“Yes. Of course. I’ll leave the results on your desk.”
“Along with your recommendations. I’m eager to hear your suggestions.”
The kid nodded again, wide-eyed and serious. “Absolutely.”
Of course, Nico would repeat the tests himself later on—the crops were far too valuable to trust to a university student—but there was no need to say anything. Better for Mario’s confidence if he believed he was operating without a safety net.
He started packing his test gear back in his canvas satchel. The faded bag had been with him since his days with Carlos, and looked older than that. “If you have any problems, talk to Vitale. I’ll be back later this morning.”
“How are you getting back? Do you want me to come back for you?”
“No need. I’ll hop the wall. There’s a low spot,” he added when the student frowned. “The Amatuccis and the Bertonellis have been cutting back and forth through these properties for years.” At least this Amatucci had. His brother and sister had found other ways to escape.
Once Mario’s taillights disappeared in the dust, Nico shouldered his bag and headed south. Above him, the sun lit a cloudless blue sky. The air was ripe with fruit and olives, and if the breeze hit just right, you could catch the faint undertone of lavender. Another perfect day, he thought, wiping the sweat from his forehead.
He was by himself, walking the terraced hill. Back when he was a little boy, these fields had been filled with workers. He remembered the first time he ventured through the archway that divided the properties, a stressed-out, scared boy looking for a place where doors didn’t slam and voices were calm. Stepping into the fields of Comparino had been like finding paradise. There was a tranquility in the steady tick-tick-tick of the sprinkler, the low hum of the insects. And it never changed. Oh, there were storms and blights. Natural disasters that caused temporary disruption, but no matter what, Nico knew that come summer, the sounds would be there. Grapes would grow and wine would get made the same as it had for hundreds of years. How he loved the predictability; so unlike the world on his side of the arch, where he never knew from one day to the next whether his parents were together or apart.
Such is the price of grand passion, Carlos said once, after one of his parents’ explosive breakups. It’s either sun or storm. No in between.
Nico wouldn’t know. His passion didn’t run that deep.
The vines in the south garden had grown thick and tangled with neglect. Left unmolested, insects had nibbled holes in the leaves. Ignoring the bee buzzing near his ear, Nico knelt in the shade. Using his utility knife, he churned the hardened topcoat, unearthing the moist soil beneath. Then he carefully shoveled several inches of the rich black dirt into collection jars. He was wiping the residue on his jeans when a flash of white caught the corner of his eye. He smiled. Part of the reason he’d picked this morning to test the soil was because the southern fields abutted the verandah. This time of morning, Louisa would be having breakfast outside, the way she always did, and while she might be avoiding him, she wouldn’t be able to resist spying on what he was doing. Pretending to study the overgrown rose bush marking the end of the row, he kept his back to her. “Careful, bella mia,” he said, breaking into English, “people might think you are interested in what I am doing.”
“I’m always interested in what people do on my property,” came the deliciously haughty reply.
Slowly, he turned around. Louisa stood at the railing, a mug cradled between her palms. Despite the early hour, she was fully dressed in jeans and a soft flowing shirt. She hadn’t done her hair yet, though. Instead of being pulled tight in her signature severe hairstyle, the strands hung long and loose around her shoulders. If she knew that was how Nico preferred she wear it, she’d no doubt tie it back tighter than ever.
“Do you plan to scrutinize your hotel guests with the same intensity?”
The mention of the hotel was ignored. “I was out here having breakfast. You’re the one who crossed into my field of vision.”
Apparently they were also going to ignore the fact she’d been watching him earlier. At least she’d answered him. Did that mean they were back on speaking terms?
Only one way to find out. “Breakfast, you say. I don’t suppose there is enough coffee for two?” When she didn’t immediately answer, he grabbed the terrace balustrades to haul himself up and over the wall.
“I thought you despised American coffee.”
“It’s growing on me. Like a lot of American things,” he added with a smile.
He nodded his head toward the bistro table that held the rest of her meal, including a tall thermal carafe. “Should I drink from the container?”
“Please don’t. I’ll get you a cup.”
She didn’t ask him to leave. Did that mean she was thawing again?
“You know that you are going to have to learn how to make a proper espresso if you plan to open a hotel,” he said, following her inside.
“I didn’t realize you were also an expert on hotel management.”
“No, just an expert on being Italian.”
As they passed through the glass doors into the room that had been the piano nobile, he instinctively paused. “I’ll wait here.” When Louisa frowned over her shoulder, he lifted his dusty work boot. If Carlos had been alive, he would have walked across the floor without a second thought, but Louisa seemed more the clean and orderly type. The last thing he wanted was to ruin their fragile accord by tracking dirt across the clean terracotta tiles. The gesture must have been appreciated because she nodded rather than arguing the point. “I’ll be right back.”
The palazzo looked good. Louisa had accomplished a lot over the past few months. The dated furniture had been replaced by comfortable modern pieces but the Old World elegance remained. The intricate coffered ceiling and carved archways gleamed they were so clean. Hard to believe it was the same property. Carlos had never seemed to care about his living conditions, especially after his wife died. And then, of course, there were the years it had sat unclaimed. If Nico hadn’t kept an eye on the property, Carlos’s legacy would have fallen into even greater shambles.
Louisa never did say why she’d ignored the property for so long. He asked her once, but she told him it was none of his business. And now, after years of neglecting her inheritance, she was breaking her back attempting to return the palazzo to its former glory.
His American was definitely a confusing and complicated woman.
“If you want pastry, you’ll have to go home,” Louisa said when she returned. “Today is market day.”
“Coffee is fine. Thank you.” It didn’t escape him that she held the cup at arm’s length, keeping a healthy distance. Things might be warmer between them, but not completely thawed.
“I’d offer milk, but I know you prefer it black.”
“I’m flattered you remember.”
“Hard to forget black coffee.” She brushed past him, leaving behind a soft memory of Chanel.
“May I ask what you were doing digging in the dirt?”
“Taking soil samples.”
“Why?”
For a chance to talk with you. “To determine what needs to be done to make the dirt suitable for new vines.” Depending upon the soil levels, he planned to recultivate the field, with canaiolo or cabernet sauvignon, if he was feeling untraditional. “Since it will take a few years before the plants yield a usable harvest, I want to replant sooner rather than later.”
“Is that so?” She tossed him a cryptic look before turning to the hills. “Funny. I don’t remember selling you the property.”
She