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His smile was forced, but he conceded right off. Within twenty minutes, at least seventy workers had filed in from the fields, soaked in sweat, to ogle the minivan. Arturo stepped out of the small gang of workers, hat in his hand, to shake the hand that I held out to him.
“I’m sorry it took so long, and that it’s not newer,” I rushed to say.
“Signor Bonetti, it is more than we imagined. May we?” he asked, waving his straw hat at the van.
“Of course, let’s get some pictures.” Arturo nodded. I draped my arm around his shoulders, uncaring if his clothing was soaked with sweat. Over the next hour, hundreds of pictures were taken by myself or Donvino or his cousin. We sat inside with the workers, we showed them the engine, and we posed on the roof. And then we told Arturo to take it for a spin with some of the people we employed.
“Signor Bonetti, they should return to work,” Signor Piravino said as he wiggled into the mass of smiling workers, trying to wiggle onto the bench seats.
“They will,” I replied, clapping Arturo on the back as he sat behind the wheel. Everyone who wasn’t a worker on farm 20 got off and the bus coughed to life. Shouts and cheers from within could be heard as the van took off, kicking up a thick cloud of dust. “Now, let’s go inside and get out of this sun. You can tell me how the trees and bees are faring in the grip of this drought.”
Signor Piravino inclined his head, his smile long faded, but he was polite throughout the rest of the visit. Formally polite. The kind of polite that screamed he hated me for just showing up out of the blue and demanding things of his workers. But not to be a jerk, the workers were mine. The Bonetti name was on their paychecks, not his, and so if I wanted to spend some time with them I could. I actually enjoyed chilling with our workers. They’d filled me in about their hard times as we’d admired the bus. Maybe there was more we here at Bonetti Farms Olive Oil could do? I’d talk to Arturo. Perhaps ask the union to call a meeting in the village that I could attend as acting head of the family. Surely someone should be listening to their wants before it got to the point they went on strike. The drought was already hurting our production. We did not need to have our workers walking out on us.
As we waited for the workers to return from their joy ride—I suspected they had taken the bus to the village of Valle Sicuro—I spent time sipping on lemon soda while sorting through the images we’d taken. With Bianca and Donvino assisting in the picks, I soon had my IG account filled with pictures that the PR folks at Bonetti Farms Olive Oil should be drooling over.
Signor Piravino hovered about, glancing at the clock, then out the window. Finally, the workers returned, grins on their faces, and parked their new bus under a couple of shade trees on the side of the office.
“See, they’re back. Please don’t dock them for a longer lunchtime,” I stated as I rose and pocketed my phone. Signor Piravino blustered about, citing crap about giving an inch and them taking a yard, or the equivalent in metric. “They deserve some downtime. It’s incredibly hot outside. Let them enjoy an extra half hour.”
“Yes, of course, Signor Bonetti,” he ground out and exited through the back door without saying goodbye or fuck all the way off.
“He does not like you,” Donvino mumbled, his sight lingering on the door long after the senior manager had sailed through it.
“Meh, he’ll get over it. Come on, let’s go see what they think of it.” I darted out, asked about the van, and was incredibly pleased to hear they loved it. We took our leave then and piled into Bianca’s truck, with me in the middle, and made our way back to Florence. Donvino held my hand the entire way home as his cousin showed me how a proper Italian drove a stick shift.
Showing off is what I called it, but we enjoyed the ride home tremendously. Or maybe that was just because my lover and I could simply be who we were for one short hour.
***
The villa was shady and cool when I sauntered into it mid-afternoon. My great-aunt was out, the Bentley was gone, and the only sound to be heard was Giada singing to herself as she moved through the house dusting. I was about to scale the grand staircase to sit down in my room and try to work on my poor, lonely trunk. It was a sight. All torn to bits, eviscerated as if a wolf pack had chased it down in the snow. I truly needed to stop watching wild animal shows online.
My phone buzzed, thinking it was Donvino saying he miraculously had the night off from the restaurant, I pulled it free from my sweaty shorts only to see it was my father. Calling. Me. I plopped my backside onto a cool marble stair and cautiously answered the call.
“Arlo,” my father said, his voice strong as always. “Do you have a moment?”
“Yes, sure.” I glanced around in case someone was pranking me. There weren’t any hidden cameras that I could see, but then again, if they were hidden, I wouldn’t see them. Pranksters were so tricky.
“Good, good. So, I was flying out to the Philippines for a conference when Lowell showed me your Instagram feed. Your posts from farm 20 are quite popular. I’m very proud of what you are doing for the people who work for us. They need a fresh perspective and some youthful ideas.”
“Thank you,” I whispered, unsure if I was truly hearing praise from him or if I was having some sort of mad sugar rush from the two bottles of lemon soda I drank out on the farm.
“You are doing well, quite well. Your aunt and I are proud of you. We think you are perhaps ready to take on more responsibility, so I am naming you senior manager of farm 20. With what I have implemented already and your youthful ideas, we can make the top farm in our holdings that much more productive.”
“I…uhm…” My words dried up. The drought had reached my brain. “But Signor Piravino…”
“He’s being moved to a smaller mill. His ways with the workers have been bringing complaints for several months. You arrive and in less than two months you are making strides with the union rep and those who listen to him. Being a kind and generous supervisor is not a bad thing I keep telling people. Piravino is old school and has yet to bend to our newer ways of interpersonal relations with our employees. Of course the position comes with the cottage that Piravino now resides in as well as an increase in pay. I do hope you will consider taking it. Arlo, you could do well there. I always suspected that you possessing your mother’s loving heart would lead you to working to improve the lives of others once you grew up.”
No shit, I pulled the phone from my ear to stare at it just to ensure that I was, in fact, speaking to Tomasso Bonetti. Yep, I was. It was his voice calling my name. I put the phone back to my ear.
“I’m not sure about making Signor Piravino move,” I managed to say. More than that would require a lot more words, and they were still log jammed. Praise from this man. It was hard to even grasp, but here it was. And it felt good. Great even.
“He’ll understand. That’s part of being upper management. Transfers happen all the time. What do you say, son? Are you interested?”
Was I? I took a deep breath. “Can I think about it? I hate to leave Auntie G alone.” Shockingly, that was true. I also didn’t like the idea of moving an hour away. I’d not be able to see Donvino every morning as he made his way to the river or spend as much time with him. Although he hadn’t rowed since he’d not qualified for that competition. Which was upsetting. Of course, I’d not worked on my trunk either, so maybe our old dreams were losing their import?
“Yes, of course. It would be foolish not to give it some thought. I know your aunt enjoys having you there, even if she doesn’t show it. She’s told me several times that you have potential as well as a wagonload of Bonetti spunk.”
“Yeah? Well, she has her fair share of spunk too.” Dad chuckled. I’d not heard that sound for years. “Let me give it a few days. I promise I’ll think hard on it and get back to you.”
