Chapter Text
The van wound through hills that seemed painted in shades of gold and green, each turn revealing another postcard vista that made Jet question whether Italy was real or some elaborate fever dream. She pressed her face closer to the window, watching olive trees cascade down terraced slopes like silver-leafed waterfalls.
"*Madonna mia*," breathed the elderly Italian man sitting across from her, though whether he was addressing the landscape or his granddaughter's neon-pink hair remained unclear. The girl—Sofia, maybe sixteen but dressed like a model—rolled her eyes so hard Jet worried they might fall out.
"Nonno, you literally grew up here," Sofia said in perfect American-accented English, not looking up from her phone. "It's just trees."
"Just trees!" The old man—Giuseppe, he'd introduced himself—clutched his chest in mock horror. "Sophia, you break my heart. These trees, they are older than your country."
The honeymooners in the front seat giggled at everything, including Giuseppe's theatrics. They'd been giggling since boarding the van at the train station, hands permanently intertwined, the kind of aggressively happy that made Jet simultaneously envious and nauseous. Mark and Jennifer from Ohio, both blonde and enthusiastic about everything from the cobblestones to the font on Italian road signs.
"Oh my God, babe, look at that little church!" Jennifer squeaked, pointing at a stone chapel perched on a distant hill. "We have to get married there next time!"
"Next time?" Mark laughed. "We got married three days ago."
"I mean renew our vows! Every year! Can you imagine?"
Jet could imagine, actually, which was part of her problem. Six months ago, she might have been planning similar romantic fantasies. Now the thought made her chest tight.
"First time in Italy?" The voice belonged to the woman sitting beside her—Vivian, who'd introduced herself with the kind of confident handshake that spoke of decades in boardrooms. She was probably sixty, with silver hair cut in a sharp bob and the kind of effortless style that suggested she'd never worn anything that wasn't perfectly tailored. Even her casual travel clothes looked expensive.
"First time anywhere, really," Jet admitted. "I mean, for pleasure. Work trips don't count."
"What kind of work keeps you too busy for pleasure?" Vivian's smile was knowing, like she'd lived through her own version of the same story.
"Cybersecurity consulting. Basically, I told paranoid corporations how to keep hackers out of their systems." Jet caught herself using past tense and felt a flutter of panic. Was she really done with that life, or just taking a break?
"Ah, the irony being that you probably knew exactly how to get in yourself." Vivian's laugh was warm, conspiratorial. "I spent thirty years launching beauty brands, convincing women they needed products to fix problems we invented. We're both professional paranoids, just different flavors."
The van crested another hill, and suddenly the landscape opened up before them like a Renaissance painting. Rolling hills dotted with cypress trees, a slice of impossibly blue Mediterranean in the distance, and nestled in the valley below, a collection of honey-colored stone buildings surrounded by neat rows of olive trees.
"*Ecco*," their driver announced. "Villa Benedetta."
Even Sofia looked up from her phone.
The property was more beautiful than the photos had suggested, which Jet hadn't thought possible. Four separate cottages were scattered around a central courtyard, each with its own character—one with trailing bougainvillea, another with a pergola heavy with grapevines. The main building housed what looked like a restaurant or common area, its terrace overlooking the olive groves that stretched toward the coast.
As the van pulled into the courtyard, staff emerged from the main building carrying trays of what looked like prosecco and small plates of food. A woman with graying curls and kind eyes approached, speaking rapid Italian to Giuseppe before switching effortlessly to English.
"Welcome to Villa Benedetta! I am Francesca, and this is my husband Marco." She gestured to a man arranging glasses on a nearby table, white apron over his loins. "We are so happy to have you join our family for the next two weeks."
The next twenty minutes passed in a blur of introductions, lodging key distribution, and the kind of organized chaos that came with settling five very different personalities into shared space. Jet found herself assigned to the cottage with the bougainvillea—Casa Rosa—while Vivian claimed the one with the pergola. The honeymooners got the romantic tower suite, and Giuseppe and Sofia were relegated to the family cottage with two bedrooms and what Francesca diplomatically called "plenty of space for family discussions."
"Now," Francesca said, once everyone had claimed their keys and sampled the welcome refreshments, "you will find golf carts for each cottage—much easier than walking these hills with luggage, and more fun than rental cars for getting around the property. The emergency clinic in town is only ten minutes by cart, and the beach perhaps fifteen."
"What about the olive oil class?" Jennifer asked, bouncing slightly on her toes. "When do we meet the instructor? The website made it sound so romantic!"
Francesca's smile flickered for just a moment—so briefly that Jet almost missed it. "Ah yes, Signor Elliot. He is... preparing for tomorrow's session. The full itinerary begins then. Tonight, you rest, you explore, you enjoy. Tomorrow, we make olive oil like our ancestors."
Giuseppe raised his prosecco glass. "To new adventures!"
"To olive oil!" Mark added.
"To WiFi that actually works," Sofia muttered, though she raised her Coke can anyway.
Vivian caught Jet's eye and raised her glass with a slight smirk. "To sabbaticals."
Jet lifted her prosecco, feeling the bubbles fizz against her nose as she sipped. The golden light was already starting to change, afternoon sliding toward evening, and she could hear the faint sound of music coming from one of Sophia'sear buds. For the first time in months, her phone wasn't buzzing with emergency consultations or crisis management.
Tomorrow, she would learn about olive oil. Tonight, she would sleep in a stone cottage surrounded by trees older than America, and she wouldn't think about encrypted databases or security protocols or the life she'd left on pause in New York.
At least, that was the plan.