The Spia Family Presses On - By Mary Leo Page 0,84

concentrate on the task at hand.

But what about Dickey, a little voice echoed in my ear. What about the ring? And your trashed apartment?

“Over here,” Maryann yelled while standing on a ladder that leaned on a branch of one of the trees that produced Coratina olives, creating an oil that had a fruity fragrance, but a slightly bitter, spicy flavor. I forced myself to think of a tasty arugula salad with goat cheese and red onions that begged for our Italian blend oils. How these trees were to Italy like our Mission olive trees were to California. How Uncle Federico had imported them less than five years ago to add the oil to our Italian blends, and how well they had grown in our rich soil.

Incredibly, I was feeling better. Feeling one with the olives. With nature. With my bucket. My olive rake.

With my very own vertical wooden ladder, always at the ready, which I always kept in the back of my truck this time of year. I slid it out and was thinking of setting it up under Maryann’s tree when the vision of the endless sea of bright orange catchnets attracted my attention. The entire area was covered in a blanket of orange. They’d been put down in the last few weeks to trap the fallen olives. It had taken six men three weeks to put them down.

The refection off the nets caused the silvery trees to glow orange in the warm sunshine giving off a fun Sesame Street effect. As if Miss Piggy and Big Bird lived in our orchard and children would be hanging out of the trees playing hide and seek. At least that was the thought that always came to mind whenever I saw the catchnets.

Today was no exception. The bright orange always made me happy, and I was really trying not to let anything get in the way of that feeling.

As I walked over to Maryann, who was now waiting for me, I reflected on the hard truth that I now carried a house key in my hip pocket, something I hadn’t done for the entire two years I’d lived on the property. Something I had grown accustomed to. It was like living in a safe, small town and I liked it. Liked the fact that I never had to worry about break-ins or crazed killers. Too bad it had been a big fat lie. A false sense of security. The crazed killer was living in my very own house. Well not exactly in my own house, but close enough to walk in whenever he or she felt the need.

Of course, it had taken me almost a half-hour to locate an actual key; my mom had it hanging on a hook in her kitchen cupboard, along with every other key she owned, but who squabbles over such minor inconveniences when the entire ship was sinking. And for all intents and purposes, this ship was taking on water at an alarming rate.

But I was there to pick olives, and to be happy with the sight of our orange catchnets and not to ponder un-recovered gangsters. One of whom was probably the same dude who killed Dickey, chopped off his finger, threatened me, tried to run us off the road and trashed my apartment looking for the ring.

But it was all in the family.

The family that kills together . . .

“How’s it going?” I asked Maryann once I arrived under her tree.

“Great,” she said. “It’s going to be a good harvest.”

The catchnet was littered with olives, and dozens of red bins, filled with olives, were stacked on the side of the road waiting to be picked up.

I leaned my ladder up against a sturdy looking tree limb on the next tree over, knocking the branch a couple times with my ladder to make sure I didn’t hear any cracking sounds, a sure sign the limb wasn’t strong enough to hold me.

“Mia?” a voice called behind me. I turned, and there jogging toward me was Adonis, or Giuseppe, if I wanted to use his formal name. I preferred Adonis. It had that ethereal quality that I so needed at the moment. Thinking he was just another Wise Guy in my sea of Wise Guys was simply too disheartening.

So yes, it was weird that he was calling me by my name and was jogging toward me—my own personal fantasy coming to life—but in this family nothing surprised me anymore.

The morning sun glistened off his shiny hair, which