The Spia Family Branches Out
Page 16
“What the hell?” I said.
“Everything okay?” Jade asked.
“Yeah, I thought this was my hoodie.”
“There’s another jacket over there,” Lisa said, pointing to the opposite side of the table.
“They look identical,” I said, then swapped out the jackets, and slipped the small bottle into my own jacket, wiping the crumbs off my fingers inside my pocket, and the rest of the crumbs on my napkin.
Who kept baked goods inside their pockets?
My mind rolled with questions, both about our two families and combining our oils and the sticky crumbs that were still attached to my fingers.
Ewe!
I took a breath and let it out, trying to shake crazy thoughts out of my head.
One good thing about Italians, no matter what the crisis, there was always enough time for good food and wine to sustain a person while he or she waited for an outcome, whatever that outcome might be.
“You guys have absolutely no sense of danger,” I said to Lisa and Jade, who had just joined us with two plates brimming over with tasty goodness. Most everyone else seemed to be gathered at the other end of the table, clustered around the soon-to-be bride and future groom. Of course, knowing my mom, that could be any day now. Once she set her mind on something she wanted, she didn’t like to waste any time getting it.
“We could be all be killed at any second and you’re busy eating. Aren’t you guys at least worried over the goons we heard coming up the stairs at the hotel? They could barge in here at any moment.”
“I’m sure there’s enough fire power in this room to hold off an army,” Lisa assured me.
“What goons?” Jade asked in between bites.
“The goons from the hotel,” I reminded her. “The guys who caused Lisa and I to jump out of a window. And you and Giuseppe to flee . . . and, just how did you get out, anyway?”
“Oh that. As it turned out, they weren’t exactly goons. It was the guy who runs the front desk and his father. Angelina had complained that the little fridge in her room wasn’t cold enough, and they were going to install a different one. I met them at the door and told them it was okay now.”
“What? She knew the fridge wasn’t working?” I asked.
Jade nodded. “Yes. Apparently she did.”
“Did you get a time?” Lisa asked. “When did she call in the problem?
“They said something about early the previous evening, but it took them that long to get a new one. I had to do a lot of convincing, but they bought that Angelina was sleeping and didn’t want to be disturbed. I went back downstairs with them, then walked over to this party. Giuseppe took his time getting here, but he finally did, right before you guys ran in. Wine?” Jade asked holding up a bottle, offering to pour Lisa a glass.
“No thanks. One’s enough. I need all my faculties to be humming at top speed,” Lisa told her.
“So do I,” I agreed. “But I’d give my left pinky finger for a glass of that wine.”
I fought my addiction each and every day . . . every moment. There was no telling when I might fall off the proverbial wagon, especially in times like these.
“Don’t even mention pinky fingers,” Jade said, then she visibly shivered as she gulped down her wine. “I still have nightmares about that.”
Jade was referring to our cousin Dickey’s severed pinky finger which, along with his dead body, had brought us to this somewhat precarious situation.
“Believe me, we all do. Here’s the thing,” Lisa said, putting her fork down, then digging in her pocket and pulling out her phone. “We really can’t sit around and wait for fate to come to us. I’m calling Nick to tell him about Angelina. He just texted that he landed at SFO.”
And out of nowhere, Giuseppe snatched Lisa’s phone right out of her hand and tossed it into the tureen of steaming hot pasta sauce sitting at our end of the table. It landed with a thud, splashing sauce all over my hair, face and sweater, only adding to my already disheveled appearance.
I sat back and stared at the stunned faces around me, and licked the sauce from my lips. “It needs a little more basil,” I said, right before Lisa let out a scream that could break glass.
Insalata Caprese for Two: Level One or Two Depending on Ingredients
2 medium-sized, beautifully ripened tomatoes, sliced ¼ inch thick
2 medium-sized chunks of buffalo or cow’s milk mozzarella, sliced ¼ inch thick
basil (1 fresh basil leaf, washed and dried, for each finished stack of cheese and tomato on the plate)
3 Tbs. olive oil or any good quality EVOO (delicate through robust)
Freshly ground white pepper to taste (or black)
Fine sea salt to taste
*Optional: If you would like to add a small arugula salad on top, mixed with olive oil and wild oregano, it only adds to the delicate flavors of this dish, but this is not traditional.
Slice your vine ripened tomatoes as precisely as possible, about a quarter inch thick. You will need one slice for each slice of cheese. Allow the delicate aroma of the tomato to fill your senses. You can also use ripe Heirloom tomatoes for this dish. Arrange the slices on the plate in a circular design. Then take your time with slicing the fresh mozzarella, savoring the scent of the smooth, rich cheese, and the feel of it between your fingers. Try to get each slice the exact ¼ inch size. Then place one basil leaf on top of each slice of cheese, or you can tuck the leaf in between the tomato and the cheese. Either way will work. When everything is assembled, drizzle with olive oil making sure you have touched each stack with the liquid gold. Season with salt and pepper and serve. *Can add the optional arugula salad on top before serving.
Serve with a crusty Italian bread, and sparkling water served in a champagne glass.
Enjoy!
“Snap out of it!”
—Loretta Castorini
EIGHTEEN
Lover Come Back
At ten-thirty the next morning, I was still in bed . . . my bed . . . alone. I remembered that I had to meet my mom at eleven thirty, but the thought of actually getting up wasn’t something my body wanted to do, at least not willingly.
Giuseppe had been invited to stay in my uncle Benny’s apartment, but respectfully declined and decided instead to return home to his apartment over Roman Holiday Hair Salon. He’d moved into that studio apartment right after I’d suggested it on our first harvest day for our Koroneiki olives a few weeks ago. I thought it would be a temporary situation so he didn’t have to be stuck at my mom’s place. Little did I know he would be moving in permanently.
There were two apartments above Roman Holiday, a studio and a one bedroom. Gianna lived in the one bedroom, and, at first she’d protested his moving in down the hall from her. She didn’t like the fact that he was still an active mobster, but after a few days and after much wooing on Giuseppe’s part, Gianna had accepted his presence. All during that time, neither of them had ever mentioned that they already knew each other. I never quite understood her hostility to his living in the same building, especially since it was only temporary.
But hey, who was I to judge the situation? I’d been attracted to him from the very first time I saw him at our family’s Mobsters Anonymous meeting. Maybe Gianna felt that same attraction back in Italy and he’d snubbed her. I thought I might have to ask Giuseppe about their past . . . if they even had a past. It could be that all that happened was she cut his hair, developed a crush and nothing more came of it. At this point, it was all speculation on my part. And getting the truth out of either one of them seemed almost impossible.
At some point during the night, the boot on Lisa’s back tire had been removed. Louie left a note on the windshield apologizing for the mix up. Apparently, it had something to do with people who parked at the inn, but weren’t staying there. It was a new policy and they didn’t quite have all the bugs worked out, yet. The surveillance video of the parking lot had cleared up who owned the car. To make it up to us, he left a gift card for a future t
wo-night stay whenever we wanted it . . . as if.
Lisa gave it to her mom.
She dropped me off around two in the morning, then insisted on driving herself and Jade home to San Francisco after that. Jade texted me that they’d gotten home safe because once again, Lisa had lost her phone . . . this time to a tureen filled with hot pasta sauce.
It was all coming back to me now.
I’d been reading the local news online well into the night, looking for something about Angelina, but found nothing. Apparently, Giuseppe had been successful in hiding the body . . . not that I thought that was necessarily a good thing. If I was going on this family’s track record of hiding bodies, there was no telling where Angelina might turn up.
The whole thing gave me a queasy feeling in the pit of my stomach. Her killer was still out there, which had kept me awake. Someone had already broken into my apartment, and tried to kill us with gas. Would that person do it again? And be successful this time?
A rap at my front door caused my heart to race as I sprung out of bed, and then tripped over my jeans and sneakers that I’d dropped there the previous night.
Having a temporary wooden door really bugged me. I hated not being able to see who was on the other side of my door. I cracked the door open only about an inch or two and spotted Leo’s handsome face smiling in at me. For the first time in a very long time, I was absolutely thrilled to see him. I flung open the door and gave him the tightest hug ever, wrapping my leg around his and kissing his face, his neck and then those wonderful lips.
“Whoa,” he said, sliding his lips off of mine. “What’s this all about?” He sounded skeptical as hell.
“I’m happy to see you.” I continued kissing and hugging him, pulling him inside my apartment, then slamming the door shut.
“I’m happy to see you as well, but babe, you look like you had a really rough night. Are you okay? And what the hell happened to your front door?” He ran a finger over my forehead. “You were bleeding. Shouldn’t you clean that off?”
The night began to reassemble itself in my head as I gazed down at my arms that were still smudged with dirt from sliding down that drainpipe. My face felt grimy again, and that blood he was referring to was probably tomato sauce.
“Oh, God! I’m a mess, aren’t I?”
“Well, it’s not your best look.”
“I’m sorry. It’s not blood. It’s tomato sauce.”
“That must have been one hell of a dinner.”
“It’s a long story.”
“Can we start with what happened to your door?”
“Um, that’s an even longer story and not related . . . at least I don’t know for sure. Although, it might be. I can’t be sure of anything right now. But you’re here and that’s all that matters.”
I pulled him in tighter, and he moved back, as if I might actually smell . . . which, given everything that happened, I just might smell, really bad.
He grinned. “How about you get cleaned up and I put on some tea water?”
“That bad?”
“Well, let’s just say the sauce caked on your neck would make for a great look on Halloween.”
Completely mortified, I turned and ran into the bathroom, closed and locked the door and stood in front of the mirror only to be shocked into a loud yelp.
“I brought over a couple scones from Dolci Piccoli Bakery. Your aunts looked a little worse for wear this morning, as well. Now I know why. Sorry I missed all the fun,” Leo yelled through the locked door.
If you only knew. “I’ll tell you all about it in a minute. I’m just going to jump in the shower.”
“Need any help?”
“I need a lot of help, but not with my shower.”
“Too bad. Another time, then?”
“Another time soon . . . real soon.”
“I’ll take that as a date.”
“Count on it,” I said as I stared at my poor smudged and scratched face.
I did in fact look like something the cat dragged in, exactly like my mom had said. Maybe even two or three cats that had fought over me and on me in an alley.
I turned on the shower, and went back to the mirror.
“Damn, you look awful, Mia,” I whispered to my reflection.
My hair looked like someone had taken an eggbeater to it and mixed in dirt and leaves for an added bonus. There was dried blood on the right side of my forehead and a long scratch, which probably happened when I fell off the bench. My face was smudged with dirt, sauce and mascara that had made its way down both cheeks. I’d slept in my black sleuthing hoodie that was caked with dead leaves. Hell there was even a leaf sticking out of the front of my black panties.
I wanted to die right there, but instead, I knew exactly what I needed, an olive oil hair and body makeover. I ripped everything off and tossed my clothes into a pile on the floor. When I kicked the pile out of the way, something banged against the tub, and I remembered the small bottle of olive oil I’d stuck inside my pocket after I’d swapped out identical jackets. Then I remembered the other jacket’s pocket had contained some kind of baked good.
I picked up my jacket, reached into my pocket and felt not only the bottle but a few of the crumbs still there. For some odd reason, I decided to taste them, and damn if the taste wasn’t familiar . . . very familiar. I reached in my pocket again for another crumb, just to make sure. A couple stuck to my fingers, and this time when I tasted them, there wasn’t any doubt.
They were crumbs from my orange muffins.
“Son of a bitch!” I said, knowing perfectly well that whoever owned that other hoodie was the person who had broken into my apartment and tried to asphyxiate Giuseppe and me. And what was even more disturbing, that person had been at my mother’s party . . . she was a family member.
“Not again,” I muttered, completely disgusted by the thought.
“Everything okay in there?” Leo yelled through the door.
I didn’t want to tell him what I’d just learned. It was all too complicated. The muffin thief might even be the person who killed Angelina.
Oh yeah, real complications.
“Yep, everything’s fine, just fine. Water was a little too hot,” I said, immediately turning on the water in the shower.
“I’m great at adjusting water,” he countered.
I ignored him. “All good now,” I said, wrapping a towel around me, trying to remember if I’d ever seen who belonged to the muffin hoodie . . . but I never did. The hoodie jacket just disappeared sometime during the evening.
“Of course,” I said as I dashed out the bathroom door and through my kitchen to grab a few things. “Don’t look at me,” I said as I sprinted past Leo and headed into my kitchen area. “Pretend I’m in the shower.”
“Umm,” he said. “Nice visual. Are you sure I can’t join you?”
“Are you kidding?” I chided as I quickly whisked an egg, added fresh lemon juice, then drizzled in some olive oil and kept right on mixing.
“I would never kid about something as serious as taking a shower with my girl.”
I wondered when I became his “girl?” Nice thought, but it carried a lot of baggage.
He stood right behind me. The thought of taking a shower with Leo sent a warm flush over my body . . . a body that desperately needed stroking and loving . . . just not from Leo. At least not right now.
Right now, my sore and stinking body needed a complete olive oil overhaul.
“Well, not today, big guy,” I said, grabbing the small bowl along with the bottle of our Sevillano extra virgin, and raced back to the bathroom, locking the door behind me.
I dropped the towel and stepped under the hot water and watched as dirt and leaves swirled around the shower floor, getting trapped in the mesh above the drain. The water felt so good when I put my face under it that I wanted to stay right there for the rest of time.
But Leo waited for me in the other room with scones. I didn’t know which I wanted more . . . Leo or the scones.
After I shampooed my hair, I poured on the egg and olive oil mixture and rubbed it in. Then I poured on an olive oil shower gel and rubbed my entire body with a soft sponge, stepping back under the hot water when I finished. I shampooed my hair two more times to make sure all the oil came out, turned off the shower, and while I was still wet, rubbed myself down with straight olive oil.
Once I toweled off, I knew all that sweet chocolate and dirt and sauce smell was gone, and the lovely scent of olives surrounded me instead.
I felt like a Spia once again, and at the moment, that wasn’t saying a whole hell of a lot!
I quickly combed my hair, dabbed some oil onto my still tender wound, and slipped on clean underwear, jeans and a dark blue long-sleeved tee. When I finally walked back out, the patient man in my apartment had already poured me a cup of tea in my favorite mug, and set my little table up with honey, milk, jam, butter and two of the biggest blueberry scones I’d seen in a while. My two aunts had outdone themselves this morning.
“You truly are every woman’s wet dream,” I told him.
“You just say these things so I’ll bring you more food,” he teased.
“The key to my Italian heart,” I quipped as I took a seat across from him at the table, then tried to get as much tea in me as possible without burning my mouth.
“So what’s the long story about the door?”
“I hit it with a planter and the darn thing shattered into a million pieces.” Not exactly the truth, but close.
He sat back and stared at me for a moment. “I have a feeling there’s more to the story than you’re willing to tell me, but I’ll accept this short version for now.”