The Olive Press – Part 2: First Pressing

In November, the olives were ripe.

The harvest took two weeks. Neighbours came and went, laughing, with nets and ladders. Marianne worked among them in a bandana, picking until her arms ached. Vito moved through the grove like a conductor, directing, joking, wiping his brow. At night they carried the crates to the old stone mill.

The press groaned and turned. Green-gold oil began to run, thick and fragrant, into a clay jar. The smell was extraordinary: grass, almond, pepper, sun.

"Taste," said Vito.

He broke a hunk of bread and dipped it in the fresh oil. She tasted. It was peppery, bright, almost savage, with a long clean finish. Her eyes filled.

"It's the best thing I've ever eaten."

"It is your oil."

"It's our oil."

He didn't contradict her.

They carried a loaf and the jar up to the terrace and sat on the old stone wall under a huge harvest moon. The grove spread silver beneath them. The air was crisp and sweet with the smell of crushed olives. Far away, a dog barked and a tractor chugged.

"Can I ask you something?" said Marianne.

"Yes."

"May I kiss you, Vito?"

He took off his cap, slowly, and turned it in his hands. "Yes," he said. "And if you say stop, you must stay for the pruning."

"That's in February."

"I know."

"I'd stay for every season."

She kissed him, gentle and certain, a hand against his leathery cheek. He kissed her back with the shy tenderness of a man who had thought he would never do it again, tasting of bread and green oil. The moon shone down, silver and enormous. The cicadas had gone quiet, and the trees stood still.

When they parted, both of them were smiling.

"Green?" he asked.

"Green," said Marianne. "Very green."

The label on the bottle, designed by Marianne, reads: Olio Marianne e Vito. Pruned gently.

More mature romance stories: Autumn in Quebec · The Quilting Circle · The Silver Ballroom