In Italy for Love

Chapter 17

17

The sunshine held out until the end of the week – a welcome blessing for the olive harvest at Due Pini – and the cold mountain breeze gave way to milder conditions on the plain from the Adriatic. Jules had grown used to the chafe on her cheeks from spending so much time outdoors and she’d rarely been so well-fed, between lunch at the agriturismo and dinner by Alex’s fireplace.

As harvest weekend approached, Due Pini was even more chaotic than usual, now with stainless steel tanks called fusti piled up ready to be sterilised and filled with oil at the mill. Jules had washed and dried her share of fusti, as well as several bulbous flasks in green glass like the one Maddalena had broken the day Jules had arrived at the farm.

She got up early each morning to travel to the farm with Berengario, who spent the ten-minute journeys listing Alex’s many virtues: he was the type to settle down; he could fix anything with a paper clip; he’d won all the mountain-biking competitions in the area when he was a teenager; he cleaned up really well – even his ear piercing had closed up over time.

Jules didn’t have the heart to point out that the saintly Alex could also be bad-tempered and curt, although after he’d hugged her on Tuesday night, she was ready to overlook a lot of his flaws.

She might even add his early-morning bed hair and the sleepy gravel in his voice to that list of virtues, although he now put a shirt on before emerging, unfortunately.

He’d been busy avoiding her as usual during the evenings – in the poorly kept garden behind the building this week, which she thought was a rather extreme and uncomfortable way to avoid her. He came back in late, shivering and peeling a pair of fine workman’s gloves off his hands.

But on Saturday, he surprised her by coming into the kitchen fully dressed in worn work trousers and a rough wool pullover with a couple of holes in it.

‘Does the shop open early on a Saturday?’

He looked up from his coffee in surprise. ‘I’m coming out to Due Pini for the raccolta – the harvest. I thought I told you?’

‘No, you didn’t mention it.’

‘I’m going to drive us. Berengario won’t be at the farm next week, by the way. But we’ll think of a way to get you there.’

She opened her mouth to insist she didn’t need help, but she paused as a ripple of self-consciousness made its way through her with the sudden suspicion that Berengario had talked at length about her in the same way she’d heard nothing but Alex from the old man.

‘I understand you can walk, but you never know what the weather will do at the end of October.’

Alex’s car was parked in a lot that backed onto the crumbling city wall. They reached it under another archway off the courtyard, passing the small allotments with plants wilting and turning brown after the cold snap. The ancient Fiat 500 looked as though he might have inherited it along with the building. Arco found plenty to sniff after he leaped into the footwell in the back.

After a few attempts, the engine coughed and caught and Alex manoeuvred the little car out of its space, craning his neck and draping one long arm over the back of the passenger seat because he didn’t seem to quite fit in the driver’s seat. Jules sat frozen, leaning forward slightly in case his thumb grazed the back of her neck, which she unfortunately pictured in enough detail that she thought he’d actually done it once or twice.

As usual, she pressed her nose to the window as they took the main road over the river. The vivid yellow of the leaves – now with deep reds and oranges as the season progressed – contrasted wildly with the bright turquoise water rushing over the rocks. The Friulian plain extended out in front of them and she always felt as though she could see so far that she might even find the future somewhere in the distance among the little hills. The looming mountains to the east made her think of Alex’s words about Friuli being the crossroads of Europe. Sometimes it seemed as though this pocket of Italy could contain the whole world.

She felt Alex’s gaze on her and thought she might have given a contented sigh as she stared out at one of her favourite views, but when she returned the glance, he looked away quickly. She imagined the day ahead, picking olives together, with some trepidation, but a bigger dose of anticipation. One day in each other’s company wouldn’t get them into too much trouble.

They arrived at Due Pini to find a collection of cars parked on the hard standing in front of the farmhouse and a group of at least thirty people, including Berengario and his girlfriend Elena, Alex’s lively, grey-haired neighbour. She also spotted the barman who’d witnessed their not-date and the older man with wild hair and ripped jeans whom she occasionally saw emerging from the tattoo parlour around the corner.

‘Arooo!’ Arco bounced even before Jules let him out and his excited howl was echoed by yips and barks from an array of other dogs. To her dismay, Jules noticed the big black one from her chaotic arrival at Due Pini two and a half weeks ago.

But Arco made a beeline for another dog first – the downy white poodle belonging to Marisa, the owner of the pet salon. While the poodle made a vain attempt to maintain its dignity, Arco sniffed enthusiastically, no idea how badly he was embarrassing his mistress. But Marisa greeted her with an airy kiss to her cheek and a laugh.

‘He really likes Chanel,’ Jules said ruefully.

Marisa glanced over Jules’s shoulder and her expression brightened. ‘Alex!’ The stab of discomfort at her tone caught Jules by surprise and she gave herself a stern talking-to as she pointedly ignored the kisses on the cheek they gave each other in greeting. Alex gave Marisa a smile and that only unsettled Jules further. So much for Maddalena’s insistence that he never did that.

She couldn’t understand much of the conversation between them, only that the owner of the pet salon had her hand curled around his forearm and was standing close and Jules was dismayed that their interaction bothered her. She was supposed to be keeping out of Alex’s way and that included leaving him to be fawned over by local women he could perhaps have a real relationship with.

Except, she hated the idea. And she had to admit that Marisa wasn’t fawning. Jules was being oversensitive.

Berengario appeared next to her and she greeted him with a quick kiss on the cheek and a smile. ‘Come and meet Davide properly,’ he said. ‘My grandson.’

‘Eh, Berengario!’ Alex hurried to catch up with them. ‘Are you sure that’s a good idea after what happened with Fritz?’

‘You two really have been talking about me,’ she accused.

‘He doesn’t stop talking about you,’ Berengario said gruffly, which stuffed any further words she might have said back down her throat. He what ?

Alex’s ears were pink, but it might have been from the chill.

She was about to ask him if Davide was his cousin, but Alex abruptly offered to take Arco and then stalked away, rubbing a hand over the back of his head, leaving Jules mystified – and a little miffed.

Davide seemed a lot more straightforward than her grumpy host, with a wide smile to go with his shiny, dark hair. He wore a turtleneck that, while obviously worn, still gave him a dapper appearance. ‘I’m so sorry about what happened on your first day. I wanted to meet you properly then, but I hadn’t taken Fritz for a walk yet and he was unsettled. I’ve just moved back here from Rome and allora, it’s nice to finally meet you.’

Jules smiled in return, but struggled to think of anything to say – especially because Fritz seemed determined to make paw prints all over her jeans, desperately snuffling after Arco’s scent on her.

Davide scolded him and tugged him off with an apologetic glance. ‘Should have kept up with puppy school.’

‘I know what you mean,’ she said wryly.

‘Are you going to show Julia how we harvest?’ asked Berengario, slapping Davide on the back. ‘We need teams of three. At least she’s nice and tall.’

‘She’s standing right there, Berengario! Talk to her, not about her,’ Alex called from several metres away, where Arco was sniffing at a potted palm.

She was a second away from calling back an indignant response, but Berengario continued. ‘The three of you, then. Good, that’s one team.’

Jules looked from one of the three men to the next with a faint suspicion of some subtext she didn’t understand, but the group moved off before she could bug Alex for answers.

At the edge of the grove, they gathered around a rusty pickup truck to collect equipment while Jules put Arco on a long lead. She tugged on her gloves and took the little rake Davide held out to her, along with a couple of collapsible baskets, while the two men lugged a roll of plastic netting.

Jules took a moment to study her first specimen. While the olive trees were squat and wizened compared to the towering stone pines, they were still twice as tall as a person – or perhaps a little over one-and-a-half times taller than someone of Alex’s proportions. The trunk was wide and knotted and the whole thing leaned far enough for her to wonder if it would one day just teeter to the ground.

The fruit was plentiful, green to light purple ovals hanging richly on every branch, smooth and plump, with a soft coating on the skin.

Davide and Alex rolled out the netting beneath the tree, talking only in clipped sentences that Jules couldn’t understand. Fritz was running around off the leash and Jules decided that Arco must know his way around by now and might be more confident meeting Fritz running free, so she unclipped him too, keeping a worried eye on him as he tore off after the big black dog, bounding happily.

‘I suppose that means he’s not afraid,’ she said thoughtfully.

Davide looked uneasily at the two dogs, but quickly recovered his smile. ‘Here, let me show you how to use the rastrello.’ He brandished the small handheld rake while Alex strapped a battery pack to his back and hefted a long pole. ‘The idea is easy: just pull this over the branches as you reach them and let the berries fall into the netting. Alex will agitate the higher branches. Just make sure he stays on the other side of the tree from you or they’ll fall on your head.’

‘Okay,’ she said, a little daunted.

‘But you’ll find nothing is quite as easy as it should be in Fri?l.’

She shot Davide a puzzled look as she grasped the first branch and tugged the rake over the silver leaves. One rosy olive fell obediently onto the net, but the firm green ones refused. She tried again, but it wasn’t until the action was more wrestling than raking that she had success with the more stubborn berries.

‘Let me guess, tough Friulian olives?’

‘Exactly,’ Davide said with a laugh. ‘No fruity Tuscan ones that come sweetly off the trees. Here, try one!’ He tossed her a berry and she fumbled to catch it.

‘Don’t eat it!’ Alex called out from the other side of the gnarled trunk. Ducking below the foliage, he explained, ‘They taste terrible fresh.’

‘I know,’ she assured him. ‘But I’m kind of curious.’

‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you.’

Remarking absently to herself that she was supposed to be getting better at heeding warnings, she still took a reckless bite – and immediately spat out the tough flesh, Davide’s laughter ringing in her ears.

‘Urgh,’ she gagged, poking her tongue out as though that would help to banish the lingering taste. ‘It’s like… tree bark dipped in acid. It’s foul!’ The bitter texture still coated her tongue and she met Alex’s sympathetic glance.

But Davide clapped her on the shoulder. ‘Everyone has to do that at least once.’

‘Once will definitely be enough,’ she said emphatically. ‘It’s difficult to believe they’re so tasty when they’ve been processed. Are they even ripe though?’

‘They taste foul even when they’re dark and ripe. That’s the magic of growing olives,’ Davide explained. ‘The best oil comes from olives that aren’t ripe. You have to pick them at the right time and then press them immediately. The frantoio – the oil mill in Cividale – will be working twenty-four hours a day for the next few weeks.’

‘Are these ones particularly bitter? For you bitter Furlans?’

Davide gave her a puzzled glance, but Alex answered, ‘All olives are bitter. This variety is called Bianchera – a very hardy variety, resistant to cold. They grow like the devil.’

‘And they’re a devil to pick,’ Davide added. ‘But the flavour is worth it. Once you’ve tasted the spice of this oil on bread, fresh in the autumn – you don’t need any other food.’ He kissed his fingertips.

With another awkward glance at Alex, she decided not to resist temptation. ‘I’ve heard that you can live on just chestnuts in autumn too.’ He coughed at the awkward memory and looked away.

‘Yes, they’re delicious,’ Davide continued, oblivious to the undertone. ‘Another food that the Tuscans domesticate that we still collect wild from the forest. You know the difference between castagne and marroni.’

It was her turn to clear her thick throat. Everything seemed to be a minefield when it involved her and Alex. ‘I’ve heard about it. Which ones do you collect from the forest here? Castagne?’

‘Yes, castagne are the wild delicacy that are free, but you have to work for them. Marroni are farmed. They’re bigger and sweeter. We should take the dogs into the forest one time and collect some together,’ Davide suggested. ‘And find some mushrooms as well. Mamma is always after me to go gathering mushrooms for her.’

The idea appealed strongly to her new-found foraging instincts and she was about to agree enthusiastically when Alex warned, ‘Jules works on the farm most days,’ in a low voice.

‘Maddalena said we wouldn’t be so busy after the harvest,’ she countered, giving him a measured look. ‘And I thought you said I was working too hard!’

He glanced darkly at Davide and then away, not meeting her gaze. ‘You’re right. You should do it. You’ll love gathering mushrooms.’

I’d rather do it with you , you idiot. Instead, she resumed her work on the olive branch she was raking, ignoring Alex entirely. ‘How old is Fritz?’ she asked, watching the two dogs chase each other.

‘He’s only two. What about Arco? Have you had him long?’

‘He’s three, but I’ve only had him a little over a year.’

‘How does he get on with Laura’s cat?’ Davide asked with a chuckle.

In her peripheral vision, Alex bolted upright, cursing as he hit his head on a low branch.

Davide continued, oblivious to Alex’s reaction. ‘I can’t imagine Attila would be happy about a dog coming to stay.’

Jules glanced warily at Alex, but he had turned away. ‘Attila is very good at hiding from Arco, but the first time they met?—’

Alex whipped around to face her just as she realised the night she was referring to and cut herself off. She didn’t like how dark his expression was, when she knew how much he’d enjoyed that night too. But they’d gone from ‘Thank you for the best date ever,’ to ‘I wish I’d never met you.’ She knew him well enough to understand that he wouldn’t injure her on purpose, but that didn’t stop it hurting.

And who was Laura? Jules tried to tell herself Davide probably would call his aunt by her first name. She could be Alex’s mother, as Maddalena’s words had suggested. Those reassurances didn’t quite plaster over the cracks of suspicion Jules had been harbouring.

‘Poor Attila,’ she finished. ‘Lucky for him I’m not staying long.’ She could almost feel the tension in Alex’s jaw from where she stood several metres away. Turning to Davide, she asked, ‘So are you two cousins then?’

Davide gave Alex a sidelong glance before he answered. ‘Only by marriage.’

‘Oh.’ The answer explained why they didn’t seem close, but the more she thought about it, the more confused she became. ‘Whose marriage? His mother’s? But wait, Maddalena said her sister was… But if…’

Both went still, Alex turning white. The worried look Davide sent him confirmed that Jules was ignorant of something important – something Alex really should have told her, even if they were only platonic housemates, something she had perhaps already suspected, but hadn’t wanted to know for certain.

With a sigh, Davide turned to her and muttered, ‘ Alex’s marriage. To my cousin Laura. You didn’t know?’

She could barely think for the tide of emotion welling up, embarrassed that Alex had kept silent, afraid of what that meant for their already awkward cohabiting situation – but more afraid of what she could already feel was the truth.

The shadows…

Licking her lips, she forced out the question that needed to be asked: ‘She died?’