by Mary Leo
“So,” I said, as casually as I could muster, “when did you get in?”
“Early this morning,” Mariateresa answered, smiling. She seemed like a really sweet and caring grandma to Giuseppe. He was probably a doted-on grandchild. “That’s why I am so tired. Even though I had a nice seat, I still couldn’t sleep. My dear Giuseppe spoke so highly of this orchard, I had to come and see for myself. I also have an orchard in Italy. It has been in our family for over three hundred years.”
“That’s certainly a long time,” Lisa told her, looking genuinely interested.
“I bet you’ve got some ancient trees on your land,” my mother said, but it was more of a question. I knew my mother loved those ancient, gnarled trees. Plus, first press oil from ancient trees could bring in a hundred dollars per eight-ounce bottle. That oil truly was liquid gold.
Mariateresa swung her hand up and down, the Italian gesture for a lot of time passing. “My region has some of the oldest trees in Italia. Who knows,” she shrugged, “maybe fifteen hundred to two thousand years old!”
“The oil from those trees must be very expensive,” I told her, trying to imagine a fair price.
She bobbed her head. “Sometimes, a hundred fifty Euros for one bottle. It depends on our harvest. Some years are better than others.”
“I heard the trees themselves can be worth a hundred thousand dollars or more on the black market,” Lisa said, once again surprising me with her endless stream of knowledge. She was better than Google.
I’d never heard of this before, but then I never paid much attention to the price of ancient olive trees. We had enough problems trying to keep our newly planted trees healthy and safe from an infestation or tree poachers. I couldn’t even imagine how difficult it would be trying to keep an eye on an entire grove of ancient olive trees.
“It is true,” Mariateresa said, agreeing. “And it is one of the reasons why I come here today, besides to see my beautiful Giuseppe and make sure he is okay. Plus, there is a terrible disease, Xylella Fastidiosa, that has already killed thousands of olive trees in the Apulia region of Southern Italia. It would make you cry to see these beautiful trees die and get chopped down. My heart breaks for the farmers. So far, we do not have this problem in Calabria, and we are working to keep it that way. Your mama, Gloria, was so kind to invite me to come to see your orchard and how you handle a threat of disease for your trees.”
I turned to my mom. “You did?”
“Yes, dear,” Mom said, throwing me a smile and a look that told me there was more to this story. “And we can all get together and talk about her visit and their trees later today or tomorrow, once she and Angelina get settled in.”
I didn’t quite understand any of this, but at least I now knew there was nothing to my panic over getting a better look at Angelina’s ruby necklace. I had simply jumped to a conclusion without any basis. Just because I had solved my cousin Dickey’s murder didn’t mean I had turned into an overnight brilliant sleuth. Besides, the sleuthing business was dangerous, especially in this family, and I wasn’t so sure I wanted to be involved in it again. Running a successful olive oil business was more my style . . . and cooking . . . and maybe traveling, but that was it.
And maybe getting back together with Leo . . . but that was absolutely it!
“But, Angelina,” Mariateresa continued once she downed her espresso, then carefully returning the demitasse cup to the saucer she held in her hand. “She arrived early yesterday. That is why she is so beautiful today. After a good long rest last night, she spent the morning getting beautiful at Roman Holiday Salon, the hair salon in your little town.”
I literally felt my skin prickle and my breath hitch in the back of my throat.
Early yesterday?
“I would have come to you yesterday if I had known about what happened to you, but I did not know, and I wanted to surprise you by looking my best, cara mia. No offense, but that woman in the salon, Gianna, she’s not very good at what she does.” Angelina smoothed her hands over the sides of her head again. “My hair has never been so dry.”
It didn’t look dry in the least. It looked gorgeous and silky. I envied her hair. I lusted after her hair. I would give anything for her hair . . . well, maybe not anything, but a lot.
She groused on. “I don’t know what kind of hair products she uses, but they are not good quality. And she had the nerve to argue with me! I don’t know if you have any control over those people who work in the shops, but she was terrible to me.” She was complaining about hair that seemed absolutely perfect, and dissing one of my family members who was just getting back on her feet.
I decided I didn’t like Angelina Pisano very much, and was rethinking this whole thing of having Giuseppe recover in my bed. Not because I didn’t enjoy having him to look at every day, but because she would be visiting.
“Plus,” she continued, and in what seemed like slow motion, Angelina stood and bent over to retrieve Mariateresa’s empty demitasse and saucer, “she was rude!”
In the next instant, that impressive necklace of hers swung free from behind its entrapment. I pinned it with my eyes and caught what I’d been looking for as clear if I’d spotted a ripe manzanilla olive ready to be plucked from a tree . . . one of the stones on that stunning ruby necklace was in fact, missing . . . gone . . . as in not there, leaving a gaping hole in the delicate rose design.
A red ruby about the same size as the one I’d found on the road near Giuseppe. Had she been the shooter? Had she shot Giuseppe? But why in the world would she do that? What possible reason would she have had?
Oh yeah, my sleuthing days were over . . . not!
“When you’re married, you’ll understand the importance of fresh produce.”
—Tony Soprano
NINE
The Mobster Made Me Do It
Angelina and Mariateresa hung around for a few more hours, fussing over Giuseppe, but once his pain returned and I gave him a combination of ibuprofen and Xanax, he fell asleep. He was more amenable to the ibuprofen when the pain became too uncomfortable after moving his arm around for the visiting Angelina and his Nonna.
My mother had lured everyone away with an offer of a free lunch at the deli on our grove. Lisa bowed out with her tried and true apology of having to go home to write and I stayed behind to make sure Giuseppe didn’t wake up in need of anything. Angelina bought my lame excuse, but promised to return that evening so she could share dinner with her “beloved.”
Oh, I so looked forward to that visit.
Mariateresa wasn’t so quick to make any promises. She kept yawning and I had a feeling she might not be able to make it through lunch, let alone dinner. Jet lag had set in, and sleep was about all she wanted.
Angelina, on the other hand, seemed revved up and ready for anything. I was actually hungry, and thought about joining them, but I was hoping to ask Giuseppe a few questions before everyone returned. Instead, I phoned the deli, Olivo e Fico, and put in an order for a couple panini made with mortadella and provolone cheese on olive focaccia, thinking that Giuseppe might be hungry when he woke up. I also added an arugula salad with shaved Parmesan cheese and tiny pear-shaped tomatoes. I kept several bottles of various extra virgin olive oil on my counter, along with an assortment of vinegars, so there was no need to order a dressing for the salad . . . but Alessandra already knew this when she took my order.
Oliva e Fico was owned and operated by Aunt Val’s second cousin Rocco and his wife, Alessandra. They did a booming business with not only the tourists who came by to try our oils, but by locals as well who loved their sandwiches and paninis made with their own homemade breads. All the breads and even their pizza were made with one hundred percent imported Italian flour. Their customers who couldn’t tolerate gluten, especially American gluten, could eat their breads and pizza with absolutely no symptoms. Sometimes the line for a sandwich or a loaf of bread went out the door. They ran an amazing business that contributed to everyone’s success on Main Stre
et. My mom couldn’t be happier.
Rocco had made his way here from Italy about two years ago after somebody tried to whack him for not carrying out a “job” for a “family” in Italy. My mother took him in once he married Alessandra, a second generation Italian from Boston, and he became a naturalized citizen.
Once my mom felt certain no one knew his true identity, and no one had followed him from Italy, she agreed to let them open the deli on our property and live in the apartment upstairs from their business. Alessandra was expecting their first baby any day now, so everyone on the orchard was anticipating the happy news. Her baby girl would be the first baby born to someone living on the orchard. To say it wasn’t a big deal was to say that Christmas wasn’t an important holiday. Everyone anticipated the happy occasion. It was tantamount to a princess being born to the Royal Family. The DeLombardis were our royal family, and with all the presents and fuss being made, I was sure the day would be marked with a huge celebration.
Rocco had taken Alessandra’s last name, DeLombardi, when they married, for obvious reasons. I didn’t know his actual surname, and I didn’t really want to know . . . not that anyone in my family had offered to tell me. Keeping secrets from me seemed to be part of their everyday life.
Example: Angelina.
Why had my family tried to convince me to marry Giuseppe when he was already engaged to Angelina? They had to have known about his engagement. He would’ve told them. Still, they made it seem as if I had to marry him. As if there was no other way. I was stopping the bloodshed between two families.
What a crock . . .
These were some of the questions I needed to ask the sleeping Adonis.
As soon as Bruna, Alessandra’s older sister who sometimes helped out with the counter at Oliva e Fico when she wasn’t working at Benny’s Garage in town, delivered the food, Giuseppe stirred in his bed . . . or rather my bed.
“I didn’t know he was staying with you,” Bruna said as she set the bag down on my kitchen counter, then tipped her head in Giuseppe’s direction. She wore black tights, a long checkered flannel shirt and sneakers. Bruna was more talkative than her sister, but much less friendly. I barely knew her, even though she’d been working at the deli for the past six months.
“Only for a couple days, until he feels better,” I told her, thinking that it wasn’t any of her business who slept in my bed.
“What does his fiancée think about this cozy little set up, especially since everybody thought you were his fiancée up until she showed up yesterday.”
“It was a misunderstanding,” I said, not wanting to get into any of the details with her. I suddenly wasn’t liking her innuendo and wished I’d gone and picked up the food instead of having it delivered.
“Yeah, that’s always the case around here,” she shot back and I wanted to counter her attitude, but she cut me off. “Are those your famous orange muffins that Val and my sister seem to love?” she asked pointing to the muffins that were still sitting on my cake stand. “We carry orange muffins at the deli, ones that I make, but everyone say’s yours are better. Want to share that recipe with me?”
She caught me completely off guard, and besides, I was saving that recipe for my book. Plus, I didn’t like her very much, at the moment. “Well, actually I—”
“No worries. I get it. You’re one of those people.”
“What?”
“I gotta run. Have two more deliveries in the car,” she said and took off before I could get another word out.
I stood there dumbfounded by the entire exchange. I hadn’t even had time to give her a tip before she dashed off.
Fine, be a jerk, I thought as I quickly prepared a couple trays for Giuseppe and me, adding an assortment of olives to both meals, a few cookies (frozen but now thawing) from Dolci Piccoli Bakery, and a couple drinks.
“You’re up,” I said, hoping to keep him that way for a while. “I ordered lunch.”
“Ah-huh,” he mumbled, then closed his eyes again.
This would not do, so I pushed on the mattress a couple times.
“Che cos'é?” he yelped, still asleep and probably disoriented. He wanted to know what was happening.
“It’s time for lunch. You said you were hungry,” I told him, completely lying about the hungry part.
He fluttered his eyes open, then stared as if he was trying to place me. He grinned. “Ah, Mia. I am in your bed.”
“Yes, but you’re alone in my bed.”
“I would feel better if that were not the case.”
“Maybe you would like Angelina to join you?”
“She is not someone I would like in this bed.”
I couldn’t help the grin that pulled at the corners of my mouth. Giuseppe had a way with words.
“She’s your fiancée.”
“This is something I will try to explain to you.”
“Ya think?” He moved up on the bed and leaned against the backboard, his ripped chest peeking out of Uncle Benny’s oversized shirt, causing a stir deep inside of me. I straightened my shoulders, and took a deep breath.
“I am sorry if you feel confused over this temporary . . . situation,” he said, obviously trying his best to explain. He looked drained and almost helpless, but I knew what this tiger was capable of.
“I would feel better if my family wasn’t trying to marry me off to you when you already have a fiancée,” I said as I walked back into the kitchen, then returned with my own tray that I set up at the foot of the bed. Once I set it down, I climbed up on the bed and made myself comfortable next to Giuseppe’s covered feet, leaning against the footboard.
Leo and I used to eat this way all the time. It made me feel a little guilty doing the same thing with Giuseppe, but there was absolutely nothing going on between us . . . other than a little flirting . . . and maybe a little lusting . . . but that was it.
Really.
If Leo walked in right now, I would have nothing to hide.
But he wouldn’t because I hadn’t told him yet that I was still at home . . . with a gangster in my bed. I was going to tell him . . . just not today.
“Do you love her?” I asked after I settled in and took a bite of my delicious panini. It was perfectly made, the spicy mortadella sliced paper thin, the provolone hugging the meat with it’s creamy sharp flavor, the hot pepper mix spread evenly over the bread, and the focaccia still soft and warm on the inside and slightly crisp on the outside.
Heaven!
“This is not a matter of love.”
“You didn’t answer my question. Do you love her?”
“Yes, like a good friend,” he said, then he took a couple bites of his panino. I could tell by the brush of a smile on his lips that he liked it.
“Does Angelina know that?”
If she did, she certainly didn’t give any indication that she had the slightest clue. Somebody was lying here, but I still wasn’t sure who that could be.
“She is playing a dangerous game. I can not say more than this.”
Wise Guys could be so stubborn!
“Maybe I should be asking Angelina these questions. I could go over to her hotel later today and ask her from one woman to another.”
Not that I had the slightest clue where she was staying, but I was sure I could get the information from my mom.
“No. That would not be wise for anyone. And she will not tell you the truth. Not yet. Let me say one more thing, that Angelina works for your papa just like I do . . . or I used to. But I will always be loyal to your papa. That is all you need to know. And you must keep what I tell you a secret. No one in your family can know the truth. It must seem as though we are engaged, and my marriage to you is off. This is more safe for you. You must trust me on this.”
This was getting interesting. It seemed as though something major was going on, but, as usual, no one would tell me the details. I wondered if my mother knew the facts. She usually did. Of course, she would never tell me what those facts were. “Did Enzo send her he
re?”
“She will do what is necessary,” he said, avoiding my question. I decided that there was no use pushing him on my father’s involvement. He wasn’t about to tell me the truth.
I thought about the ruby I’d picked up on the road. She sure had a strange way of showing her friendship. And if my father really did send her, perhaps he wasn’t as happy with Giuseppe stepping out of the mobster world as we all thought. Maybe that wedding my family was planning was all a sham, and my dad was really planning a twisted funeral as a warning for anyone else who tried to leave his “business.”
I wanted to know what he considered a friendship between a man and a woman. “So she’s a friend with benefits?”
His forehead furrowed. “What does this mean: benefits? Like maybe I pay her?”
I took another luscious bite of my panino. He did the same with his own. After I chewed and swallowed, I said, “No. Not like that. I mean, were you and she, you know, intimate?” I shrugged and bobbed my head hoping he’d understand what I was trying to ask him without actually asking him.
“Ah. Did we make the love? Sure. This is natural, yes? But making the love does not mean we want to be married.”
I thought about Leo and me, and how marriage had never come up. We were like fire and kindling, hot in bed, but he wasn’t so good for my sobriety. At least he hadn’t been in the past, being a winemaker and all. Lately, he’d changed his tune, and no longer tried to get me to drink some of his award winning wines. A good thing, because I knew exactly how luscious his wines were, especially his Pinot Noir that had won a gold medal at Vinitaly.
“She’s wearing an engagement ring,” I reminded Giuseppe.
“Ah, yes, but I did not give this to her.” He drank some of his iced tea and I decided that he looked even better with a scruffy chin and messy silver hair. He’d been raking his hair back all morning, but it wouldn’t stay without whatever hair product he slathered on. He certainly didn’t need hair products, and he certainly didn’t need a close shave. Despite his silver hair, dark brown chin scruff only enhanced his overall Adonis look.
