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A warmth of happiness spreads to my cheeks, and I never understood the need to be loved by another. But with each mile out of the city, my excitement burns through me like a kid on Christmas morning. My eyes can’t concentrate on the words in my book and I attempt to savor the here and now with Luca.
An hour into our trip, Luca slows down, exiting off the freeway, and his fingers dance up my leg, resting on my thigh. “It’s beautiful out here,” I say.
The area is the definition of rural America and I take in the sprawling land with a few residential homes and businesses spread far and wide.
We’re three miles down the highway. He turns onto a dirt road, and I wonder what he has planned for us today.
A small house, no bigger than a thousand square feet sits on the property with large, raised garden beds taking over an acre of the wide yard, backing up to a small forest of trees.
“You can’t see the vegetation it produces now with winter on its way, but during the summer I have every type of vegetable that can grow in Illinois planted. This past year, a local food kitchen came weekly to pick the ripe veggies. But one day I hope to have my own sustaining garden that will feed my family.”
This man, the kind of person that loves to tie me up and push me to my limits, is the same man who grows his own vegetable garden. “I know nothing about gardening, yet,” he begins to explain. “During the summer I’d spend a day here. I hired a real-life farmer who has been teaching and showing me the tricks of the trade. It may sound silly, but I’m not doing it because I can’t afford food, obviously. I’ve been so busy building my business as a way to do my part. But what have I physically done to preserve this Earth for our future?”
There are so many layers to Luca De Santos, and I think of how he continues to take me places I’ve never been. This is one of them. Who knew a man who could afford the world is learning how to maintain a small farm?
“This is yours?” I ask, as I fan my hand around, three hundred and sixty degrees, in a circle.
“Yeah. I own two hundred acres. One day, I’ll build a large eco-friendly house here, but for now, I stay here on the days I meet with Farmer Joe.”
“Wait, his name is really Farmer Joe?”
“Hand to God, Heaven.” Luca’s chuckle fills the quiet space around us. This is a completely different man, the cares of the world stripped from him the second we drove onto his land. “But,” he starts again, “I wanted to share this part with you.”
“Who else knows about this place?” Turning around, I take in the entire view of the outdoors, his oasis away from the city.
“Only you, baby. Only you.” I stop spinning, my eyes searching his face. “I wanted a place to disappear to without anyone knowing where I was, and until now, there was no one I wanted to share it with.”
I feel his peacefulness seep off of him with sparkles in his eyes and a weightless gaze. I’ve never seen a more relaxed Luciano De Santos in my life.
“I have the house updated and modernized. I tried to make it as environmentally friendly using sustainable materials and donating everything I took from the inside to the same soup kitchen.”
“And you want to share this part of your life with me?” I ask.
He leans forward, capturing my fingers and yanking me against him. “I want to share every fucking part of my life with you, Heaven, if that hasn’t been clear already.”
I think I want the same, too.
He’s planned an entire day for us at his property. In the trunk of his Wagoneer—because his Porsche wouldn’t make it down the unpaved road—he has groceries for lunch and dinner, flashlights, board games, DVDs, and a couple bottles of wine. He even snuck my hiking boots from my house. And somehow, he’s packed us both suitcases.
“You’re going to cook, Luc? You feeling okay?”
“There’s one thing in this world that I can cook better than anyone. It’s homemade spaghetti and meatballs. So yes, and for lunch, we’ll make sub sandwiches.”
I’ve heard his claim about his world-famous spaghetti and meatballs. “About time you make good on your promise to cook those for me,” I tease.
The small kitchen is updated with cedar cabinets, and the floors are a light bamboo. “Take a look around. Let me get all of this in the fridge and we’ll go for a hike.”
The house is small and cozy, and I round the corner of the kitchen into a tiny but quaint living room with a fireplace and a beautiful mantel. There’s a bedroom on each side. On the left is one used as a home office. Passing through the living room again, I enter a minimalist bedroom with a king-sized bed.
“Luca, this is amazing.” I find my way back to him, tossing my arms around him, leaning my head on his shoulder, and kissing his cheek.
He turns around where we’re face-to-face and interlaces his fingers with mine. “Let’s go explore.” And it’s how we spend the rest of our day.
* * *
“You’ve been holding out on me, Luciano De Santos,” I moan, taking the last bite of his dinner. “I can’t believe you can burn toast and destroy my best saucepan but can still create this sort of masterpiece.”
“What can I say, I’m a complex man, Heaven.”
