In Italy for Love

Chapter 11

11

If it was possible, Due Pini looked even more run-down than it had the day before. When Jules had imagined an organic farm with vineyards and an olive grove, she’d pictured autumn sunshine on golden leaves, smiling workers calmly going about their business and… okay, she’d had woefully little idea what awaited her.

Instead of sunshine, a heavy autumn fog settled over the vines and instead of bushy, profuse olive trees, they were wizened, squat and ghost-like in the mist, some trunks split in two with branches sticking out in all directions. Perhaps there was some truth to the notion that Friuli was not quite the same Italy as the rest.

And the happy workers? From the grumpy Maria Grazia to the austere barman the first night to blunt, straight-talking Berengario, Jules was beginning to wonder if Friulians had their own way of smiling that she hadn’t decoded yet.

Even Alex, who’d been so open and laughed so much that first night, had turned into a scowling housemate, although she couldn’t blame him. He hadn’t expected a houseguest and even if it had pricked her to see him so obviously arguing with Berengario in the courtyard, it was his right to feel put out by the intrusion – his right to privacy.

Jules was here to earn her keep, especially now Alex had offered her somewhere to stay despite the inconvenience. She would make it worth everyone’s while to host her. Maybe she could even clean up a room or two at Alex’s place in the evenings so he could rent them out. She would be useful , damn it!

The thought of more renovations made her shudder, remembering everything that had gone wrong at the B the cheese; the fire – wow, the fire .’ Tipping her head back she slumped in her chair, visibly relaxing.

‘The fireplace is the heart of a Furlan’s house,’ he commented.

‘Well, thank you for inviting me into your…’ She wisely let that sentence go.

‘We have a special word – fogolar – for the old open fireplaces,’ he continued, trying to cover her faux pas. ‘We don’t have fancy dining rooms for guests when the best place is here in the kitchen,’ he finished, averting his gaze from her soft, tired features.

‘Why does this omelette taste so good? What’s that zing in it?’

‘Forest garlic,’ he supplied. ‘We pick it in spring and freeze it for the rest of the year. There’s a patch at Maddalena’s and in the woods nearby.’

‘Forest garlic,’ she repeated, peering at her omelette before placing the next piece in her mouth. ‘I don’t even know what that is.’

‘We call it bear garlic too, but I don’t know the name in English.’

Glancing at him as she fumbled to cut another piece of omelette, she said, ‘Are you going to sit down or just talk to me from over there?’

Despite the awkward domesticity, the uncertain friendship, he couldn’t pull out the chair fast enough. Perhaps the guilt food was working.