Alone in her cubicle, Kerry stared at the contract she’d trustingly signed on Charlie’s assurances that it was “practically a free giveaway,” reeling from the shock of having read it thoroughly and understanding, now, that the terms were far more advantageous to the parent company than to CookChic. Unable to think clearly about what she should do next, she made her way to the company cafeteria with the desperate hope that wine was sold with lunch.
The ultra-modern steel-and-glass expanse featured food stations with every imaginable cuisine provided to fuel workers who toiled the long hours that employment at LifeStyleXer apparently required. Sometimes, according to a cynical cube-mate named Jason who’d provided directions to the cafeteria, he slept under his desk when a new feature of the website was due to be launched. “It’s way cool that it’s open twenty-four/seven.”
Kerry noted the variety of ethnic choices: Thai, Chinese, Japanese, to say nothing of fragrant Indian curry and the heavenly aroma of Tandoori chicken, along with the sweet scent of steaming jasmine rice. Kerry had begun to feel queasy from her sleepless night and the flight across the country—to say nothing of the full scope of the upsetting situation that faced her, now that she’d read every word of her contract. She stood in line at the made-to-order salad bar in hopes that eating something light would settle her stomach.
“Next?” called out a short, dark-haired young man wearing a nameplate that identified him as “Tony Perez, Salad Associate.”
“I’ll take the Arugula Carpaccio, please, with the raspberry balsamic dressing on the side.”
The cafeteria worker gazed curiously across the counter. “Best choice we offer,” he complimented her, adding, “You just got here, right? You’re the new food blogger we just bought?”
Kerry gave a short laugh. “Well, yes... I do sort of feel as if I’ve been bought and sold. How’d you guess?”
He pointed at the ID around her neck.
“And you ordered the arugula with thin-sliced beef. Half the people who work here claim they’re vegetarians or vegans, and besides, it’s a new item and nobody wants to take a chance until I can tell them it’s a favorite with some of the bigwigs.” Tony Perez grinned as he began to assemble her order. “Also, I saw the announcement on the company website last week. Only a foodie would know what a killer salad this is,” he said, his smile growing even wider. “I only added it to the menu on Monday.”
Kerry smiled back, cheered by Tony’s enthusiasm for his work as she took the plate piled high with fresh greens, topped with paper-thin slices of grass-fed beef—or so the menu card on the glass case asserted
“I’ll let you know how I like it, but it looks wonderful.”
“And tell me what you think of the salad dressing. It’s made with locally-produced olive oil and raspberries from an organic farm just north of here.”
Kerry was immediately intrigued.
“You sound very knowledgeable about what’s going on in this neck of the woods. Can you give me the contact info for the local olive oil producer you mentioned?”
Tony shrugged. “Sure... I’ll come over to your table before you leave. I’m just getting off my shift.” He glanced at the clock that registered two p.m. “In fact, I was thinking about going over to Berkeley later this afternoon to pick up a case of Montisi Olive Oil at Amphora Nueva. Rumors are, they’re just delivering their latest press.”
“Really? It’s just been released?”
“Yeah. The Montisi ranch is up north, near Petaluma, forty minutes from here in Sonoma.” Tony hesitated and then blurted, “Wanna come with me to Berkeley? The olive oil store is fantastic! You won’t believe how much stuff they stock from all over the world!”
The brash young man was obviously eager to make friends with his company’s latest acquisition, despite his lowly status as “salad associate.” Kerry admired his moxie. And besides, it appeared as if he might be well connected to the food scene in the Bay Area. She was already worried about keeping up with the crazy deadlines stipulated by the sweatshop contract she’d unwittingly signed.
She smiled at Tony. “The olive oil store sounds like it might make for a good first blog post, but you’d better let me see how I like the salad. Talk to you in a bit.”
Kerry headed for a small table-for-two positioned away from the other diners. She was not in the mood to meet or talk to any of her fellow slaves. However, her spirits perked up the instant she sampled Tony Perez’s leafy concoction. The fresh, peppery arugula was complemented by the full-flavored slices of delicious carpaccio, and the entire assemblage was wrapped in a smooth slurry of rich, fragrant olive oil with an after-burner hit of raspberry-flavored balsamic vinegar.
It was brilliant!
She was just rising from her chair to find Tony when the young man came bounding over.
“Well?” he demanded.
“It’s absolutely wonderful!” she declared. “The blending of flavors and textures is first rate, and the freshness of all the ingredients—”
“Then you wanna go over to Berkeley with me? The people at Amphora Nueva are kinda friends of mine. They sell only the best stuff—and can tell you all about the scams in the olive oil biz!”
Tony’s enthusiasm was infectious, but first she had to have it out with Charlie about the Addendum that he’d signed in her stead without telling her.
“What’s your cell number?” she asked. “I just checked into my cube and I have a few things I need to take care of. Can I call you and let you know if I can make it? If not today, then I’d love to go there with you another time.”
Tony whipped out his cell, got her email address and phone number, and sent her his contact information as well.
“I need to leave by no later than three-fifteen,” he warned, “otherwise the traffic across the Bay Bridge is killer.”
Kerry nodded, her thoughts careening between several story ideas based on what Tony had told her and her burning desire to tell Charlie Miller exactly what she thought of him for the second time in a single day.
“I’ll call you either way,” she promised. “And thanks! You’ve been the nicest thing that’s happened since I got here.”
***
Kerry figured that the quickest route to finding Charlie in the huge office complex was to ask for directions to Vice President Beverly Silverstein’s office. Once there, however, another junior assistant type leapt up from a chair inside the glass-fronted conference room where Kerry spotted Charlie, along with their mutual boss and several other jeans-clad whiz kids, as well as a man who might have been approaching fifty.
Kerry wondered if the adult supervisor-looking guy was LifeStyleXer’s CEO, Harry Chapman, gathered with his inner circle around the polished, oval glass table where one of their number was giving a Power Point presentation with a display of brightly colored pie charts.
Kerry heard a whoosh of air as a painfully thin young guard dog pushed open the conference room’s glass door and rushed toward her before Kerry could rap her knuckles on the transparent wall and embarrass Charlie so he’d come out in the hall.
“I’m sorry, but you can’t go in there... they’re in a meeting,” the twig of a woman added, stating the obvious. She swiftly handed Kerry an envelope as if she somehow knew the visitor was due to arrive. “Beverly said to give you this.”
Startled, Kerry stared at the missive the young woman had practically shoved into her hands.
“What is this?”
“Your housing voucher for the W Hotel down the street. You have two weeks free lodging until you find a place to live,” she said with a bright smile.
“Two weeks?” Kerry protested. “In a city with a zero vacancy rate and eleven blog deadlines from hell? That’s ridiculous! Where will Charlie Miller and I keep our furniture when it arrives from New York?” she demanded.
Glancing worriedly over her shoulder, Beverly Silverstein’s messenger grabbed Kerry by the arm and with surprising force for an anorexic, guided her a few feet down the hall toward the elevator.
“Shhh... there are some high-level discussions going on in there about the IPO!” she admonished. “I was told that Charlie would help you sort out your belongings when they came and—”
“Charlie!” she echoed, shocked that an underling would be on a first-name basis with an employee who had arrived less than two hours earlier. “How the hell do you know what that rat man Charlie Miller would or wouldn’t do?”
She glared over her shoulder at the man himself who, by this time, had turned in his chair and was staring nervously back at her.
Kerry held his glance for a long moment as a warm, pulsing sensation flooded up her arm. She glanced down at the Claddagh ring whose center had turned pearly white.
Smile sweetly and make a dignified retreat!
The voice in her head was adamant and she chose, at that moment, to believe it was her own good sense that advised her to get away from the conference room as fast as her legs would carry her before she decked the young woman now clutching her other arm.
“Ah... okay, then,” she said, tugging free.
For some reason she had a moment’s sympathy for the messenger who had been tasked to give her such an ignominious brush-off. At a mere twenty-something, the poor, skinny excuse for a human being had already sold her soul.
Kerry somehow summoned a smile.
“You try to have a nice day, won’t you?” she addressed her latest minder. “And when you get something to eat after the meeting—and I hope that you will—try the arugula and carpaccio salad in the cafeteria. It’s fabulous!”
***
Kerry made fast work of checking into her assigned room at the W Hotel on Third and Howard streets where a reservation had been made in her name—only—by “LifeStyleXer’s Vice President, Beverly Silverstein, herself,” the desk clerk admiringly informed the new guest. “I hear that’s a cool company to work for,” she added, noting, “I’m just finishing up my degree in computer science at SF State. Could I get in touch with you, Ms.—” she glanced down at the registration, “... Ms. Hannigan, when I graduate? Maybe you could put in a good word?”
Still steaming that Charlie’s latest girlfriend had plotted every aspect of their arrival in San Francisco, Kerry grabbed her key card off the front desk and snapped, “Contact Beverly Silverstein directly and see how much she helps you!”
By three o’clock, she had unpacked her belongings, reached Tony Perez by mobile phone, and was standing curbside when a battered VW Jetta drew up to the hotel’s entrance.
“Hop in... we gotta get over the bridge before it’s bumper to bumper,” he directed.
Traffic was sluggish, but moving, as they crossed the four-and-a-half mile expanse of water separating San Francisco from the East Bay communities of Oakland—and a few miles further north—Berkeley, the university community nestled into hillsides with spectacular views back to the city. Then a thought struck her.
“Isn’t the Bay Bridge the one that collapsed in the earthquake?” she asked, suddenly apprehensive as she gazed out the car window at the enormous body of water whizzing by below.
“Way back in 1989,” he assured her cheerfully, “but they’ve done a retrofit.”
“Oh. Great. So... Tony,” she asked, wanting not to think about either the bridge, incipient earthquakes, or the impossible situation that had so suddenly been thrust upon her today, “tell me, how did you became Salad Man at LifestyleXer?”
Tony, his eyes on the road, gave a short laugh.
“My parents were field workers, you know? From Mexico. I was the eldest, so I grew up making the meals for everyone in my family when they crawled home at the end of the day, down in Castroville.” Tony paused, adding with a big grin, “You know Castroville, dontcha? ‘Artichoke Capitol of the World?’“
Kerry nodded. She’d done her research about the agricultural bounty in California.
“Well, even as a little kid, I always liked to cook,” he said with a shrug, “and when I flunked out of community college because I hated it—and I couldn’t afford culinary school—I decided two years ago to get hands-on experience, here in the city, and learn as much as I can while I keep an ear out for a job at one of the top restaurants.” He looked across the passenger seat and grimaced. “I know that sounds pretty cocky... that I could go from a cafeteria to a name restaurant... but I think I’m really good.”
Kerry thought with a stab of guilt how Angelica had cheerfully spent more than fifty thousand dollars on Kerry’s tuition at the CIA, and here was a guy willing to slave in a cafeteria to be able to do what he loved.
“Well... based on that salad of yours I ate today, I don’t think you’re too cocky at all. I’m guessing that you have everything it takes to become a great chef.”
Tony’s tanned complexion took on a glow, his pleasure at hearing her words obvious.
“Wow! And coming from you... double wow! Thanks! And I guess this is the time I should admit I am a huge fan of your CookChic blog... and have been ever since you began posting.”
Kerry was pleased by the fact that her blogs might be educating the next generation of great chefs and his kind words assuaged her guilt, somewhat, about not directly putting to use what she’d learned at the CIA.
Tony wound his car up Ashby Avenue, climbing successively higher into the Berkeley Hills with each turn in the road. At length, he made a right on Domingo and parked in the shadow of the massive Claremont Hotel, a shingled extravaganza from another era, he explained, that still hosted weddings and temporarily housed well-heeled out-of-towners visiting the UC Berkeley campus.
They parked and entered the cool confines of the “Amphora Nueva Olive Oil Works,” as it said on the business card Kerry grabbed from the counter. In the next moment, she heard a man’s voice call out at the rear of the shop to someone entering from the service door.
“Hey, Ren! Great to see ya! That’s your latest? Well then, just wheel that dolly right in here, my friend. I can’t wait to taste that first press of yours! We’ve all been waiting with bated breath.”
“We are so in luck!” Tony whispered loudly. “The rumors were true! That’s Renato Montisi himself back there,” he added excitedly, nodding in the direction of the rear of the large room that had rows of two-foot-high stainless steel olive oil dispensers lined along the wall. “Montisi Ranch usually presses their olives in mid-to-late November, and then delivers soon after, and I guess today’s the day!”
The store’s proprietor walked up to the tall, good-looking figure he had hailed as “Ren” who had wheeled in his dolly loaded with a large, stainless steel drum. Printed on its circumference was an olive branch logo and the words MONTISI RANCH OLIVE OIL.
From across the store, Kerry absorbed the view of the six-foot, broad-shouldered man delivering his wares and felt an unexpected flutter in her chest at the sight of his full head of dark blond, wind-blown hair that was barely tamed by a pair of pricey Ray Ban sunglasses perched just above his tanned forehead. About her age—or perhaps a few years older—his high cheekbones and square jaw, along with trim arms that were also tanned despite its being early December, made him appear more like a sought-after ski instructor than a rancher. She could also easily imagine him in an expensive suit and tie, addressing an audience in the LifestyleXer boardroom. Yet, here he was, wearing jeans, work boots, and a brown T-shirt with the same Montisi Ranch logo stamped in khaki green across a muscular chest that couldn’t help but capture a bystander’s attention.
“Hey, how’s everybody doing?” Ren asked of store owner Michael Bradley and his staff that had gathered in a circle around the dolly. “Yep, this is our latest press. Do you have some bread to give it a taste?”
“C’mon!” exhorted Tony in a harsh whisper. “Let’s get in line!” He grabbed her arm and hustled toward the small crowd in the back. “Hi,” he boldly addressed the group. “I’m Tony Perez and this is Kerry Hannigan, who just moved to San Francisco from New York. She’s the CookChic food blogger and I brought her here because maybe she’ll do a post about your latest product, Mr. Montisi... and also about the store,” he added hastily to the owner of Amphora Nueva.
Both men turned to stare at the interlopers while Kerry could feel her pale complexion flush with color. She was embarrassed by Tony’s brashness and a promise she’d write a blog about a new product she hadn’t even tasted yet.
“Oh, please,” she protested. “We don’t mean to interrupt...”
The man who had just delivered his latest harvest met her glance and a moment later was smiling broadly.
“You’re not interrupting,” he said, extending his hand in greeting. As soon as Kerry felt his palm wrapped around hers, she sensed a curious vibration traveling from the ring finger of her right hand, straight to her chest. “I’m Ren Montisi, and—as a matter of fact—I subscribe to your blog, so I’m very aware that you know your stuff.” He cast her a confident smile, releasing her hand. “You’re just in time to give me your opinion of this year’s first press.”
“I-I love olive oil, but I’m certainly no tasting expert—”
“All I want is your unvarnished reaction as a consumer. We bottled this only last week.”
Their eyes met and Kerry realized she was actually holding her breath. A strange current of... what? Excitement? Anticipation? Whatever the sensation was, Kerry had felt a second tremor pass from Ren’s hand to her solar plexus.
“S-sure...” she managed to stammer. “I’ll tell you what I think... honestly,” she added in the name of journalism.
He took a few small cubes from a basket of bread cut from a French baguette that the store owner had handed him and offered one to her and another to Tony. Then he put a small porcelain saucer beneath the spigot on the steel drum and allowed a stream of green-golden olive oil to fill halfway to the rim.
“Everybody ready?” he asked, his gaze making a sweep of his audience. Despite his smile, Kerry thought she noticed tension gathering at the corners of his generous mouth.
By this time, several other customers had joined the small throng, each holding a cube of bread between forefinger and thumb. Kerry leaned forward, followed eagerly by Tony Perez, and dipped her sourdough into the pool of oil, watching the bread quickly absorb the liquid like a miniature sponge.
She turned away from the group, popped the small square into her mouth, and allowed the bread and dripping oil to slide over her tongue. At first, there was a fresh, familiar taste of olives, soon followed by a sparkling, peppery finish she found utterly delicious. Like Tony’s raspberry salad dressing, it was one of the most wonderful flavors she’d ever tasted!
She turned back and again locked glances with the creator of this liquid gold. Eyes wide with astonishment at the complex flavors flooding her taste buds, she continued to slowly chew the bread and finally swallowed it.
“Oh... wow,” she pronounced on a long breath. “Oh, really wow! I have never tasted anything like this in my life!” She laughed and pointed to the big stainless steel drum, addressing the owner of Amphora Nueva. “Can you please decant about ten bottles of that for me?” she asked. “No, make that an even dozen.”
Ren Montisi was blatantly staring, eyes crinkling with relief he couldn’t disguise.
“No!” she assured him quickly, “I really mean it. I want to send this amazing stuff to friends as this year’s Christmas presents, instead of wine.” She took a step forward and gazed into amber eyes of variegated shades that reminded her of the colors in Central Park each autumn. With those amazing eyes and Ren’s dark blond hair, she speculated that the original Montisis must hail from the north of Italy. She held his glance and said, “I truly think this may be the best olive oil on the planet.”
“Have you been to Tuscany?” Ren asked.
“Yes, but I never tasted anything like this.”
“Sometime, go to the little village of Montisi—not far from Montepulciano—about forty miles south of Siena,” he said, flashing a dazzling grin as he confirmed her conjecture about his family’s origins. “The oil from the original Montisi groves rivals this... almost,” he added, continuing to look at her with unnerving interest, which prompted her to glance down at the Claddagh ring, rather than drown in his steady gaze. Its stone was pure white and pulsing.
Ask for an interview. Go see the ranch where the oil is produced!
Kerry was about to open her mouth to repeat these thoughts aloud when Ren said, “Why don’t you come see where we make this? We’re hosting a bunch of food writers like yourself at the ranch tomorrow, which means you’ll probably feel right at home. I’m sure Chef Jeremy can make room for one more place setting.”
She glanced over her shoulder at Tony. “Tony Perez and I work for the same company now. He’s in charge of salads at the LifestyleXer dot com cafeteria and is a big fan of your oil.”
Ren’s smile faded and he said, “Oh... well... perhaps since it’s two of you—”
Tony shook his head sorrowfully. “I gotta work tomorrow, but Kerry can tell me all about it. It’s her very first day in California, Mr. Montisi, and she can’t miss out on something like this.”
Kerry observed another of Ren Montisi’s faintly devastating grins spread across his handsome features as he turned to the owner of Amphora Nueva.
“Well, now, why don’t we decant thirteen bottles of Montisi’s finest for these nice folks?”
***
Ten minutes later, Ren fished into his back jean’s pocket and brought out a business card imprinted with his ranch’s logo that he handed to the young woman with the shoulder-length, jet black hair and totally arresting sapphire eyes. He couldn’t believe his luck running into one of the major food bloggers in the country. And what a stunner! What was she doing in this store on this day, he marveled?
“Here’s where you come tomorrow,” he explained. “Do you think you can find your way to us? On a Saturday, it should take you about forty-fifty minutes up Highway 101 from the city. We’ll be serving wine and iced tea and a few things to nibble on at twelve and we’ll sit down to lunch at about quarter to one.”
He’d never wanted anyone to accept an invitation to see the ranch as much in his life as he did Kerry Hannigan. Jeremy had been the first to talk about her blog and her philosophy about how America should eat food grown close to its source. “The Hundred-Mile Diet” had become a cliché in Northern California, at least, but the woman standing only a few feet from him had a way of telling stories within her blog posts that won his rapt attention and admiration from the first time he’d read her work.
He would never admit to anyone that he’d studied her picture on her website late one evening, but it was nothing compared to seeing first hand that lovely pale skin with cheeks that blushed when she was excited, as he’d observed earlier when she’d tasted the oil-infused cube of bread. And despite all the food she must consume for her job, she had a slender figure, but one with curves right where they should be. She couldn’t be more than five-feet-four, which was so different from—
He didn’t want to make comparisons. Studying Kerry Hannigan’s every gesture, he had the strangest inclination to take her in his arms to see if she’d fit snugly under his chin...
She was talking to him now, he realized with a start.
“Would it be possible to show up at your ranch... say, at ten-thirty,” she inquired politely, “so I could do a quick interview and you could show me the olive groves and your production facility before the hordes arrive? And may I take some photos for my blog?”
“Absolutely, but can you make that eight-thirty?” Ren countered and then grimaced. “I know that’s ridiculously early, but I’ve got to be on tap for my staff getting ready for that big busload of your fellow writers due to arrive sometime before noon. That way, we can walk the groves and see the vegetable garden and the lavender fields, and then sit down in my office with some coffee to talk before things get too hectic.”
“Perfect!” she exclaimed, and he was exhilarated to see by the color staining her cheeks, evidence that she was clearly excited at the prospect of visiting the ranch.
“And if you have a tight deadline tomorrow,” he ventured, “while we wait for the other food writers to arrive—or after they depart—you can use my computer, if you want or need to. I’ll be busy being the genial host.”
He was determined to offer the woman every courtesy to smooth the way for a possible mention in her influential blog. If she used his office, he thought with a sudden sense of pleasure that raised his flagging spirits, she’d hang around the ranch a little longer and that would be great on its own merits.
Ren struggled to bring his thoughts back to the business at hand. A relieved expression lit up her lovely features.
“Borrowing your computer would be a huge help,” she said. “I’ve just been assigned an extra blog post every Saturday, so I’ll definitely take you up on your offer after everyone leaves, if I may.”
“It’ll be all yours,” he said with a laugh. “By then I’ll be on cleanup duty.”
It seemed like some sort of miracle that this amazingly talented star of the food world wanted to tour his family’s domestic olive oil operation and taste Jeremy’s wonderful food made from ingredients grown within steps of their commercial kitchen.
Finally, he thought, the Montisi Olive Ranch and its manager might be getting a few breaks, as a spreadsheet flashed through his mind with some discouraging profit-and-loss totals at the bottom.
***
For Kerry’s part, Renato Montisi would have been amazed to know what was whirling in her head as the clerk assembled the bottles of olive oil on the desk and began to wrap each one for transport to her friends and relatives on the East Coast.
Her mind was filled with a sense of what she could only describe as unbridled euphoria. Thanks to this astounding meet-up, not only would she get to interview the personable producer of a wonderful artisanal product, she’d also meet a raft of fellow food writers in person, instead of merely online. Even better, she already knew she’d get at least three or four blog posts out of seeing the olive groves, the bottling facility, and dining with nationally known culinary critics. Maybe she could even recruit some of them to do what she did, but in their own cities?
Relief swept over her at the thought that in one fell swoop, she could make her first week’s crushing deadlines and suggest some viable names with whom to launch the LifestyleXer/CookChic brand in ten major markets, as she was contractually obligated.
And it had all happened on her first day in California! She glanced at her right hand. Surely the Claddagh ring couldn’t take credit for everything?
Tony broke into her jumble of thoughts.
“You can borrow my car tomorrow,” he offered, almost worshipfully, his attention glued—not on her—but on the bottles of olive oil that Amphora Nueva’s proprietor had already decanted and had handed to him, corks firmly in place.
“Thanks,” Kerry replied, turning to offer her new friend her heartfelt appreciation. “That’s very sweet of you, but I’ll just lease a rental.” To Ren Montisi she added, “This is so nice of you to make time for me, given all that you have to do tomorrow. I’m really grateful—and I absolutely love your olive oil!”
She lowered her eyes with embarrassment in reaction to Ren’s look of mild amazement. Was he so unaccustomed to such high praise for his wonderful product, she wondered?
He’s intrigued with you, you ninny!
Startled, she glanced down again at her right hand in time to see the ring wink in a flash of white. She moved closer to the counter where she gave the clerk a credit card for the twelve bottles that had been filled for her at the back of the store, and then insisted on paying for Tony’s as well.
“You told me about this place and drove us here,” she announced firmly.
She seized the pen to sign the purchase slip and couldn’t help but notice that the ring’s emerald gemstone had once again turned opalescent. The next thing she knew, the voice in her head rang out for the third time since entering the shop.
Good going, my girl! Today’s events will prove excellent for more than just your blog...
***
On Saturday morning, Kerry was thankful for her rental car’s GPS that easily guided her through the empty streets at seven-thirty a.m. in downtown San Francisco to the Golden Gate Bridge that led north to Marin and Sonoma counties. She felt a thrill as the two orange-colored steel towers rose up, reassuring beacons that she was on the right road. She gave a quick glance to her left and took in the wide expanse of the Pacific Ocean where the morning sun spread a layer of gold stretching all the way to China, it seemed. On her right side, the enormous oval that was San Francisco Bay was dotted with a few large and small craft making ivory trails in the churning waters around Alcatraz and Angel islands.
Less than forty minutes later, just as Renato Montisi had directed, she took the exit before Petaluma Boulevard and followed successively narrower roads through gently rolling hills dotted with oak trees and cattle, until she spotted a wooden sign carved with bas-relief olives on a branch of a tree. She made a left turn down a tarmac road that wound into its own eight-hundred-acre valley with groves of sage-green olive trees marching up and down the hills on either side of her car.
Kerry inhaled deeply of air scented faintly with lavender and rosemary and thought she’d landed squarely in some uncharted corner of heaven. At the next bend in the road she noted that an entire field was planted, not with olive trees, but with rows and rows of lavender bushes, devoid of blooms in December, but stately in the way their sage stalks blew gently in the morning breeze.
She passed through a pair of stone stanchions, drove another quarter mile on hard-packed dirt, rolled to a stop on a wide, gravel turn-round and spotted Ren, once again clad in jeans and work boots. Today, he looked handsomer than ever in a collared, dark green polo shirt, no doubt worn in honor of the impending arrival of the nation’s top food writers.
He advanced toward her across the parking area in front of a low-slung, corrugated steel building she assumed housed the olive pressing facility. Two Labradors—one black, one chocolate-colored—danced excitedly around their master.
“Meet Scusi and Prego,” he announced as she emerged from her car’s driver side. He pointed to his left. “Ciao, the barn cat, is in the lavender bushes over there. C’mon, hop into my truck for the Grand Tour. The dogs will follow us and get some exercise as I show you the ranch.”
Kerry gingerly climbed into his truck’s cab, happy she’d decided against wearing a sundress and sling-back heels in favor of a tapered pair of navy trousers, rubber-soled red flats, and a navy-and-white striped sweater with a red cardigan slung across her shoulders.
“It’s really great you’re willing to spend some time with me at such an early hour and before that gaggle of food critics descends on you for lunch.”
“Best part of the day,” he said, briefly glancing across the truck’s passenger seat and offering her a mildly rueful grimace. “Actually, I was worried because my chef was a bit under the weather this week, but everything seems well in hand this morning.” He piloted his khaki colored pickup truck along a road flanked by an expanse of olive trees in all directions. “Ah...” he said, pointing through the windshield, “here’s the view I wanted you to see.”
The pair exited the truck and stood on a rise that offered a panoramic vista of gentle hills intersected by even more rows of mature olive trees. The groves were bordered by another collection of waist-high lavender bushes.
“The flowers make their appearance in May and June, as do swarms of bees which, as you probably know, are essential to propagating all sorts of things we grow here.”
Kerry concluded that the plants’ mere presence accounted for the faint scent in the air she had detected earlier and that she loved so much. In the distance were several more lavender fields, “to encourage as many bees as possible to visit us,” he elaborated.
She cast a sweeping gaze at the entire landscape and said softly, “We could be in Tuscany right now. It’s... just gorgeous.” She glanced sideways and was struck by the faintly Roman cast to Ren’s profile. “I bet your family couldn’t believe this scenery when they first saw it.”
“Exactly right,” he answered, indicating they should continue down the dirt road on foot. “The story goes that the minute that my great-grandfather, Renato Montisi, Senior, arrived from Italy and saw this land just before the turn of the twentieth century, he and his wife had just enough money to buy ten acres. Every cent he earned thereafter went into purchasing the other seven hundred and ninety.”
“So your grandparents and parents chose to raise olives, too, instead of grapes?” asked Kerry. “Isn’t it pretty rare that a family business survives more than three generations?”
“Well, in our case, it didn’t,” Ren replied, staring off into the distance. “Except for naming me after his grandfather, my father was the rebel. Went to law school at Cal and wanted nothing much to do with ranching after that.” He paused and then continued. “Both my parents died in a private plane crash flying out of Palm Springs in bad weather. I came to live here with Nona Concetta when I was twelve. My grandfather, Renato, Junior, died three years ago, so I chucked Silicon Valley—which, trust me—I was only too happy to do,” he added with a grim smile, “and took on the management of the ranch from my grandmother, who will be ninety-two next year.”
Kerry thought of Angelica and how much she missed her already, wondering what Ren’s grandmother was like, a woman a decade older?
By this time, Prego and Scusi had caught up with them and followed in their wake down a steep section of the road that ended in a small creek bed at the bottom of the ravine.
Kerry stole a quick look at her host’s left hand and asked, “And so... you are the third Renato Montisi, yes? Is there a Renato Quattro you’ll be training to take over here someday?”
After all, not every man wore a wedding ring.
Ren shot her a puzzled look. “You’re asking am I married, and do I have children?”
Kerry flushed, embarrassed by her obvious probe. She expected some sort of scolding jolt to shoot up her arm from the Claddagh ring, but felt no such sensation. Before she could apologize, however, Ren turned to meet her glance.
“Yes, I was married, but no children. My wife died several years ago as a result of a skiing accident.”
“Oh,” she said on a swift intake of breath. “Oh, I am so sorry, Ren. You’ve lost your parents and your wife, and your grandfather, too. That’s awful... and I apologize for bringing it up. I was just being a nosy reporter.”
She was startled when he placed his hand on her arm and gave a slight shake of the head.
“You don’t need to apologize. You wanted to know about the ranch and my role here. It’s fine. Really.”
Once again, at his touch, a strange tingling spread up her arm and the moment seemed suspended in space as if they’d slipped off the time wheel and were simply there together with clear, crystalline space surrounding them.
Ren turned and pointed. The tree-filled hills came back into focus.
“Would you like to see how honest olive oil is made?” he asked.
All Kerry could manage was to offer a slight nod and follow him back uphill to where he’d parked his pickup truck.