Page 31

On the winding ride around the mountain and toward the center of Amalfi, Fielder and I don’t say anything. Tyler and Monroe are huddled close together in the cart ahead of us, whispering like kids before a school dance.

Our driver pulls off and into the same area right out front of the entrance to the Avello Family Lemon Groves from yesterday and throws the cart into park. As the engine idles loudly, Fielder launches himself out and I follow suit.

Fielder looks at me quizzically.

“I figured you could use some company. You always loved going places for Clock with someone. Me, your mom, Nonna.” I pause before adding, “Matty.”

“I’ve gotten pretty good at going myself, believe it or not.” He crosses his arms.

“Oh, sorry, I shouldn’t have ass—”

“You know what they say about assuming,” he says, and I know exactly where it’s going: dad joke central. “You ass is for me.”

“Still makes zero sense,” I say.

“Which makes it hilarious! Remember when we said it in front of Nonna?”

“Yeah, she smacked you.”

“Then laughed her ass off.”

“Because she has the mouth and mind of a sailor.” That’s what Nonno used to say about Fielder’s nonna.

Once, about five years ago, we tried to set them up on a date.

Turned out, they hated each other romantically.

Nonno was too soft for her, and she was too abrasive for him.

They laughed about it and ragged on each other over mugs of Lipton tea and Stella D’oro breakfast biscuits every Sunday until he passed away.

“Love that woman.” Fielder salutes the air. “Taught me everything I know.”

He starts toward the entrance to the groves, and when I don’t follow him, he stops and turns. “You coming?”

“I thought—”

He waves me on. “I’d love to spend the day with you. If you let me tag along to the woodshops with you.”

Fielder always was enamored by everything that enamored me. “Deal.”

More enthusiastic today than he was yesterday, Niccolò Avello is better than a trained actor: made to be on camera, bounding from lemon tree to lemon tree, talking about the hybrids and different varieties, giving viewers a rich history of Amalfi and his family.

His blue eyes glimmer, and his crinkly, toothy smile is magnetic.

Fielder wastes no opportunity to ask him question after question about the land, rising sea levels, water scarcity, how tourism impacts the environment, and extreme temperature changes.

He’s filming everything with an expert eye, referring to a notepad full of ideas and research he must have spent all night gathering.

Fielder is so professional, a far cry from the early days of @LemonAtFirstSight where he didn’t know angles or consider lighting, and would aimlessly shoot.

Fielder frames Niccolò’s face like a studied cameraman, capturing the best he has to give with great sound bites about everything from their hives of bees to how their season used to stretch to October but because of the drastic shift in climate now wraps up in late August.

The conversation is insightful, and the way Fielder elicits these responses from Niccolò is expert-level journalism. I can’t help but look on in admiration, awe, and respect.

It’s hotter than yesterday, and my pits are sweating through my shirt, making me thankful that Fielder is being careful not to get me in any shots; he has no qualms making it known that he’s actively trying to avoid me, swerving animatedly out of my way.

“It’s okay.” I swipe the back of my hand across my brow. “I don’t mind being in the background.”

“The camera always loved you, Mr. Supermodel Hair and Jawline.” He gnaws at his cuticles, a habit I thought he’d stopped years ago.

I think about what Cam said earlier, how Fielder was using me for likes, but the way he’s hesitating now makes me certain that he’s not.

“But maybe . . . for this, I don’t need anyone but Niccolò. ”

“What is this for?” I ask.

“Not sure if you know what @FoodForChange is? It’s a not-for-profit started by Michelin-star chef Mars Lyon, and their Clock channel is doing a contest to help raise awareness about sustainability in food production and consumption.

” Fielder’s eyes light up in ways I’ve never seen before.

“The prize is an internship at a new TV cooking competition series hosted by Chef Lyons called Out of This World , where budding chefs compete in weekly Top Chef –style challenges. It’s a chance to work behind the scenes in promotion and marketing, making content for the show’s social media accounts, and guest on the show as a special mini-challenge judge.

If that sounds rehearsed, it’s because I totally rehearsed it.

” He laughs, which elicits one from Niccolò, too.

My chest swells with pride. Fielder is going after something real, concrete.

Something he’s been afraid of—forging his own path out of fear that if he tried professional schooling, he’d fail out and disappoint everyone.

He would tell me these fears late at night when we’d walk around Blossom Avenue.

I never knew how to help him because school wasn’t my thing, either.

But I always had a direction: Nonno. Woodworking. Writing. Creating.

“You’re a chef, then, yes? Didn’t get a chance to cook with us yesterday,” Niccolò says to Fielder.

“I don’t cook, no, but I love filming.” Fielder’s eyes widen, and he looks to me for help. “I-I mean, I’d love to learn one day, but I’m more of a lover of food.”

“What is cooking but making love to food?” Niccolò asks.

Fielder and I exchange a quick, heated glance.

“Let’s learn, Field.” I playfully knock sideways into him.

Niccolò grabs hold of Fielder and ushers him past a couple of overflowing baskets of lemons and into the restaurant-kitchen area where we ate yesterday.

The bright lemons hanging from the pergolas like novelty Christmas bulbs are so enchanting I gasp.

What takes my breath away are the hand-carved oak armchairs and tables.

While everyone ate yesterday, I studied their construction, and it’s exquisite.

The craftsmanship is so earnest—no machines, no metals used, just a mass of beautiful imperfections from the splits to the cracks to the knots.

It makes me excited to head into town later and explore the local woodshops.

“I have a tour, but you can find everything you need here,” Niccolò says.

“My lovely wife, Isabella, will guide you through the process of making homemade linguine. Anything you need. Please film as much as you like. As you said on the telephone earlier, any awareness you can bring to Avello Family Lemon Groves and the sustainability efforts is molto apprezzato!”

“Are you still okay if I come Sunday too, to interview you and do more research before I leave?” Fielder asks.

“Assolutamente, si, si.”

“Grazie, so much grazie,” Fielder says, and the Avellos laugh at his modest Italian. “I really appreciate everything!”

Niccolò bows and does a slow jog out and down the path to meet his next tour.

“Va bene, are we ready to make some pasta? Traditional pici . . .” Isabella is a bit less animated than her husband, but her warmth radiates out.

“We’re using zero-zero flour and semolina, and the Avello secret, scorza di limone.

” Zesting a giant Amalfi lemon into the mixture, she closes her eyes and inhales the bright, sweet, floral scent.

With her hands, she creates a well in the center and adds egg yolks.

With a fork, she breaks the eggs, then gradually draws flour from the edges of the well inside. “Va bene? You try.”

Fielder looks like a child let loose in FAO Schwarz at Christmastime, pulling flour in and slowly mixing it until the dough gets firm and he switches to mixing with his hands.

I record him, intent on sending him the footage.

He narrates everything he’s doing, and in a moment of pure pride, I hold the camera out in front of him and get in the shot, cheering him on like a coach.

“When the dough doesn’t stick to your hands, you’re done!

Don’t do too much,” Isabella says. Once everything is incorporated and the dough has a slight yellow tint due to the zest, she kneads until it’s smooth before wrapping it in plastic wrap.

“Now, we wait and drink limoncello, and then we make the lemon sauce!”

“I’ve never had so much limoncello,” Fielder says. “Thank god nobody cares about the drinking age. Salute!”

I catch him staring at his dough-covered hands.

“That was incredible,” he says, eyes wide, like he just won the largest prize at the annual Blossom Avenue Italian Feast. “I’ve cooked with Nonna.

Kind of. I watch professionals cook all the time.

I know food. Ingredients. How to talk about food.

But—but this? Getting to make pasta? It’s stupid, I know.

Shouldn’t be a big deal; it’s so small, and I’m not even doing it on my own, but—”

“I get it.” I’m breathless for him. “How’d it make you feel? Being the one to do it.”

“ Alive. I get it now, in a way I didn’t before.”

Still brimming with energy, we walk (Fielder skips) to the far side of the open patio, and he says, “In another life, I totally lived here. Worked on this farm. Maybe my past self of something? That sounds ridiculous, I don’t know.

I feel a spiritual connection to this place.

Like I belong here. Like it’s mine. Even though before yesterday I didn’t know anything about it.

And yet!” He’s speed-talking, and the light in his eyes is so bright I can’t look away.

“I’ve never felt more passionate about something.

And I never thought I’d care so deeply about lemons. ”

I know the feeling.

I want to tell Fielder how happy it makes me to see him explore this. I can’t, because if I do, I may uncork something I can’t bottle again. Cam deserves better. More. Especially from me.

I glance at Fielder, who clearly hears it too as he turns his head toward a thick cluster of lemon trees. “Is that . . . ?”

“Whaaaaat! No way . . .” Fielder trails off as he spots Matty, sitting beneath a young budding tree, threading his hands with Nic Jr., the very hot son of Niccolò and Isabella Avello we met yesterday.

Matty leans in for a kiss, and Fielder gasps.

The boys perk up like scared bunnies and scuttle away through the bramble, leaving dust clouds in the wake.

We both collapse into each other and laugh until we can’t breathe.