“Allora,” Isabella says brightly, and the thought vanishes from my mind. “More caponata, please, Luca?”
In the thin shade of an ancient Saracen olive tree on one side, and the thicker, more cooling shade of an orange tree behind us, we eat. And eat. The talk is loud and fast and in Italian, and people don’t always stop to explain, but I don’t care. I can follow, mostly. I am enjoying sitting back and letting this large, loud family eat and love and shout across the table until espressos arrive, and sweet cannoli dipped in pistachios are devoured by the children, and I am ready to head back to the hotel to rest.
“At least have some cut oranges,” says Rocco to me as I clutch my stomach and groan. He slides a plate of chilled, segmented bloodred oranges right in front of me. “The orange growing is fading because people make so much money from the nuts. But we keep it going here on the farm. This is the Moro.”
“Oh god,” I say, unable to refuse. It is, without a doubt, the most delicious orange I’ve ever eaten. Notes of raspberry give it a tartness and complexity that leave the classic supermarket navel orange in the dust.
“It’s sunshine. It’s bittersweet. It’s perfect. My god,” I say, gasping. “I think I just fell in love. I’m going to have a civil partnership with an orange.”
Leo, who has been fairly quiet for the last half hour, leans forward onto his elbows. “They’re not for everyone,” he says, taking a segment. “Very fleshy, delicately juicy, and not obscenely sweet.”
“Fleshy?” Luca says, tipping his glass toward us, playing with his mustache.
“Delicately juicy?” I say, raising an eyebrow. I expect Leo to feel embarrassed,but instead he shoots Luca a cheeky grin, eyes buzzing with mischief.
“Seriously, Olive,” Luca says. “For me, the orange is so special to Sicily. We juice it, we ice it, we bake it, we zest it. It’s an aperitif, a pasta dish, a dessert. It’s the color of sunset on the outside, and a bleeding heart inside.”
“That’s poetry right there. You should write that down, Olive,” Leo says playfully, and I narrow my eyes at him.
“Andyoushould reflect on the simplicity of this delicious home cooking,” I retort, to a wry smile from him.
Later, after I’ve taken a final mouthful of my drink, allowing the warming flush of Marsala to hit the back of my throat like a full stop on the lunch, I clutch my stomach and groan again.
Leo agrees. “Enough.”
“I need a nap,” I say, yawning.
“Luca can drop you back,” says Rocco.
After more hugs and promises to return soon, we head back to the ice-cream truck, walking slowly. As I feel the prickle of hot sun on my skin, a part of me hopes that the day doesn’t end here. I watch as Leo loiters by the edge of the lava stone wall, just out of Luca’s eyeline.
“So, do we have a new plan?” he says, hand to his chin, deep in thought.
“We go out together,” I say. “Find the dishes that spark something in both of us. And I need to find my Sicilian story for the introduction.”
“Shall we hit the street food, fish markets, tomorrow? It’s a fast way to try a lot,” he says. “And see a lot.”
Tomorrow. I gaze across the stone wall to an orange tree and a part of me wants to run.A part of me is still too afraid to open my heart and my mind and throw myself completely into this with him. I sit with this feeling for a moment. Is it because getting to know Leo, getting to like Leo, will lead to further pain? Because it’s easier, isn’t it, to hate someone you think replaced you. It’s much harder to find them worthy.
I look back at him. Leo is reaching across the aisle and I need to take his hand.
“Sure. I hope I’ll have room tomorrow,” I say, holding my stomach like a pregnant belly to emphasize the point. Leo smiles, then glances away and then back at me like he’s got more to say.
“We got off to a bad start.” He turns his head away again, staring into the middle distance, struggling, it seems, to find words. “I’m sorry I complicated things with my ideas for the book. I want to... do the best for Nicky. For your dad.”
“I know you do,” I say, drawing in the dirt with the edge of my sandal. I look up at Leo, and his face is shadowed with grief. Our eyes meet and his lips squeeze together. A fleeting moment of shared loss.
“I’m sorry I have been difficult, and wanting to work alone. It’s just...” I feel a very small prickle of tears, which I push away with a deep breath. “You know. The restaurant sale. Your obvious closeness to my dad. It’s hard being...”
“Around me,” he says.
Leo seems to be considering something, but then he shakes his head. “I’ll happily execute this the way Nicky would have wanted. My very last job for him,” he says, his eyes flickering to me. I look back down at the dirt until my eyes start to lose focus. It hits me hard, to realize how much Leo must have loved Dad,like a father. And Dad loved this man like a son. Any feelings of jealousy or shame or whatever I might have, I need to bury them.
“Thanks for not telling them I’m selling,” I say quietly, as we make our way back toward Luca.
“It okay,” he says. The smallest hint of a shoulder shrug. “I won’t tell them.”
“I’m grateful,” I reply.
