"I'll take one," I hear myself say, even though I don't have any money to spare. But I feel compelled to do something nice for her. When she looks up at me, I know what it is.
Her eyes are suddenly filled with wistfulness. "With pleasure," she says, blinking rapidly.
Curiously, I tilt my head. "Is everything okay?"
She gives me a pained smile. "Of course. It's just…"
"Yes?" I nervously shift from one foot to the other, although there's no reason for it.
"Treasure the oil. Savor every drop. Promise me that?" she asks, her voice hoarse.
With that price, I'll definitely cherish it. "Of course."
With the bottle in her hand, she walks over to the sales counter. "They no longer produce this, you know. The olive farmer has given up his agriculture." She reaches for a sheet of brown paper and places the olive oil on it. "For over two hundred years, the family has cultivated the olive grove and produced the finest oil in the region. It's such a shame."
I'm not sure how to react. The end of the business clearly saddens her. "Why does the farmer want to end the tradition?"
She sadly shrugs her shoulders. "No one has seen him in the past few months. He's apparently ill. Too ill to continue his life's work any longer."
Her pain is so palpable that I can't quite believe the time-honored agriculture is coming to an end. "But there must be children who can step in, right?"
"Some cannot, and others do not want to," she says, her fingers caressing the bottle with a wistful smile. "That's the way of time. Everything changes. Even things that were so good that they should never have ended."
What a sad story. "But family is the most important thing," I inquire again. How can the children be indifferent to the family tradition? Don't they realize how fortunate they are?
She pats my hand. "It is, dear. It is." A heavy sigh escapes her lips. "Can I help you with anything else?"
Actually, no. But this little shop has such a cozy atmosphere that I want to savor it a little longer. "I'll continue looking around, if that's alright."
She gestures toward the shelves. "Of course. Call me if you need assistance," she says. Immediately, she settles back into her stool and picks up a half-finished knitting project.
I first look at the souvenirs and then move on to the hand-painted vases. The colors are vibrant, and the gracefully curved shapes make them look exquisite. They would certainly look great in the guest rooms of the inn, with a pretty flower and some grasses—a welcoming gift for the guests.
At the next table, I discover bottles of various sizes with swing caps.Acqua di fiori d'aranciois written on the lovingly designed labels.
Orange blossom water?
"Feel free to smell it," I hear the saleswoman call from her seat. "It's heavenly."
If she's praising it that much, I must at least open the bottle. An intense orange fragrance creeps into my nose, transporting me to another world where orange blossoms fall from the sky. They land all over my body—in my hair, on my shoulders, and in my outstretched palms. Softly, they caress me, and a gentle melody reaches my ears. On my tongue, I taste the pure essence of sun-ripened oranges—fruity, sweet, and refreshing.
"Heavenly," I repeat her description from earlier because there's simply no other way to express it.
Suddenly, the elderly lady stands next to me. "You can use the water for baking. I have a recipe if you'd like," she kindly smiles, her cheeks taking on a rosy hue. "Or you can enhance your beverages with it."
I would love to buy a bottle, but I should have refrained from the olive oil already. Struggling with myself, I close the bottle again. Just as I'm about to reluctantly put it back in its place, the saleswoman places her hand on my forearm.
"Keep it," she says with a loving tone and nods eagerly. "It's a gift from the house."
She shouldn't be giving me anything. "That's kind, but…"
"A refusal is not accepted," she quickly replies, taking the orange blossom water from me and wobbling back to the counter with it. "Or have you forgotten already? Life is meant to be enjoyed."
Life is meant to be enjoyed, echoes within me.
Inevitably, I smile as I follow her to pay for my purchase. She prepares both bottles for wrapping and turns to the shelf behind her to grab a paper bag. At that moment, the golden sticker on the back of the olive oil catches my attention.
Famiglia Olivetta, it reads in small letters on the label, along with the address of the estate. It's clear now. The traditional family business that until recently produced the region's finest olive oil is owned by the Olivetta family.
Is this the secret that the two sisters kept from me during dinner? Why did they do that? And why didn't Vico say anything when he showed me around the estate?
Confused, I watch as the saleswoman puts the bottle into the paper bag.
Even though I can hardly gather my thoughts, one thing is evident: Tomorrow, I must confront Vico and finally get the whole truth. The idea of it makes my stomach churn. Moreover, I realize that I'll only succeed if I don't let myself be distracted by his captivating charm.
