Chapter 23: New Roots

The Tuscan sun had a way of spilling over the hills like honey, golden and slow, draping the world in warmth that made even the air taste sweeter. Amara stood on the veranda of their rented villa, watching Sophia chase butterflies in the tall grass while Luca read a weathered Italian newspaper at the table. The rhythm of this place was nothing like Bellwood Falls it was slower, deeper, like the land itself was breathing.

They’d come to Tuscany for a month to heal — from the fire, from the whirlwind of expansion, from the weight of running a business while raising a family. But Luca had other plans simmering quietly in his mind.

It started with a drive through the countryside.

“Come, cara mia,” he’d said one morning, keys in hand. “I want to show you something.

They took the winding roads, passing cypress-lined lanes and crumbling stone farmhouses. Eventually, he pulled up beside a neglected plot of land a sloping hill dotted with gnarled olive trees, their silvery leaves trembling in the wind. The earth beneath them was cracked but rich, the scent of it earthy and alive.

“This was my uncle’s grove,” Luca said softly, stepping into the waist-high grass. “When he passed, no one tended it. It’s been like this for years.”

Amara followed him, touching the bark of one tree. It felt rough under her fingertips, but there was strength in it. “It’s beautiful,” she murmured. “But it’s… forgotten.”

Luca smiled faintly. “Olives are stubborn. Even neglected, they survive. With care, they thrive again. I thought…” He hesitated, searching her face. “I thought it could be ours. A new root. Something to grow together that isn’t about restaurants or profit.”

For a moment, she couldn’t speak. They’d built so much together already — businesses, a home, a blended family. But the idea of nurturing something simply for the love of it made her heart swell.

They bought the grove within the week.

The work was grueling. Clearing brush, repairing the crumbling stone walls, pruning the twisted branches. Luca taught Noah how to operate the old hand-cranked olive press they found in a shed, and for once, Noah didn’t roll his eyes at Luca’s instructions. They sweated side by side, muscles straining, and Amara noticed how much taller Noah seemed lately, how his voice carried a new confidence when he spoke.

Evenings were their reward — sitting on the porch with bowls of pasta tossed with the first handfuls of herbs from a small kitchen garden Amara had planted, Sophia curled against Luca’s side as he read her fairy tales.

One afternoon, as the sun dipped low and painted the hills in fire, Amara stood with Luca at the edge of the grove. The air smelled faintly of crushed olives, warm and faintly peppery.

“You were right,” she said quietly. “It’s more than a grove. It’s a promise.”

Luca brushed a strand of hair from her face, his touch lingering. “And promises,” he murmured, “are meant to be kept.”

She kissed him there, beneath the oldest tree, while the wind whispered through the leaves like a blessing.