is our grandson. What we do not love is his behavior," Giada replied tersely, each word laced with trepidation.

"My behavior has not changed," Donvino quickly countered, the discussion now fully in Italian, so I was paying super close attention to try to catch everything.

"You hit your cousin in the face for nothing. That is a big change from the respectful boy we raised!" Giada countered, her eyes darting to me constantly. I could tell she was holding back out of fear of offending me.

"And you hit me!" Donvino fired back.

"You blasphemed!" Giada snapped, her face paling as her eyes grew damp. "You speak bad about God, saying you do not care about him. That he is evil if he does not accept you!"

Oh hellfire. This was heating up way faster than I had anticipated. Everyone then began speaking at once, which made it pert near impossible to follow along. My brain was not at the translate multiple people yelling at once level yet. Voices rose. Fingers were pointed, angry gazes—only one, and that one was Giada—flew to me.

"If you have something to say about me, please, Giada, say what you wish," I said when I found an opening and her eyes were searing me like a raw steak. She stared at me openly. Alessio shook his head, his mouth tight, his hands on the table tapping madly.

"I have nothing to say to the signora's nephew." Right, that was a lie.

"Do you feel that I have led your grandson into being a homosexual against his will?" I offered and got a wide-eyed look from Giada. Bianca sat quietly, intent on the discussion, as Alessio tapped with more speed.

"That is stupid," Donvino barked. "No one made me gay. I was born this way. It is who I have always been, for many years. I just hide it because everyone says it is shameful."

"Not everyone," Bianca spoke up. "Papà and I do not think so, nor does Signor Bonetti the senior or Signora Bonetti. Many in the church also do not feel so. Many priests now say to open our hearts to the queer community. The Pope even said homosexuality is not a crime and that the church should show tenderness, for we are all God's children."

Alessio nodded. Giada stared down at her clasped hands resting on the white apron bunched in her lap.

"Bianca is right. It is not a crime to be who God intended. Rebelling against what God made us, that seems more the crime," Donvino stated proudly, loudly, and without pause.

"But people will hurt you, Donvino," Giada choked out then sniffled, her sight on her hands.

The air in the room became sad. She was not lying. Some people might try to hurt him, or me, for being queer. I'd been roughed up many a time back in the prep school days just for being a little effeminate. But for every shove, swat, slap, or punch given to me living, my truth was worth all the slings and arrows.

"Yes, maybe so, but keeping myself in a lie is hurting me more." Now, at last, he released my hand to slide from the chair to kneel beside his grandmother. He lifted her work-worn hands from her lap and kissed the dry knuckles. "Nonna, this is who I am. Arlo did not make me gay. He has just helped me see that I can be shameless gay."

Bianca looked at me in confusion.

"It kind of gets lost in translation," I replied in English. She nodded but was clearly still baffled.

"People will talk," Giada replied so softly I had to lean over the table to catch her words. Yep, they would, for sure. And they would say terrible things. But I knew Giada was strong enough to withstand anything thrown at her. She just had to come to grips with the fact that her grandson was not going to be the man she had envisioned for all those years. Children grew up to be the people they were destined to be, not the ones that their caretakers wished them to be.

"And we will ignore them," Alessio chimed in, his eyes dewy. "And if they say bad things about the homosexuals, I will punch them in the nose just like Donvino did that dimwit cousin of his. I will not even say his name. Assholes do not get names. They are just ‘asshole' from now on!"

That broke the tension. We all snickered. Giada chided her husband. Then, because she adored Donvino as much as I did, she leaned into her grandson for a tearful hug. He gathered her close. They whispered apologies to each other. I cried a little. Okay, I cried a lot. Bianca cried. Alessio swiped at his face, then got up to make sandwiches for lunch. Fat ones filled with pork loin seasoned with pepper, rosemary, and garlic. Olives, of course, on the side, as well as seasoned tomatoes and a dish of leftover cucumber and zucchini doused in olive oil, also Bonetti Farms brand.

Giada rose from her seat to set the table, her eyes still moving to me as if she was not quite sure if her honesty was going to come back to bite her or not. It wouldn't. I was too thrilled to see Donvino smiling again, a true smile, one that lit up his eyes. That was what being able to be yourself did for a soul. It illuminated it.

We were all ready to eat when Alessio was called to come gather my aunt from Se?orina Capello's house in the city. Sighing as he went, we all ate a quiet but not uncomfortable meal, making some awkward small talk about the weather or sports. Keeping a distance from the fact that Donvino had done something monumentally huge that would impact this tiny clan in ways none of them could foresee. God knows my coming out had rocked my world, and my father's, in numerous ways. But, over time, the tremors should subside, leaving them to only worry about the small aftershocks from the hateful assholes in the world.

An hour passed, and we were all just about to gather up the dishes and clean up when Alessio came in through the back door.

"Donvino," Alessio said as he removed his driver's cap, "Signora needs her bags taken upstairs, please. Giada, she would like some food to be taken to—"

"If it's all the same to you, might I be able to join you here?" Ginerva said from the doorway, her weight bearing down on her cane. She looked quite washed out.

"Signora," everyone said at once, rising to their feet as if the King of England had just entered the room. "The kitchen is not meant for you," Giada replied while staring at her employer, then at us as if her mind was on the verge of total shutdown. She had to be wondering just how many changes one woman was expected to face in one day.

"Looking about, I think the kitchen is very much where I wish to be," Ginerva answered with a tone of finality that none would brook.

I hurried over to escort my great-aunt to my seat. She settled gracefully, smiling wearily up at me as I took her cane and hung it off the back of her chair.

"How is Se?orina Cappello?" I asked as my aunt was given food, drink, and a fan was brought out of a closet in the hall by Donvino. He placed it on the counter next to a clump of green herbs from the tiny herb garden out back.

"She is better. Her lungs are not so good," my aunt explained as Donvino got the fan plugged in. My aunt thanked him with a nod, placed her napkin on her lap, and then picked up an olive to inspect it. Was that something all Bonettis were supposed to do? Hell, I wouldn't know a good olive from a bad olive. Which was not exactly great for a guy who was being promoted to manager of an olive farm. Perhaps I should discuss things with my father or my aunt who seemed to be pleased enough with the olive she ate because she sighed in pleasure. "She is resting now and should recover within a week. She is quite stubborn and always overdoes. Then that damn pipe!"

"She sounds like someone else I know," I tossed out and got a sharp look from my aunt. The others were still standing about nervously. "Please, sit back down, everyone. We're not royalty. We're just people who grow good olives."

Ginerva inclined her head and then and only then did the others take their seats. Donvino stood since my aunt was in his chair, and I shot him a soft smile as he adjusted the fan to blow on Ginerva's damp brow.

"I do not smoke a pipe," my aunt parried and began cutting her sandwich with her knife and fork. I chuckled behind my hand. Such a prim and proper thing Ginerva Bonetti was. "The doctor has been to see her, pronounced her on the mend, and stated that she should not smoke anymore. Which is like speaking to that fan, for the words will go in and simply blow out the other side."

"Again, just like someone else I know." I batted my lashes at the grand dame.

"You're too clever for your own good, Arlo," Ginerva said, waving at the others at the table with her fork, her gaze moving around the small gathering. "Thank you for the sandwich. It is lovely. And the tea is light and floral. This is…nice."

I so wanted to say that I had told her so, but I let it pass. Sometimes people needed to come to their own conclusions on their own timetables. We lingered there for a spell. After my great-aunt ate, I escorted her to her bedroom and told her to rest with her stockings on and her feet up. This time she didn't argue, which showed how rundown she must be. Once she was abed with a book while her feet rested on a pillow, I eased out of her room. Lucia met me as I slipped out the back door, my goal the herb garden where Donvino was weeding. As I passed the large garden door to the docks, I paused to look out at the Arno. It was incredibly low. A few ducks flew past and landed on the water with a splash. I made a mental note to go visit them in the morning. The scull was no longer resting on the dock, or in the water. It was at Bianca's still in the back of her truck. That dream was in limbo. Maybe, just maybe, if things worked out, it might be resurrected. All we needed was some luck and some rain to plump up the waterways. Surely that wasn't asking for too much, was it?

I found him on his knees, a marvelous place for him to be in my humble opinion, his shirt off, his back slick with perspiration. His shirt lying next to him in a tight ball. The wrinkles would be set for sure. Still, he looked delicious.

"Buongiorno," I said as I knelt beside him in the green grass. Yes, still green. My aunt was watering her lawn. I could foresee some major issues with the local government about her water usage in the near future. He glanced at me as he sat back on his heels, his torso slick with sweat. He looked delicious. "How are you feeling?"

"I am feeling as good as I think is possible," he replied and swiped at his wet brow with a dirty hand, leaving a streak of rich loam on his forehead. "She is upset still, I feel in my heart, but maybe is less so now?"

"I agree. Give her time. It's a big change for everyone." I plucked a blade of grass from the lawn and ran it down his beefy bicep. The muscle twitched. He gave me a sly look that made my balls tingle. "I'm feeling a little intimidated again."

"Oh why?" He placed his hands on his jeans, smearing mud into the denim. Honestly, the man had no respect for clothing.

"I have no idea about what makes a good olive or a bad olive. My aunt does and my father sure as hell does. I bet everyone in this villa aside from me does, but it's me who is going to be routing a man from his position to pretend to be a manager when I know nothing about olives or farming or the business world. I'm wondering if I'm just agreeing to this job to please my father who is now showering me with the praise and love that I needed as a child."

I nearly fainted after that massive word dump. I teetered back to fall into the grass, conscious of my vest and white shirt so as not to slide or smear grass stains into the material. I stared at the sky. So blue, so clear, not a sign of a rain cloud.

"That was…" The poor man seemed to be stunned at the verbal deluge I'd hit him with. He'd learn to carry an umbrella if he stayed with me for long. "You will learn. Your father and aunt will help you if you are confused. And the people at the office will be happy to help if you do not know a thing or two."

"But what if I screw up things so badly that there is no coming back?" I threw my blade of grass into the air. It fluttered down to rest on my nose. Donvino gently brushed it off when I left it there.

"Are you thinking of not taking the position? If so, please let me know before I fill out the application online for the mechanic job," he said, his finger lingering alongside my nose and then sliding down to my lips.

"No, no, I am not thinking of not taking it, I'm just having a nervous fit. I've never been in a position of power before. I know Lowell is flying out to be at my side during the transition and that's a help, but what if I turn the workers against me?"

"You are too sweet to set people against you," he whispered, his dirty fingertip moving along my lower lip.

"So says you. You're biased because you love me," I shot back half teasingly.

"Sì, that is true." He leaned down to brush a kiss over my lips. All the worries drifted off with the dry, hot wind. Of course, he was right. I could do this. I was charming and well-dressed and had incredible hair as well as some highly fashionable scruff. All quite important assets of a senior manager of an olive mill.

I was so fucked.

***

That thought kept running through my head two days later when the employment contract arrived in my inbox. I lay beside my lover in his tiny bed, phone in hand, Donvino at my side sipping water to replenish the fluids he had lost fucking me into another galaxy, reading over it several times. Lowell was in transit, and I had to assume the axe had fallen on Signor Piravino. Guilt gnawed at my belly. I looked to the side, bit down on my lower lip, and waited for him to feel my stare. It didn't take long.

"You're anxious again?" he asked in Italian, his words slow and sleepy in this late afternoon heat. We now tended to bounce back and forth between his native tongue and mine, something that I was rather proud of. Who knew I would catch onto a foreign language so quickly? Perhaps I could do other things new to me as well if I tried? Like run a farm or sell designer steamer trunks or even be a good long-term partner.

"Guilty. Do you think we could make a run out to the mill to speak with Signor Piravino? I just want to assure him that I did not set out to take his job when I arrived on the bus."

"Mm, well, perhaps if he had been kinder to the workers, he would not be packing his bags now?"

I sighed. The man did have a point. Still, I felt bad. Donvino glanced over at me, exhaled theatrically, and passed me the dregs of his water. "Yes, fine. We will ride out to the mill so you can speak with Piravino. I think it will be a waste of time given what the men and women who work the fields have told me, but if it will make you restful…"

"What have they told you?" I asked as he exited the bed to grab a shower. I followed, nagging at him to fill me in, but he wouldn't say what he had been told in confidence. Damn the man and his morals.

The ride out to mill 20 was glorious as it always was. The Italian countryside was slowly embedding its beauty in my heart. Much like the people of this land. Clinging to Donvino as we roared along on his Suzuki, I let the wind blow away my concerns.

"The left." Static. "Grapes are suffering." Static. "Broken heart." Static.

The man sorely needed to buy some new helmets when he was flush. Which should be soon if his application was chosen, and I suspected it would be. I may have put a word in for him with the boss, and I mean, the big boss, aka Aunt Ginerva. Even my father would admit that while he had all the titles, it was Ginerva who was in charge of everything just from behind the scenes. So yeah, I was pretty sure she would make a call to the head mechanic on my boyfriend's behalf. I just wouldn't pass that along to the man I was snuggled up to for a wee bit. Like, say, ten or twenty years.

We rolled past some sickly-looking vineyards, the small grapes hanging off nearly dead vines. The olive trees that we passed seemed to be doing a little better. Irrigation was being closely monitored according to the reports that I was now getting. We were doing our best to save the current crops by giving priority to the critical orchards that were most valuable. We had to weigh using water carefully by using the drip irrigators with careful planning not to compromise the seriously low Tiber where we drew our water from. According to the Bonetti experts, drip waterers were the best way to water olive trees. They were supposed to be drought resistant, so perhaps that was why they didn't look as bad as the grape vineyards we were passing. I took all of this at face value, as what I knew about olive farming could be fit into a thimble for a pixie.

Still, I was the one being placed in charge. Even after reading the contract and seeing where I was to sign, I was still questioning my father's wisdom. As we rode onto Bonetti land, we passed workers in the fields readying them for the harvest. They all waved and shouted greetings that I couldn't hear over the damn exhaust on this bike, but I waved back and yelled to them. Then we pulled up to the front of the main office, dust-covered, and the smile on my face disappeared when Signor Piravino exited the brick building, his face red, the contempt undisguised now.

"Buongiorno," I called as I slid off the back of the bike. Donvino sat on the torn seat, slowly removing his helmet, his gaze locked on the older man bearing down on us. "I was wondering if we could have a few words about—"

Piravino lunged at me. I stumbled back. Donvino moved with a speed that Hermes would envy. One moment he was seated, the next his big frame was blocking an irate Piravino from assaulting me. They scuffled about. Both were large men, but Donvino had youth and athleticism on his side. He gave the manager a stout shove that sent him back into the glass doors of the office. A duo of women inside scattered from where they had been watching, bolting out of sight.

"You dare show up here after costing me my position?!" Piravino bellowed, his tan face bright ruby, his hands in fists, and his eyes burning. "You little cocksucker."

Donvino went for the man. I grabbed at his arm, pulling the punch that would surely cost him his new job as well as get him arrested for assault.

"No, don't hit him. Let me talk to him," I begged, yanking back my boyfriend's meaty arm. A few field workers had gathered at the fence, eyes wide, as this drama played out under the blistering Tuscan sun. "Signor Piravino, please, just let me say that I had no intention of taking your job when I—"

"You are a liar. A scheming little backstabber." He spit at my feet. Donvino growled. I held onto his arm for dear life. "You prance around like a woman in fancy clothes, making eyes at the men in the field, promising them things that they do not deserve. Then you beg for my place with your papà and he gives into you because you are nothing but a dirty son of a whore!"

"That is enough," Donvino snarled. The workers along the fence were shouting at us, calling Piravino a fucking asshole, which, while the support was lovely, was only making the man more incensed. "You are close to losing teeth."

"I'm not scared of you two abominations to God." With that, he kicked dirt at us, spit at us, and then threw himself about the yard in a whirling rage that ended with him glaring at Donvino and me as if plotting how to end us. "You two are cursed souls. And cursed souls should be eradicated!"

Oh-kay. That was comically biblical. Piravino stormed off to a dirty truck that bore the Bonetti family logo on the door, climbed inside it, and tore off as he threw vague threats at us.

"Wow," I whispered, hands quaking, as the former manager of mill 20 drove off, leaving a cloud of dust and hatred in his wake. "He's madder than I thought. I just wanted to try to explain myself."

"He will be trouble," Donvino mumbled as he kicked dirt over the small puddle of spittle in front of my loafers and then gave my back a soft rub.

Sadly, I suspected that he was right. We'd probably not heard the last of Signor Piravino, but that was a worry for another day. Right now, I had all kinds of workers watching me for signs of leadership that I was sure I did not possess. I squared my shoulders, wiped the nervous sweat from my palms on my trousers, and plastered on a calm smile for the people looking at me for how to respond to such blatant hatred.

"And that was not how we welcome people to Bonetti Farm 20," I loudly called so all could hear me. "So, who would like to show me how the drought is affecting the trees in the front two hundred hectares?"

Several men waved me to the gate. The women in the office stepped out into the sun, meek and nervous. I gave them a nod and then wandered off to look at thirsty trees while my lover stayed at my side. Always within reach. Just as I hoped to always be for him.