“I can listen without hope,” he lies, and I shoot him a look.No, you can’t.
“Okay, well. Allow a guy a little hope, Olive,” he adds, with a laugh that makes me feel like my heart is in a goddamn vise.
“Can we talk tomatoes first?” I say. “We have a lot to do.”
“Sure,” he says breezily.Too breezily. The soft glow of hope radiates out of every pore on his body like a sunbeam. He glances at the ceramic bowl in front of him. “Here is a classic panzanella.”
“Usually delivered with soggy bread and watery tomato,” I say, trying to focus on the food. Trying not to think about the restaurant. Trying not to salivate over Leo’s arms as he dishes us both out a portion with two wooden spoons.
It is not a panzanella like I’ve had before. This one is an absolute riot of summer color, with grilled yellow and red peppers; crunchy, garlicky croutons; enormous torn leaves of basil; and a vinaigrette so sharp it tingles my nose and makes my mouth water.
“She wants you to be impressed by the tomatoes,” he says, stopping to groan as he takes a mouthful of the salad. “Her tomato farm can’t compete with the mega-farms, and so that’s why she looks after a handful of local Airbnbs. It’s hard. She struggles. But at least I can help with some new equipment now and then.”
I take a massive gulp of the water on the table, trying not to think about how kind Leo is. How much he loves and supports his only family. I try not to make the obvious comparisons with my dad, who made us basically homeless so he could keep the restaurant going.
“Well. Her tomatoes,” I say, my mouth absolutely drooling with every forkful. “Bloody hell, they’re incredible.”
I scribble a few notes in my book, as Leo tries to guess the ratio of vinegar to oil, capers to anchovies, lemon zest to basil leaf. We discuss a sourdough alternative for the croutons and whether we could opt out of the finely sliced red onion.
“No. But they need to be soaked,” he says. “Auntie hasn’t soaked these and they’re too sharp.”
“Agreed,” I say, jotting down the note.
“We need to see the farm before we go,” he says, nodding toward the back of the garden.
“Also agreed,” I say again, offering a little smile to Leo, feeling the weight of a pending conversation bearing down on me.Just be honest, I tell myself for the hundredth time.
“Look at us, agreeing on things,” he says, smiling.
“Well, it’s only a salad,” I say. “What the hell could you do to ruin a salad?”
“Oh, you’d be surprised,” he says, chuckling as he offers a hand to help me stand.
Leo and I walk down toward the back of the garden through a hedge lane, under a leafy archway made from bent hazelnut branches, and down toward the rows of trellised vines. The smell is strong and sweet. We snake down through the vines toward a greenhouse, where rows of baby tomato plants are meticulously organized, labeled, and sprayed from above with a light mist of water.
Leo reaches up to hang on to a metal frame above his head. I notice the bulge of muscle in the undersides of his arms. That hint of his tattoo in remembrance of his mamma. My heart does a funny flutter and I sort of snort-cough, turning away from him.
I hear him come up behind me to look at the tomato I’m pretending to examine so I don’t have to look at his bulging biceps.
“Can you imagine Italian food before tomatoes? They only came here in—”
“Yes, the fifteenth or sixteenth century, I know,” I say, rolling my eyes at him. “They came from South America. Everyone knows that.”
“Can you actually imagine European food without South America? No cocoa, no potatoes.”
“No corn, no vanilla.”
“No tobacco,” he adds, “not that I’d miss that, I suppose.”
“You never smoked?”
“Two years,” he says, laughing. “Your dad knocked that out of me.”
I watch him touching the edge of the little seedling with his finger. Something about his finger gently touching that delicate green leaf makes me fizz inside, and I quickly take a few steps away to get out of his space.
I glance down at my watch.
“Shall we head back to the villa?” I ask.
