The Spia Family Presses On Read Free

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