The Spia Family Presses On

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to events or locales, is entirely coincidental.

THE SPIA FAMILY PRESSES ON

Copyright © 2012 by Mary Leo

Published by Pryde Multimedia, LLC

ISBN: 978-0-615-68534-2

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, digital, photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior permission of the author and/or publisher.

For Ma, who could cook up a Sunday pasta dinner the likes of which I’ve yet to see on any cooking show. For all those times we sat together on the back porch sharing warm Italian bread dunked in olive oil, while we watched the rain fall on the lush grapevines in the backyard. And for all those inspiring stories you made up while we cuddled in bed before I fell asleep. Our time together helped shape the woman I became and for that, I will be forever thankful. Miss you, always . . .

I could never have done this book without the support and love from my family and friends. They nourish both my creativity and my need for someone to laugh and cry with. I’m blessed to have each and every one of them in my life.

Many thanks to Janet Wellington for her editing expertise, her spot-on suggestions and her unwavering friendship. More thanks to my writing buddies, Chris Green, Sylvia Mendoza, Cheryl Howe, Lorelle Marinello, Ann Collins, Ara Burklund, and Judy Duarte, who encourage me each and every time we meet. To my favorite roomie and cheerleader, Lisa Kessler, for convincing me to join her at the RT convention in Chicago where we made our pact. To Erin Quinn and Calista Fox who helped restore the joy of writing.

A special shout out to Laura Haug who accompanied me to Sonoma and to Italy so I could do all my research. Thanks for all your patience and laughter. To Liz Jennings who is possibly the sweetest, most generous woman I know and who helps run the absolute best conference in the entire world, the Women’s Fiction Festival in Matera, Italy. Thanks need to go out to Donna Bagdasarian who helped shape this book into what it is today. To my sweet daughter, Jocelyn Hughes, for her constant encouragement, her unbridled love and for making me a grandma to possibly the most remarkable baby girl on the planet . . . at least I think so.
To her amazing husband and father of that remarkable baby girl, Paul Milton. To my talented and incredible son, Richard Hughes, who is always there whenever I need him.

To the members of RWA-San Diego. Hugs all around!

To my readers who really are the best!

To The Olive Press located in Sonoma, California, where all that golden liquid is made. A special thanks to Carol Firenze for her informative book:
The Passionate Olive: 101 Things To Do with Olive Oil.

To Erin Kost Gentile and her amazing master-chef husband Giuseppe Gentile who provided some of the recipes in this book. If you’re ever in L.A. drop by their restaurant, Pizzeria il Fico, for an unbelievably delicious Italian meal.

And finally to my compassionate, encouraging, and loving husband, Richter Watkins, who helps make all my most seemingly unattainable dreams come true.
Ti amo
!

“Athena . . .
posturing with Poseidon for dominion, sprung the first olive tree from the stone of the Acropolis . . . said the flesh of an olive was bitter as hate and scant as love, that it asked work to soften it, to squeeze the golden-green blood from it.”—
A Thousand Days in Tuscany,
Marlena De Blasi

I awoke out of my sleepy fog late Wednesday morning thinking now was the perfect time to take a vacation, a long vacation on an island somewhere with palm trees, white sandy beaches and suntanned, absurdly ripped single men all vying for my attention—a perfectly reasonable fantasy considering my pathetic life. I had been working nonstop for almost two years, a habit I’d gotten into after I gave up binge drinking and partying. My thirtieth birthday was fast approaching so it only seemed natural to take some time out to celebrate the momentous occasion.

Besides, I needed a break in a truly bad way. Our family business was finally in the black, and it was time to relax and allow myself some fun . . . sober fun. I was hoping that was still possible.

I considered getting out of bed and searching for island vacations on the Web, but the idea of it seemed taxing. Instead, I rolled over and snuggled in, wanting nothing more than to conjure up that white sandy beach with all those eager-to-please-me men when I heard someone running up my stairs and from the sound of those heavy footsteps, that person was in a hurry.

So much for sandy beaches and adoring men.

Grabbing my white terrycloth robe, I slid out of bed and made my way to the glass front door of my apartment where I saw my mother, Gloria Spia, holding onto the metal railing, looking as if those last few stairs were going to ruin her.

I swung open the door then held open the screen. I never locked either one at night; there wasn’t any need to. Living above Mom’s office, a converted two-car garage, on our olive orchard, the only people who had real access to this area of our land were relatives, a handful of trusted employees and close friends.

Mom never was one for strenuous physical exercise, like stairs. Her idea of a good workout was playing poker on Sunday afternoons with my two aunts and Federico, our groundskeeper.

“Mia,” she mouthed, but no actual sound came out, just heavy breathing.

My mom thought of herself as a tall, fifty-something
—
no one knew her precise age
—
slim woman trapped in a short, plump body. Because of this misconception, her sleeves and pant legs were always rolled up, and her blouses were always too tight. Today was no exception.

I pulled my rocking chair closer to the door, and she plopped down so hard I heard it creak under her weight.

“You are not going to believe who just called me,” she said, shaking her head then looking around me in the direction of my tiny kitchen. This was my cue to make the coffee. Mom had bought me my very own espresso machine for my last birthday knowing full well I only drank tea. She liked me to be equipped for her impromptu visits.

“Who?” I asked while preparing her a shot of espresso. I knew instantly whatever had her by the throat would require at least two shots, so I tossed in an extra scoop.

“I don’t understand how this could happen, Mia, especially now when this business is finally going to make us a sizable profit. It’s as if the son-of-a-bitch knew.”

The business she referred to was our olive oil business here in Sonoma, California. My family was into pressing and selling extra virgin olive oil, or EVOO as the now famous Rachel Ray would say.

“Mamma, talk to me.” I was leaning up against the faux granite countertop waiting for the machine to give up its last drops. When it finally gurgled, her face lit up like a kid’s on Christmas morning and I knew she would relax with the first sip.

“What a sweet girl you are, going to all this fuss to make me a cup of espresso. You always know just what I need.”

I rolled my eyes, poured the double shot in a white demitasse and brought it over to her along with a rose-colored sugar bowl and her favorite tiny spoon, all presents from Mom. I then sat across from her on my cushy blue sofa, crossed my legs and leaned forward, eager to hear what she had to say.

She took a sip, made an umm sound and settled in the rocker, a small floral pillow tucked behind her lower back. She gave herself a little push with her foot and said, “It’s your cousin Dickey. He’s out.”

This was not particularly good news. Truth be told, this was bordering on dreadful news. Dickey’s “out” was not the gay kind of “out.” His “out” could only mean one thing: big trouble.

“Last time I heard, murder was a life sentence,” I said, hoping there had been some sort of mistake, that she had gotten the facts wrong.

“They found new DNA evidence that cleared him.”

Now don’t get me wrong, I was all about springing the innocent because of advanced forensic techniques, but not Dickey. If he wasn’t guilty of one crime there were ten more following close behind. “And this is a problem for you because?”

“He’s a shit, that’s why. He was never any good to anybody, especially to your Aunt Babe, who had the good sense to divorce his sorry ass a long time ago, but now he’s coming here.”

You know how they say a person can feel the hairs on the back of their neck stand up? Well, I swear I could feel each and every one of those little guys wiggling around.

I uncrossed my legs, rubbed my neck and sat up straight. Cousin Dickey was potentially a huge problem with a capital C as in Cosa Nostra. Not that my family didn’t have its share of Soprano knockoffs, it did. In fact the entire olive ranch was swarming with recovering mobsters and born-again Italians. But Cousin Dickey was different. Way different. For one thing, as far as I knew, he was still a practicing member of the mafia. Family lore said he even had ties to ‘Ndrangheta, the single most powerful society of organized crime in Italy, possibly the entire world.

And let us not forget that mobbed-up Cousin Dickey once owned all our land.

“Why would he come here? He knows how much Babe hates him.”

Mom sighed. “It has nothing to do with Babe, or so he says. Dickey wants me to throw him a freedom party. He said it was the least I can do.”

“A what?”

“A freedom party to celebrate his release.”

Normally, whenever someone in my family was sprung from prison they hid out for awhile, kept a low profile just to make sure another goon didn’t have an old vendetta to fulfill, but apparently Dickey felt confident enough to forgo the usual precautions. This fact alone was disconcerting, but I figured we still had a few months to plan a festive mobster gala, plenty of time to get used to the idea of him being a free man and coming back to the orchard. I was thinking we could possibly put this carnival off for like, forever.