Page 271 of The Havenport Collection

Gio

I paced around my shop, feeling the need to destroy something. I couldn’t attempt any of my projects in my current state, or I’d destroy months of hard work and some very expensive wood.

I looked at the farmhouse table I was building.

I had bought the wood from a salvage company in Maine—pews from an old church that had been destroyed by a hurricane.

I had been working on it for weeks as a surprise gift for my sister, Nora.

She had recently bought a fixer-upper townhouse and needed all the help she could get.

She barely had any furniture, so I set out to make something that was uniquely Nora.

I ran my hand along the legs I had carved and shook my head. I couldn’t do this right now. I was too wound up.

Cancer?

I still couldn’t wrap my mind around it. I knew Sam was at the doctor right now, getting all the info and her treatment plan. I was a nervous wreck. I wanted to text her for every single detail. But I knew I couldn’t pry. Sam would tell me when she was ready. I didn’t want to be a burden.

She had seemed so calm when she told me last night. So serene. Sam was rarely either of those things, and it had thrown me.

She told me she would need something called a lumpectomy, and potentially some radiation.

And that she would be here in Havenport for a few months, maybe longer.

In her typical Sam fashion, she had clearly strategized and made a plan, and I got the distinct feeling she wanted to do this all on her own.

I had a million questions, but tried to keep myself in check. I knew breast cancer was common, and many women survived and lived long lives after their diagnosis. But this was Sam. Surely, the fact that she was young and healthy would help, right?

But then she explained that breast cancer was usually more aggressive in younger women.

That stopped me in my tracks. My late-night googling had confirmed this.

I fell down the rabbit hole, reading about different types of cancer, treatments, outcomes, various studies.

It was overwhelming and depressing at the same time.

I leaned on the work bench, gripping it so hard my knuckles turned white. I knew what I needed to do.

I grabbed my gym bag and headed over to Matteo’s house. He had a pretty sweet home gym in his basement where we worked out together. But most importantly, he had a heavy bag. And I was feeling the overwhelming urge to punch something right now.

I was supposed to be working—preparing for my trip to the VinItaly Expo—by running through last year’s sales data, reviewing the prereading materials from the vineyards, and researching new irrigation techniques—but my mind could not focus. I needed to get out of my house.

I let myself in and headed down to the basement, only to realize I forgot my headphones. So instead of tuning out with music, I had only my thoughts.

After I got my hand wraps on, I started to warm up, letting the questions swirl around in my brain. This was how I processed, how I made sense of things. I had to retreat into myself, into a physical project, or the feelings and thoughts would overwhelm me.

It started the summer I was fifteen and my mom left us.

I was a mess—adrift, confused, and reeling from her rejection of me, my dad, and our family unit.

Things had never been great with my parents growing up.

They were pretty hands-off and we mostly fended for ourselves, but when my mom walked out and immediately shacked up with the guy she had been cheating on my dad with—the guy who had no interest in her six kids—it just gutted me.

Bruno was graduating and focused on getting into culinary school, and Matteo started skipping school and partying too much. Christian, Enzo, and Nora were all younger, still in middle school, and needed help, needed stability. I signed permission slips and packed lunches and helped with homework.

But I was completely lost.

I’ll never forget that day. It was a Sunday afternoon and I had been hanging around the Sullivans’ house as her grandma always fed me and doted on me, when her grandfather had asked me to help him in the garage.

Tom had been a carpenter his entire life, building most of the houses in Havenport, including his own. He said, “Son, I think you need a project,” then handed me some sandpaper.

Slowly, over the course of that summer, I worked my way up to power tools, working with him and learning by his side. I made sloppy birdhouses and slightly less sloppy serving trays, eventually working my way up to a small bench that still sits in my backyard.

And Tom had been right; I did need a project.

Doing something with my hands helped quiet my brain and work through the complex emotions my teenaged brain was not equipped to handle.

It was my solace, helping me manage my parents’ divorce, my responsibilities at home, and my raging teenage hormones.

And I had been doing it ever since. Building things, fixing things, sometimes even breaking things when necessary.

As I worked up to more complex sequences my mind whirred with thoughts about Sam.

Jab. Cancer?

Jab. Cross. Could it be fatal? Could I lose her?

Hook. Hook. Cross. Is she okay? What does she need? How can I help?

I would be there for her, obviously. I would give her whatever she needed, whenever.

Maybe I should cancel my trip to the Italian wine expo next week?

It was June, and my busy season at work.

I had conferences and trade shows for the next two months, culminating with my annual buying trip to Bordeaux in July.

I needed my job, and these expos were the two most important events of the year.

I couldn’t miss them and keep my job, so I’d have to figure something out—because I needed to support Sam.

Around and around I worked myself until exhausted, punching endlessly until my lungs burned and my arms felt too heavy to carry.

It was where Matteo found me, slumped on the floor, drinking a protein shake, when he came home from work.

“Do I need to ask?” he said, looking me up and down. I was a sweaty, confused lump.

I stared up at my brother, the reformed bad boy, the upstanding business owner and single dad, and let out a big sigh. “Sam has cancer.”

“Fuuuuck.” He held his hand out to me. “Get up and help me cook dinner; the girls will be home soon. You can tell me everything.”

I grabbed his hand and he hoisted me up, pulling me into a brief, tight hug. Matteo had never been a hugger, so I assumed this was Eliza’s good influence.

“She’s tough. And you are even tougher.”

I nodded.

“And I don’t know anything about the situation, but I’d guess what Sam needs most now is your friendship and your support. And I know you can give her all of that and more.”

He was right. I wasn’t a doctor. I couldn’t cure her. But I could be the best fucking friend in the universe to her. And I knew that was what I had to do.