Page 5 of Off the Grid

“Who in their right mind would take direction from me when they know more than I do?”

“Since when do you care what people think?”

“This is a little different than caring what people think. You can’t lead without being respected. You can’t—”

“That’s exactly why we’d hire you as a special consultant to create an aggressive media overhaul campaign for Moretti. Branding. Social media. Stepping Moretti into the twenty-first century. Everyone knows you know marketing. Look what you did with the recent rebranding campaign you spearheaded.”

“Yeah, but that has to do with olive oil. With the company product,” I say mentioning our family company, Moretti Olive Oil. “That doesn’t translate to racing.”

“It doesn’t have to. I want you to rebrand us. You know us and our product and what we believe in better than any outside hire could. And while you’re doing that publicly, you’ll be learning the ropes of everything else behind the scenes. You’ll shadow me and become a utility player of sorts. A person who can step in at any position when it’s needed. That way the employees will see you learning, will see you in each role, and learn to trust that you understand the business and how to run it.”

“I hear what you’re saying, but don’t think anyone’s going to buy it.”

“They will.”

“How, Dad? What will I bring to the table that your huge marketing department hasn’t already?”

“Youth. A different perspective. An outside viewpoint.”

“You can hire anyone to do that.”

“I don’t want anybody. I want you.” He shrugs unapologetically. “We’re old school here. We’ve been doing the same thing year in and year out. I can bring new people in all I want but it seems like they keep getting bogged down in the confinements of what we used to be. We need a reinvention. The race team is seen but not known. We exist but there is no excitement, no spark. I need a buzz created so even if we aren’t winning, people are still watching. That will bring in bigger sponsorships, more money so that we can make a leap in the constructors standings.”

“That’s a huge supposition.”

“No, it’s not. It’s just what this company needs. You’re just what it needs.”

“A fresh perspective and a marketing campaign doesn’t guarantee success.”

“It doesn’t. But it puts you before the employees. It makes your work ethic known and proven. That way, by the time this gets noticeable,” he says, motioning to his body and the Parkinson’s slowly trying to take over, “you’ll already be known, and people won’t be as concerned about you taking on a leadership position.”

I stare at him and shake my head, knowing this point is moot but reiterating it anyway. It won’t be the first time I’ve brought it up. “I still don’t understand why you feel the need to keep the diagnosis a secret. It must be exhausting.”

“It is, but let me keep my pride a little longer, Cami.” His voice is soft. His smile is reticent. “I don’t want to feel like a monkey in a zoo with everyone watching me in a cage and waiting for my body to show a sign of it. I don’t want to be coddled. I don’t want exceptions made. I don’t want to be the topic of articles so someone can use this as a way to say F1 is inclusive or the like. I just want to be me for as long as I can.”

Tears burn the back of my throat, but I fight them off. It’s the first time he’s given me a reason for his secrecy.

The first time I understand the why behind it.

“Okay,” I say softly. “But how are you explaining the cane?”

“Hip issues. Doctor’s orders.” He shrugs with an unapologetic grin. “I rarely need it so the excuse passes. Mostly only when I’m stressed, because stress exacerbates the symptoms. Another reason I need you on board. Knowing you’re here and will run this place with integrity and determination like our family has for generations will help with that.”

“But what about my job? I can’t just up and leave.”

“Sure you can. That’s the beauty of working for the family company,” he says and lifts his eyebrows in challenge.

“You raised me to finish what I started. I’m as much of Moretti Olive Oil—probably more so—than I am this company.”

“But I also told you that when opportunities arise, to not let them pass you by.”

Jesus. He has an answer for everything.

“Besides,” he says, “if I recall correctly, a few weeks ago, you were the one who said you felt stagnant. I’m offering you something different. Something new and challenging. There are only ten F1 teams in the world. We’re one of them. I’d think learning how to oversee one would intrigue you since glass ceilings are something you seem keen on smashing.”

“It’s just . . . a lot.” I chuckle out the last word. Because it is. All of it. The ask. The abruptness of it. The possible upheaval of my life. Your diagnosis.

The Moretti family started its empire in the late 1800s first growing olives and then learning to process them into olive oil. That’s been where my place has always been expected to be, at Moretti Olive Oil. Helping run that giant. Not this one.