Liz pressed her hand to her forehead. “I feel so sorry for all of them. They were a close family. I can’t imagine what it would be like if my grandfather—”
“Don’t even go there,” Olivia admonished her. “Sam is fine, and he does see Nate when he’s supposed to.”
Liz nodded glumly.
“I just had a thought,” Maddie said to Olivia. “Could you do me a favor and put together a tray of sandwiches and maybe a bowl of potato salad—the yogurt kind Nate likes—so I could take it out to the farm? It’s my bet people will be stopping by all day today.”
“All week, you mean. Sure. Absolutely.” Olivia went over to hug Maddie.
Liz rose. “I better go. Gabe’s going to meet me at the farm. You want to drive with me, Maddie?” she asked her sister-in-law.
“Sure.” Maddie paused and looked at Sarah. “Will you tell Mrs. Beabots or do you want me to call her?”
“I’ll go over to her house. I’ll call Luke from my cell. Charmaine, too.”
Olivia hugged each of her friends one more time and as they walked off in separate directions, she was struck with the significance of the moment. In one way or another, big and small, they’d each been touched by Angelo’s life...and now death. Maddie and Liz had married his sons. Katia’s fiancé, Austin, was Rafe Barzonni’s best friend. Though Olivia didn’t know Angelo all that well, her best friends were part of his family now and that affected her. Olivia had always believed that all living organisms were connected, somehow. This sad event was a kind of proof.
The rupture in her friends’ world was overtaking them. And the tragedy touched Olivia, too. But Angelo was an inspiration, and Olivia couldn’t help but wonder whether there was a lesson in the life he’d lived.
Olivia dreamed of taking her photography skills and talent to the next level, but she’d never done much about it. She left her ability buried and untried, never giving it a chance to flourish. Angelo had never compromised on his ambition, working dawn till dusk to achieve his goals and build a legacy.
She went back inside the deli, taking out her pad to begin making a list of what they’d need to cater the funeral. She could ponder the meaning of Angelo’s death on her life, but this coming week would be brutal and heart-wrenching for her friends. She could only hope to give them support and words of solace. She would be the loving friend they needed.
CHAPTER THREE
THE DAY OF Angelo Barzonni’s funeral dinner sounded like the clanging of requiem bells as Olivia and Julia slammed pots, pans and metal trays into the back of their eight-year-old Chevrolet minivan. With her hair shoved into a tight knot on top of her head, wearing little makeup and comfortable black leggings, a chef’s jacket and running shoes, Olivia’s only concession to fashion were the gold hoop earrings in her ears.
“Did you get the copper chafing dish and the Sterno?” Julia asked.
“Yes. Did you remember the warming tray and the plug?”
Her mother’s dark eyes grew wide. “The plug. I never remember the plug.”
“I taped it to the back of the tray after we catered the Halsteads’ brunch last Sunday. I just wanted to make sure it was there.”
Julia turned the heavy electronic tray over. “Here!”
“Great. Also, I packed the three-tiered epergne for my macarons and napoleon pastries. The gingerbread cookies are in tins, and I’ll put those in the scoops of cinnamon ice cream right before we serve the desserts.”
Julia looked around the inside of the van. “Where’s the chocolate mousse?”
Olivia gasped. “What mousse? Was I supposed to make chocolate mousse? I didn’t see it on the menu. Oh, no. What’ll I do?”
Julia dropped her chin to her chest but then looked up in relief. “Silly me. We used the mousse for the macarons.”
Olivia’s exhale could have set sail to a Yankee Clipper. “Thank goodness! We don’t have time for mistakes, and I want this to be as stress-free for that family as possible.”
“I agree.” Julia paused thoughtfully. “Angelo was only five years older than I am. This has made me sit up and take notice.”
Olivia shoved a bowl of ambrosia into the van. “Notice what?”
“You know. Life.”
“I know what you mean, Mom. I guess death always does that to the rest of us, huh?”
Julia shook her head. “Somehow this is different. Did you see the cortege that drove past here on the way to the grave site? I counted sixty-five cars.”
“Sixty-seven,” Olivia corrected her, checking her watch. “Fortunately, not all of them are invited to the house. The family will be back from the cemetery by now. Still, we need to hustle.”
“You’re right,” Julia said. “Why don’t you drive out and get started. I’ll gather up the rest of the salads, the fruit and casseroles and bring them out in a few minutes.”
“Good thinking. I’ll meet you out there.” Olivia patted her pockets to make sure she hadn’t forgotten her camera. Olivia never went anywhere without a camera of some kind. Though it was important for their catering business that she take photos of the food for their website, Olivia was always on the lookout for the exceptional photo, the surprise shot that one day, someday, she could submit in a portfolio for a major magazine.
As Olivia drove off, she glanced in the rearview mirror in time to see her mother wave to her, as she always did when she left her mom’s sight. It was just a little gesture in a long day of catering, planning...living, but it meant a great deal to Olivia. Her mother was right. Death always made people stop and think about their own lives. She smiled at the reflection in the rearview mirror. Olivia loved her mother a great deal; Julia was her best friend. She couldn’t imagine what the Barzonni sons were going through right now.
* * *
HALF A DOZEN cars were parked along the winding path to the Barzonni villa. The dinner guests weren’t due for another two hours, but Olivia knew it would be almost impossible to find a spot on the drive by then.
Olivia continued past a two-story carriage house, with garage doors on the ground level and what she guessed was an apartment up above. She parked outside it, close to the back door of the main house, then followed a short hall past the laundry room and into the kitchen. Easy access was always a plus for Olivia when she was hauling large chafing dishes, food and serving pieces. Her marble-and-silver epergne was lovely, but it weighed thirty pounds.
The aromas of garlic, basil, tomato and baking bread hit Olivia when she entered the enormous, Tuscan-style kitchen. Gina had conferred with Olivia and Julia about the menu and in the end, Gina had decided she wanted to cook a few of her signature Italian dishes for her family.
Gina was dressed in a black silk sheath dress with long lace sleeves and a white apron that was smeared with what looked like red sauce. She was stirring something in an industrial-size stainless-steel pot. She lifted a huge spoon and said to Olivia, “You have to taste this. My cream-of-tomato soup. I froze the tomatoes last fall and dried the basil from my garden. I think it’s my best ever.”
Olivia put the plastic crate she was carrying on the floor next to one of the two granite-topped islands and crossed to the six-burner gas stove. Gina offered her a teaspoon and Olivia dipped it in the soup. “It’s incredible. Sweet,” Olivia said when she tasted it.
“That’s brown sugar. My secret. You can tell your mother but no one else. By the way, where is Julia?”
“She’s on her way with the rest of the food. But may I ask, why aren’t you with your guests and visitors?”
Gina lowered her eyes and looked at the pot. “This was Angelo’s favorite soup. He would have wanted me to make it for the family.” She stirred the soup absently. “I’m better when I’m busy. It’s hours until we eat. I even told the boys to stop hovering. Gabe took Liz for a walk. I think Mica, Nate and Maddie are playing
cards with my sister, Bianca. Most of the guests are in the living room. Rafe went out for a ride on Rowan.”
“Rowan?” Olivia asked.
“His favorite horse. We have quite a few horses, did you know?”
Olivia felt a knot form in her stomach. “Oh, yeah. Workhorses. Sure. Makes sense. This being a farm and all.”
“We have those, but I’m talking about Thoroughbreds.”
Olivia’s mouth went dry with an all-too-familiar, though long-buried fear. Gina was talking about racehorses.
“Rafe and Angelo think they have a winner in Rowan. They’re hoping to enter him in some Graded Stakes races for the Kentucky Derby. They changed all the rules two years ago. Even the Illinois Derby isn’t part of the qualifying trials anymore. Angelo—” Gina’s voice hitched.
Olivia reached out to console her.
Racing horses. She said racing horses.
She froze and dropped her arm to her side. She felt the thrum thrum thrum of her heart in her ears. Olivia tried to formulate some kind of empathetic sentence. Nothing happened. Her stomach roiled. The fear she’d felt earlier gripped her. She knew she wouldn’t escape this time.
Gina wiped the tears from her eyes and kept staring at the soup. “Sorry. They won’t be doing that this year. I don’t know what Rafe will do.”
Anger and fear rooted Olivia to the spot. It had been years since she’d been confronted by the demons of her past. Those dark, sinewy fingers of dread that crippled her mind and soul had returned. She felt as if she were tumbling backward through the years. Through a tunnel of black terror.
Olivia’s father had been addicted to gambling. Horse races, in particular. Any horse race: those he listened to on the radio, those he watched on television. But the ones he loved most were live action. His thrill meter soared the highest when he was in the crowd, cheering and stomping for his horse to cross the finish line.
She choked back the sour taste in her mouth.
When she was very young, her father drove her to Arlington International Racecourse near Chicago and showed her how to place bets. He went into great detail about the strategy he used, the amount of money he would win and all the wonderful things he would do for her and her mother once he “hit the jackpot.” Olivia hadn’t cared about the betting, but she had been mesmerized by the horses: their gait, the way the sun glinted off their shiny coats as their muscles strained with each gallop. She admired their majesty and the tilt of their heads in the winner’s circle, as if they knew they were the stars. They were the real trophies.
She’d revisited the memory of her first encounter with horses often in her life. She only wished it had not been juxtaposed with the disappointment and betrayal of her father’s disease.
When Olivia was twelve, her father had drained the family savings account, surreptitiously taken out a second mortgage on their home and run up a mountain of credit-card debt by taking cash advances. All the rehabilitation meetings and counseling sessions that Julia had dragged him to hadn’t made a dent. He continued to borrow from friends, claiming the money was for Olivia or some other lie he’d concocted. Finally, one night during a screaming match between her parents, Julia had asked for a divorce.
Olivia’s father left the next morning and never contacted them again. Julia had no formal education, but she was an excellent cook. With the help of Ann Marie Jensen, who co-signed the lease for the space that would become the Indian Lake Deli, Julia began her catering business. It took every last cent Julia had hidden for Olivia’s college fund to pay off her father’s debts and to keep the deli open in those early years, but together Olivia and her mother had survived.
The shameful years. That was what Olivia had called them when she was younger. Kids often whispered behind her back or bullied her. But her real friends, like Sarah, Maddie and Isabelle, had stuck by her and got her through. It had been Sarah’s idea to help Olivia get over her fears by forcing Olivia to accompany her to dressage classes.
She couldn’t afford the lessons, of course, but Sarah had insisted she just come along and watch, maybe take photos of her. And it had been fun. Sarah had helped Olivia realize that horses were not just beautiful, but also intelligent and not to be feared. Eventually, Olivia realized that it was her father’s addiction that terrified her, not the horses. In fact, Olivia believed she understood not just horses but all animals, too, more than she understood humans. What she wished for horses was freedom to run unencumbered by a rider, especially a jockey, whose sole purpose and drive was to win a race.
Olivia had never forgiven her father. She blamed him for all the difficulties she’d faced, and for having to stay home and work when almost all her friends went off to college. She’d developed an abhorrence for horse racing and anything associated with the sport. She despised gambling and though several casinos had opened nearby, she hadn’t even driven past them.
As she stood in Gina’s kitchen, Olivia was astounded that the Barzonni family was in league with what she considered the pond scum of all sports. But she was here for a job, and she had to stay professional.
“Gina, what can I do?”
Gina tapped the spoon on the edge of the soup pot then gently laid it in a blue-and-white spoon rest. “We should get on with it.”
Olivia knew Gina’s thoughts were just as much in the past as hers were. She could only hope the older woman’s memories were not as bitter.
“The bartenders are serving the wine. Would you mind putting out more canapés?”
“Absolutely. I brought spinach dip in a round of rye bread. Boiled finger potatoes filled with sour cream and salmon, and stuffed cherry tomatoes with herbed cream cheese.”
“Lovely. I got out some silver trays for you to use. Over there on the counter.” Gina nodded toward the far side of the kitchen near the butler’s pantry.
Just then Rafe walked in, wearing old jeans and a faded T-shirt that stretched across his broad chest like a second skin. His cowboy boots were scuffed. His black hair was windblown and ragged, but apparently, he didn’t notice or care because he didn’t make the first effort to smooth it.
“Hi,” he said, going to the refrigerator and taking out a protein shake. He popped the top and slugged it, tilting his head back as he drank.
Olivia watched his Adam’s apple bob up and down. Beads of sweat trickled down from his temples, past his strong jaw. When he finished, he wiped his mouth with his tanned forearm. Rafe was arrestingly handsome, yes, but there was also something dangerous and wild in his expression. He must be hurting so much right now, Olivia thought, remembering what Katia and Maddie had said about his relationship with Angelo.
“Raphael, did you wipe those boots outside?” Gina scolded him. Olivia got the impression her comment was out of habit more than necessity.
“I did,” he replied flatly.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart. How was your ride?”
“Good. Rowan really poured it on. It was as if he was running to show Pop how he could measure up, you know?”
“I do,” Gina replied, walking over to Rafe and putting her hand gently on his cheek. “He loved you a great deal.”
Olivia felt like an intruder as Rafe’s eyes filled with tears. She winced at the pain she both saw and felt. Gina seemed to have forgotten she was there, and she wasn’t sure Rafe had noticed her at all.
Rafe squeezed his mother’s hand. “I’ll go change. I’m sure Aunt Bianca wouldn’t think too highly of me in these clothes so soon after Dad’s funeral.”
“She always was a stickler for decorum. Probably another reason I was so anxious to leave home and travel halfway around the world to get away from her.” Gina laughed softly at her joke.
“You shower,” she said, pointing to the back kitchen door. “And then you can get Nate and Mica to help you with the tables and chairs for dinner.”
“Wi
ll do.” Rafe crossed the kitchen. As he stepped out through the back door, he glanced at Olivia. “See you later.”
“Sure,” she managed. She empathized with Rafe; he was obviously grief-stricken, and Olivia knew what it was like to lose a father. Yet Gina had just told her that Rafe was involved with horse racing, the evil of all evils. She should dismiss him. Dissolve the imaginary freeze-frame of him in his worn jeans and T-shirt, vulnerable yet masculine. But she couldn’t. Then again, it made sense that his presence would affect her so strongly. She’d been thinking about her dad, and here was Rafe, suffering a similar loss. But at the same time, Rafe represented everything Olivia loathed in this world.
Death always made people think, muddled them up. Olivia struggled to clear the fog from her brain and get back to her work. “I’ll get those appetizers for you, Mrs. Barzonni.”
“I have a table set up near the bar in the den.”
“I’ll take care of it,” Olivia assured her.
On her way to the van, Olivia suddenly wondered why Rafe would be going outside to take his shower. She looked over at the carriage house and saw that the door to the upstairs apartment was slightly ajar. That explained it.
Olivia had moved to her own one-bedroom apartment a few years ago, needing to get some space and independence from her mom, especially as they continued to work at the deli together. Now she lived on the first floor of one of the Victorian mansions on Maple Boulevard. It was a small space, but the twelve-foot-high, floor-to-ceiling windows filled her little kitchen and living area with light. There was a back entrance that was hers alone, and she’d lined the steps with pots of daffodil and tulip bulbs. The gardens in back were not as spectacular as Mrs. Beabots’s, but the yard was ringed with blue spruce, maples and oaks, and it provided a secluded respite from the world. She could understand why Rafe had wanted a place of his own, even if it was only a few steps from where his parents lived.
* * *
OLIVIA SPENT THE rest of the afternoon putting out food and helping her mother clean up in the kitchen, stealing whatever moments she could to give her condolences to Nate, Gabe and Mica. Twice, she approached the table where Rafe sat with his mother, her sister, Bianca, and the priest who had performed the funeral service, and twice, she backed away, unable to talk to him.
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