The Spia Family Presses On (2 page)

“Maybe sometime in the spring or summer, if we’re not too busy,” I said.

“Don’t be silly. It’s tonight.”

My stomach pitched. This was getting completely out of control. “You’re not going to do it, are you?”

“What choice do I have? The bastard can cause me a lot of trouble if he wants to.”

“I thought that was all settled when he was locked up,” I told her, but my words didn’t seem to stick. She took a few more sips of espresso as she kept the chair rocking, faster now. I could see the tension building on her face. Her forehead actually moved, a nearly impossible achievement considering all the Botox that had been pumped into it.

“It was, but you know how your cousin can be.”

“A shit?”

“And then some.”

I sat back on the sofa, grabbed a pillow and contemplated our options. “Mom, he can’t come here. Not now. Not when we’re on our way to Hawaii.”

“Since when?” Her face brightened. I was on to something.

“Since right now,” I said, pumping up my enthusiasm. Not that I particularly wanted to go to Hawaii with my mom, but at this point I would do anything to keep her away from Dickey. “I was just about to make the reservations. I’ll take you and Aunt Babe with me. We can leave tonight.” I figured she’d jump at the chance for a free trip to paradise. Who wouldn’t?

She stared at me for a moment then blinked a few dozen times, a habit she indulged in whenever she was contemplating her options and wanted to stall. “I need another espresso,” she said, holding out her empty cup.

She was going to take some convincing. “Mom, you can’t get involved with him again.”

I didn’t know all the facts, but Dickey and my mom had owned some sort of business in North Beach in San Francisco when I was a kid. It took her several years to clear her name after the business dissolved, and even now she sometimes had trouble getting a line of credit.

“Don’t be silly. You sound like Federico. He said the same thing and I’ll tell you what I told him. I’m not getting involved. I’ll throw the bastard his party and that’s it. He’ll be gone in the morning.”

“You hope so,” I said.

“I know so,” she shot back in that voice she used whenever she needed to get her point across. Her intense reaction told me there had to be more to this story than she was willing to spill. Ever since I admitted I had a drinking problem, my mom tried to keep me in the dark when it came to family tensions. I suppose she thought any little crisis could get me going again. I tried to convince her it didn’t work that way, but Mom had her own opinions and nothing changed her mind.

I stood and went to the kitchen area to make her another espresso, and myself a cup of badly needed tea. When I returned, she was staring out the window. I handed her the espresso.

“Don’t worry about me,” she said attempting a bright smile. “I can take care of myself.”

Yeah, right. My mother was sharp when it came to running this business, but when it came to family and her emotions she was a bowl of mush.

Sitting on the sofa again while holding onto my mug of green tea, I leaned in closer to her this time, wanting desperately for her to reconsider the freedom party. I thought some kind, indulgent words might encourage her to see the error of her ways. I reached out and gently lay my hand on her knee, knowing how much my mom loved warm physical contact. “I know that, Mamma. You’re a strong, intelligent woman. You know how much I admire you. It’s everybody else that I’m not too sure about. Dickey is a powerful force. Perhaps you should reconsider this party.”

She swept my hand away, and sat back in the rocker. A triumphant look crossed her face. “That’s all in the past, Mia. We’re so over all that crime business. This family’s been through counseling!”

Mom looked at me as if I was completely out of the game. As if I should suddenly see the score and agree with her sound reasoning, but I couldn’t. Not where Dickey was concerned. After a moment, when I didn’t respond, she said, “I have far too much to do today to talk about this any longer. Could you please be a darling and run to the bank for me? I need some documents out of our box. Your Uncle Benny needs to go over a few things. Plus, I think a family meeting may be in order to discuss a couple details. I really have to start calling everybody as soon as I finish this lovely espresso you made me.”

I sat back and sipped my tea. I never could understand my mother’s reasoning, but I took comfort in knowing that this was true for most daughters throughout the world. None of us would ever be able to figure these women out. Mothers operated on some other frequency, and, according to one of my many past therapists, until I was a mother, I should stop bashing my head against that wall.

Fine.

But what was clawing at me at the moment was her sudden need for Uncle Benny, who wasn’t really an uncle. He was more of a family friend who used to be a lawyer for the Genetti crime family out of Chicago until Benny was forced into giving up incriminating information to the Feds in the late 80s. Most of the Genettis went to prison and Uncle Benny went undercover for awhile, hated it and came back out eight years ago when Mom took over this olive orchard. He’d been instrumental in getting the grove going again, helped plant a couple hundred trees, pruned them in the spring and helped with the harvest and the crush, like we all did.

“Mamma, is there something you’re not telling me?” I thought I’d give this thing one more try.

“Just be a good girl and get my papers. Oh, and Dickey’s ring. I kept it safe for him. It’s a gold and diamond pinky ring in the shape of a horseshoe.”

I hated when she shut me out.

“Fine. I have to go to Readers bookstore anyway. Lisa’s having a signing.” Lisa Lin was my best friend, and a best-selling author. “I’ll get the papers and the ring, but whatever this is about can probably be handled by our local law firm.” I found myself clutching my tea mug so tight my hands were beginning to hurt.

“All lawyers are crooks.”

I had to grin at that one. “Oh, and Benny isn’t?”

“He’s family, that’s different.”

Now why didn’t that give me any sense of comfort? I needed to tell her how wrong headed she was, how this whole thing sounded dicey, or at the very least, odd. Why would Dickey want her to throw him a party? Why here? And why tonight? She just wasn’t thinking clearly. Probably caught up in the excitement of the moment. My mother loved parties. The whole family did, but something about this party stunk, and it was my duty as her daughter to warn her of the endless complications of Dickey’s return.

I took a deep breath and said, “But
—
”

She held out a hand, a warning shot that I shouldn’t go any further. She’d been giving me “the hand” ever since I was a little girl, and even though I had grown way past puberty, Mom’s hand still had an effect on me.

I caved, resigned to fate.

“Please, just get the papers and bring them home. I already phoned Benny and he’ll be here in a couple hours.” She took another sip of espresso, a loud one this time, and her hand shook as she held the tiny cup to her melon colored lips.

“Mom, you’re shaking. Please tell me what’s wrong.”

She smiled one of those phony grins she slapped on her face whenever she was reeling on the inside and didn’t want anyone to know. “Nothing’s wrong, sweetheart. Everything’s perfect. I’ve just had too much espresso is all. Besides, if there is something wrong, and there’s not, Benny will take care of it. Just bring me my papers.” She gazed out the window for a moment then her entire demeanor turned deadly serious. “I only hope that bastard doesn’t try anything funny with this orchard,” she said. “Cause there’ll be hell to pay if he does.” Then she downed the entire cup of espresso and gently placed the cup back on its white saucer, her charm bracelet of diamond studded Elvises, a bracelet I hadn’t seen in years, clinked against the china.

I left my mother sitting in my rocking chair sipping her third cup of double espresso, decaf this time, while I took a quick shower, weighed myself like always
—
one-twenty, almost the ideal weight for my five-foot-four inch frame
—
got dressed in a comfy, black velour Juicy Couture tracksuit with a cute little sprinkling of silver stones, over a pink Banana Republic tee, and pulled on cozy, chocolate colored Uggs. Just because I lived on an olive ranch didn’t mean I didn’t do fashion. Granted, Juicy Couture and Banana Republic weren’t exactly high end, but at least they were still in the game. I then hurried through a decent amount of makeup
—
lip gloss, mascara and blush
—
and pulled my unmanageable dark-brown hair up into a wet pony tail. Thankfully, by the time I was presentable Mom had finished her espresso and disappeared.

Nothing like a morning visit from my stressed-out mother to brighten my day.

But I refused to let my family throw a bomb into my otherwise happy vacation mood. Taking in a few cleansing breaths, I crossed my studio apartment to the kitchen area. I needed my morning tablespoon of extra virgin olive oil in a bad way. Just one tablespoon per day on an empty stomach kept my skin glowing, my digestive system working, and connected me to Sofia Loren who, it was said, had the same morning ritual.

I opened the cupboard and pulled out an unopened bottle of our award winning Sevillano, made mostly from a Spanish olive with a nutty flavor and a medium intensity. At any one time, I kept about five to ten open bottles of various types of Spia’s Olive Press oils in my cupboard. We all did. Olive oil was our life.

I uncorked it and took in the fragrant scent, then poured a generous tablespoon into a tiny plastic cup, the same ones we used in our tasting room. In order to get the full effect of an olive oil you needed to pour some on your tongue, then clench your teeth and suck it to the back of your throat. It could have a pleasantly bitter taste, like some Italian oils, or a smooth nutty flavor, like a few of the Spanish oils or even a bright fruity flavor with a subtle peppery finish ideal for salad greens, or grilling seafood.

Whenever I thought about our oils, I mentally practiced the description that went with them. It took me months to get the hang of sounding like I knew what I was talking about as opposed to an olive oil greenhorn, which was one of the nicer things my family said about me.

This one was a perfect blend, with just a hint of bitterness for added flavor. Now olive oils acted as aroma therapy on me, and Sevillano was one of my favorites. It usually made
m
e feel all blissful, and sexy, but no matter how much I inhaled its pungent fragrance or felt the smooth golden liquid on my tongue, I couldn’t quite get that feeling going.

Just as well, there was no one around to be blissfully sexual with.

I sighed, poured enough oil in a frying pan to coat the bottom, tossed in a little chopped garlic and let that cook for a bit. Then I added onion and cilantro, tossed that around until the onion became opaque and the garlic was just about to brown. I threw in two handfuls of pre-cooked linguini, broke an egg into a bowl, whisked until it began to foam then added it to the pan. I stirred that around in the hot oil until the egg was almost cooked, tossed in chunks of a buttery avocado, a chopped Roma tomato, a little water, more olive oil, a three-finger pinch of hot pepper flakes, and two cranks of black pepper. When the egg was cooked through, I slipped the steaming pasta mixture into a yellow bowl, drizzled our hot pepper Italian blend olive oil over it, sprinkled on a mixture of chopped fresh Italian parsley, spring onions, pitted Gaeta olives, and finely grated parmesan cheese. Then I sat down to feast. I was desperate for some comfort food.

Cooking always seemed to sooth me. It was one of the few domestic chores that I had mastered during my quest for sobriety. The entire sensory experience somehow gave me just enough of a diversion that while I was cooking I didn’t crave booze. I could get through anything as long as I could mix, chop, fry, bake, and boil.

At times I even fantasized about writing a cookbook for recovering alcoholics that praised the therapeutic benefits of meal preparation using olives and olive oil. I would call it: One Olive at a Time. . . a cook’s guide to addiction recovery.

Of course, I’d have to add a few side notes. It wouldn’t be just recipes. The recovering alcoholic would have to know which meals to prepare during their various levels of alcohol need. Take, for instance, after a mother’s visit. Depending on the amount of mother intrusion, the stress factor might only be a level one. Thirty minutes in the kitchen along with a twenty-minute eating fest should be all that was required.

However, I sometimes had a real problem during the actual meal. Swapping out a hearty red wine for sparkling water could be a hardship for some people
—
especially for a good Italian girl like me who grew up thinking wine was just another fruit juice
—
but determination would win out. And like me, the recovering cook would sit at his or her table, pour the sparkling water, and prepare themselves to indulge in my all time favorite breakfast.

I breathed in the seductive aroma of onions, olives and cheese. My mouth watered as I twirled the steaming pasta on my fork, which was pressed up against a spoon, the only way to successfully twirl slippery linguini.

“Umm,” I moaned aloud right before I took my first bite.