Under The Olive Tree

The train wound through the golden hills of Tuscany like a serpent searching for shade. Elena Marchetti pressed her forehead against the cool glass of the window and watched the familiar landscape unfold before her eyes. Cypress trees stood like dark sentinels along the ridges. Vineyards cascaded down the slopes in perfect rows of green. The afternoon sun painted everything in shades of honey and amber. She had been gone for four years. Four years in Florence studying art, breathing freedom, and learning who she was beyond the name Marchetti. Now that freedom felt like a beautiful dream from which she was slowly waking. The letter from her father sat folded in her purse. She did not need to read it again. The words had burned themselves into her memory. Come home immediately. There are matters of great importance to discuss. Your future has been decided. Your future has been decided. Five words that had turned her blood to ice. Elena closed her eyes and thought of her small apartment near the Ponte Vecchio. She thought of her easel by the window where morning light spilled across her canvases. She thought of the coffee shops where she debated philosophy with other students and the galleries where she lost herself for hours. All of it was behind her now. The train began to slow as it approached the station at Siena. From there she would take a car to Montefiore, the small village that her family had called home for over two hundred years. The village where everyone knew your name and your business. The village where the Marchetti name meant power and the Benedetti name meant war. She gathered her belongings as the train squealed to a stop. Her single suitcase contained everything she owned that mattered. Books of poetry. Her sketchpad. A few photographs of friends who had promised to write. The rest of her possessions would arrive later, assuming she did not find a way to return to Florence first. But she knew in her heart that there would be no returning. Not this time. The platform was crowded with travelers and vendors selling fruits and flowers. Elena stepped down from the train and immediately spotted Enzo, her family’s driver, waiting beside the black sedan. He was an older man with kind eyes and a weathered face that reminded her of the hills themselves. Signorina Elena, he said, taking her suitcase with a warm smile. You have grown even more beautiful since I last saw you. And you have grown even more skilled at flattery, Enzo. He laughed and opened the car door for her. It is not flattery when it is true. Your mother will weep when she sees you. She has missed you terribly. Elena settled into the back seat and watched Enzo load her suitcase into the trunk. And my father? Has he missed me? Enzo paused for just a moment before answering. Your father is a complicated man, signorina. But I believe he has missed you in his own way. That was the most diplomatic answer Enzo could have given. Giovanni Marchetti was not a man who showed affection openly. He showed his love through expectations. Through demands. Through the weight of tradition that he carried on his shoulders and passed down to his children like an inheritance of stone. The drive from Siena to Montefiore took nearly an hour along winding roads that climbed ever higher into the hills. Elena watched the countryside pass and felt the years of her absence collapsing. Every stone wall and every farmhouse stirred memories. There was the creek where she had played as a child. There was the chapel where she had taken her first communion. There was the crossroads where the path to the Benedetti estate branched away toward the eastern slopes. Enzo, she said suddenly, what has been happening at home? Your letters were always so brief. Enzo kept his eyes on the road. There is much I am not permitted to say, signorina. Since when do we keep secrets between us? I used to help you polish this very car when I was twelve years old. Times have changed. His voice carried a weight that unsettled her. Your father will explain everything when you arrive. It is not my place. Elena leaned back and frowned. This was worse than she had imagined. Something significant was happening, and everyone was keeping her in the dark until the last possible moment. She hated being treated like a child who could not handle difficult truths. The car crested a final hill and Montefiore appeared before them like a painting come to life. The village clung to the hillside with its terracotta roofs and ancient stone buildings. The church tower rose above everything else, its bells visible even from this distance. Beyond the village, the Marchetti estate spread across the western slopes in a patchwork of vineyards and olive groves. And there, on the eastern slopes, separated by a ridge crowned with twisted olive trees, lay the Benedetti estate. Even from here Elena could see their villa gleaming white in the afternoon sun. Two kingdoms divided by a grove of ancient trees. Two families locked in hatred that had outlived the men who started it. Elena remembered the stories her grandmother used to tell. Three generations ago, the Marchettis and the Benedettis had been friends. They had built their wine empire together, sharing secrets of the soil and celebrating each harvest as one family. Then came the betrayal. The details varied depending on who told the story, but the ending was always the same. Blood was spilled. Trust was shattered. And the olive grove that once connected them became the border of a cold war that never ended. The car turned onto the long gravel drive that led to Villa Marchetti. Lemon trees lined the path, their fruits bright yellow against the dark leaves. The villa itself was a grand structure of warm stone and green shutters, three stories tall with a terrace that overlooked the vineyards. Elena had grown up within these walls, but now they felt more like a prison than a home. Enzo stopped the car in front of the main entrance. Before Elena could reach for the door handle, the front doors of the villa burst open and her mother appeared. Lucia Marchetti was a beautiful woman who had aged with grace. Her dark hair was streaked with silver now, and lines had formed around her eyes and mouth, but her elegance remained undimmed. She descended the steps with arms outstretched and tears already streaming down her cheeks. My darling girl, she cried, pulling Elena into a fierce embrace. My precious Elena. Let me look at you. She held Elena at arm’s length and studied her face with hungry eyes. You are too thin. Did they not feed you in Florence? And these clothes. So modern. Your father will have opinions. Father always has opinions, Elena said, allowing herself a small smile. Where is he? In his study. He asked to see you as soon as you arrived. Lucia’s expression flickered with something that might have been worry. But first you must eat something. I have prepared all your favorites. Mother, the letter said it was urgent. I should not keep him waiting. Lucia took her daughter’s hand and squeezed it tightly. Elena, whatever happens in that study, remember that I love you. Remember that sometimes the choices we face are not choices at all, but duties we must accept. A chill ran down Elena's spine. What are you talking about? What choices? Go to your father. He will explain. Lucia released her hand and stepped back, wiping her eyes. I will have Rosa prepare your room. It is just as you left it. Elena wanted to demand answers, but she knew her mother. Lucia would reveal nothing that Giovanni had forbidden her to share. The hierarchy of this household had not changed in her absence. She climbed the familiar steps and entered the villa. The interior was cool and dim, a welcome relief from the heat outside. The marble floors gleamed. The paintings on the walls depicted generations of Marchettis staring down with stern eyes and proud postures. Elena had always felt judged by those paintings, as if her ancestors were measuring her and finding her lacking. Her father's study was at the end of the main hallway. The door was heavy oak with iron fittings that had been forged over a century ago. Elena paused before it and took a deep breath. Whatever waited on the other side of that door would change her life. She could feel it in her bones. She knocked twice and waited. Enter, came her father’s voice. Elena opened the door and stepped inside. Giovanni Marchetti sat behind his massive desk like a king upon his throne. He was a large man with broad shoulders and hands that had once worked the soil before he became too important for such labor. His hair had gone completely gray since she last saw him, and deep lines had carved themselves into his face. But his eyes remained sharp and dark, missing nothing. Elena, he said, rising from his chair. You are here. Your letter did not give me much choice, Father. He walked around the desk and approached her. For a moment she thought he might embrace her, but instead he simply placed his hands on her shoulders and studied her face. You look well. Florence has been good to you. It was my home. No. His voice hardened slightly. This is your home. Florence was merely an education. A preparation for your true purpose. Elena pulled back from his grip. And what purpose is that, Father? Your letter spoke of my future being decided. What exactly have you decided without consulting me? Giovanni returned to his desk and sat down heavily. He gestured to the chair across from him, and Elena reluctantly took a seat. The war took everything from us, he began. Our workers were scattered. Our equipment was destroyed. The Germans took our wine and left us with empty barrels and broken machinery. We have spent the last ten years trying to rebuild what was lost. I know all of this, Father. I lived through it. Then you also know that rebuilding requires money. Money we no longer have. He paused and reached for a glass of wine that sat on his desk. I have been negotiating with a man named Vittorio Conti. He is a businessman from Rome with interests in the wine trade. He has agreed to invest significantly in our estate. Elena felt her stomach tighten. And what does this have to do with me? Giovanni met her eyes. His investment comes with a condition. He wishes to marry you.