Roman Crazy
Page 77

He kissed her on top of her head and led us outside.
We followed the stone pathway to the stairs that led down to the olive groves. They were deep, old wooden planks that should have looked out of place given that they were built into the hillside. Colorful wildflowers lined the sides and the grass popped up through the cracks, making them appear more of the earth than of the men who built them.
“How long have these been here?” I asked as we descended the steep steps.
“My great-grandfather put them in to make it easier to get to the trees. Before that they went all around the property with the horses and down the lower hills.”
When we got to the bottom, I inhaled deeply. I wasn’t sure what the scent of an olive grove would be. Walking through oranges, strawberries, or apples was an assault on the senses. Sweet, fruity, and vibrant. This was more of a musky, earthy smell that snuck up on you and settled into your skin.
We walked the length of the center dirt path that split the property right down the middle. It was still, quiet, and with the sun beginning to set on the rise behind the house, a bit spooky.
“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were leading me out here to take advantage of me.”
He hummed in response. “No one would bother us out here now.”
I tamped down the flutters thinking about making love to him out here in the wide open. The car was wild, frenzied, but this could be an experience under the stars.
Taking my hand, he wove us in and out of the trees, around the different cutting and netting stations that were spread throughout the property, but no machines. I figured with this many trees, there would be some sort of steel contraption to make it easier on his family.
“You do all of this by hand?”
“Olives and grapes don’t do well with mechanization, so it is a simple, modest process.”
“Where do you squish them?” I asked, looking around for I Love Lucy–style barrels. “Is this like grapes where you stomp?”
He laughed, rich and deep echoing in the open fields. “No, we have a mill up there,” he told me, motioning to a giant stone barn at the top of another hill. “We will come back when it’s harvest time. If you want.”
“I want,” I said without hesitation.
He was quiet as he led us to a large juniper tree. I saw why he was taking us so far out into the vineyard; the house was merely a speck on the hillside. For the quiet.
Set up at the base of the tree was a blanket, oil lanterns hanging from the branches flickering circles onto the ground. At the corner sat a pad and pastels.
“Marcello, what did you do?” I breathed, looking at everything he had thought to set out ahead of time.
“I know sunset is one of your favorite times to work. I thought maybe we could sit out here together while you sketch.”
I broke apart from him, moving to sit in the center of the blanket. “What will you be doing while I’m hard at work?”
“Trying not to kiss you.”
He pulled out a bottle of wine and two glasses from a bag at the base of the tree. After setting them down on the blanket, he grabbed get some fruit and cheese that were in a cooler.
“How’d you get all this out here?”
“Allegra helped me,” he said, getting to work on the cork. “She told me she talked to you at the fair today—I’m sorry.”
“Why are you sorry?” I said, reaching over to hold his hand. “She was just watching out for her brother. It makes sense.” I waited, picking at the skinny olive leaves that had fallen onto the blanket. “Maybe I wasn’t ready for you then, but I want you to know that I am now. I want to stay here, with you.”
“It means a lot that you are here with me, tesoro, here with my family, in this place. It’s not where I live anymore, but it’s still my home. It’s everything I love.”
My eyes widened, tears gathering when he repeated it. “You hear me say, yes? I love you.”
I nodded, smiling and burrowing my head into his chest. I squeezed my arms around his waist. “I love you, too. So much.”
Happy tears spilled, but I was too busy being kissed silly to care. With his hands on my cheeks, he peppered kisses and whispered I love yous all over my face. “I don’t think I ever stopped loving you.”
Pouring two glasses, he handed me one, kissing my shoulder and taking a seat. With his back resting against the tree trunk, he watched me set up the pencils, pastels, and paper.
“Do you remember the wine?”
Like a flash fire coursing through dry brush, the memory charged back.
We were wrapped in each other’s arms, a bottle of wine that we bought in town resting at the foot of the bed. I was young and knew nothing of wine. It tasted like pepper and plums.
“Y-yes,” I stuttered, the green pastel scratching across the page haphazardly. I smudged it with my finger to fix it but only made it worse.
“What do you remember? Tell me, tesoro.”
“Everything,” I admitted, touching my chest with a shaky hand, my chalky fingers transferring the dust to the light-colored dress.
“You said, ‘Don’t mind me, I like to watch you work,’ but you weren’t just watching, you were tormenting me, rubbing the wine across your lips with your finger. Sitting with your shirt off, casually leaning against the bed, you looked like heaven and hell sent to torture me.”
“I felt the same about you. I couldn’t keep my hands off you.”
I slid the pastel across the page with a scratch. “You said you wanted to paint me.”