His and Hers (12 page)

Chapter Nineteen

Misty pulled the aging Buick into the front drive of the Trovato estate. The stone house perched atop the hill—barn and outbuildings spread along the back of the property toward the rows of smooth trunked olive trees. Dappled shade gave way to splotches of sunlight. A few workers trimmed wayward limbs. Others spread out nets beneath twisting branches, she assumed to capture the ripening fruit.

Exiting the car, Misty wondered at the business the Trovato family had planted here. How does one decide to start an olive oil company in a land more known for starting vineyards? Yet, the undeniable success of the Long Valley Olive Oil Company proclaimed Cain and Desiree’s parents had indeed found a niche market and were filling it nicely.

The only sounds were birdsong and a slight breeze rustling tree leaves. Somewhere, a fountain bubbled. Workers spoke low, rapid Spanish. Or was that Italian?

“Great! You made it!” Cain’s sister waved from the front steps of the stone house. She hurried down, and wrapped Misty in a friendly hug.

Misty followed Desiree up the stairs and inside the wide, double-front doors, considering the exotic young beauty. Dark eyes, raven hair that wound itself in spiral ringlets, a glitter of piercing caught the sun, just at the flare of her nose. She mirrored Cain in smile, and nature. Misty caught the sideways glance, realizing with certainty that Desiree was sizing her up as well, as Cain’s new girlfriend. The very thought brought a bubble of laughter to her lips.

All of twenty-five, Desiree was a young woman of multiple talents. The nicest surprise of which, was her abilities as a budding film editor.

Misty followed her inside the tiled foyer. The furnishings were tasteful, functional, and cozy. Faux painting warmed up walls in polished Venetian plaster of dark gold. Heavy framed artwork showed off oils of an impressionistic nature, thick blots of color and white fused together into several grandiose Tuscan landscapes. The almost illegible scrawl at the corner tickled the back of her brain. She remembered Cain mentioned something about their grandmother being an artist.

From the entry, the arms of the house spread out in a trio of hallways leading to other rooms. A grand switchback staircase with wrought iron banister rails led up to an open landing and the bedrooms above.

“Home sweet home.” Desiree breathed, tilting her head to admire the same view. “Come on. I’ll show you what I’ve been working on.”

“It’s lovely.” Misty offered, and meant it. “Is Cain back from the airport?”

“He said he’d be back by four, but I haven’t heard from him.” Desiree took the stairs two at a time. “We don’t have a lot of leeway here. I’ve loaded all the film clips and news reels. Scanned the pictures Cain brought home. Gorgeous shots, by the way. I don’t think I’ve ever seen these.”

“No one has.” Misty walked into Desiree’s domain. Monitors the size of large LCD television screens quickly revealed the girl had her own video edit bay in the study off her bedroom. She blew a slow whistle of approval, noting the latest version of programming software. “Cain didn’t mention you were a working film editor.”

“Freelance only, I’m afraid.” Desiree pulled her rich, thick dark hair into a ponytail on top of her head, and then settled in at her desk chair, flexing her fingers like a maestro about to conduct. “I studied at the college, always meant to get down to LA and give it a real go, but, you know. Family obligations.”

Misty nodded. That said it all, and affirmed what she’d witnessed. The Trovato clan was bound together, as opposed to her own family, scattered to the winds, only drawn together by major holidays, or the occasional crisis.

“Cain gave me your notes last night. I know you’re the expert, but let me show you what I’ve managed so far.” Desiree went on explaining her plan, revealing the scrawled storyboard for her concept.

Misty smiled, leaning forward at a clip of Grandma walking on the arm of some slick-haired, silver-tongued film executive. Desiree panned away from the pair and zoomed in to focus on a young Nona Darling’s face.

Grandma—at barely twenty years of age, gaze wide with wonder and fear, yet hazed with what Misty knew had been anti-anxiety medication. Pills the executives gave away to their young stars like candy.

Acid flooded her stomach at the sight. Misty rubbed the lines from her crunched forehead. Seeing her grandmother this way made her heart hurt. She’d have to push past that if she would be of any use to this project.

“You okay?” Desiree’s brows knit with concern. “You want some coffee, or water or something?”

“No. Let’s get to work.” She pulled up a chair to sit alongside and quickly found herself sketching out voice-over dialog and sound clips.

Desiree had a great eye for detail—that was obvious. Together, they built the outline of a fantastic, truthful, and yet tasteful featurette.

Misty swallowed, knowing she had Grandma’s full support. The knowing didn’t make it much easier, unfortunately. The story was ugly. Still, the truth they’d tried for years to keep under wraps was coming out regardless. Cain’s idea just allowed it to be on their own terms.

****

Hours later, Misty rubbed her bleary eyes and sat back to stretch. “Compile that and go again. We need a smash-cut to the scene at the clinic. Then fade over to the wedding photos, and end on credits for
His and Hers
.”

“The first film credited under the name Nona Darling.” Desiree’s hands flew over her keyboard. “I think that’s got it. What a great segue to your speech.”

“My speech!” Misty slumped, elbows on the desk, head in her hands. “Right.”

They’d decided the night before that now would not be the time for Nona to speak. This was between Todd and Misty, after all. She would take charge. Cain had made it sound a moral imperative. Last night, she’d been ready to head the battle and lead the charge. The harsh light of day played out a different story.

“You’ll be great.” Desiree gave her shoulder a reassuring rub. The ringing phone caught her attention. Mid-sentence, she changed her words from English to rapid Italian.

Misty looked up, observing how seamless Desiree made the transition. Neat, tidy. Just like her film edits. She hung up the phone and then pressed a button on her computer tower.

“I didn’t know you spoke Italian…” Misty gawked, genuinely impressed.

“Yeah, Cain’s better at it than I am. He and Grandpa are almost back from San Jose.”

The newly burned disc ejected with a whirr, and she placed it in Misty’s waiting hand. “Here you go. I told him you were running late, so they’re stopping to pick up your grandmother for dinner.”

Misty deposited the DVD in her bag. “I should call her—let her know they’re coming.” She reached for her cell.

“Cain already did.” Desiree stilled her with a light hand. “No worries. They’ll be here in about ten minutes. Let’s go down and take a walk through the groves. We’ll catch them coming up the drive.”

Misty followed her new friend down the switchback stairs, through the spacious marble-floored foyer. She pushed open double doors into what looked like an Italian movie.

Opera music filtered through hidden speakers, background to the flurry in the kitchen. She could barely see enough of the granite counters to admire the stone. A pasta maker and broad-rimmed pottery bowls had obviously done their task, now stacked in a haphazard tower by the apron-front sink.

A woman, who could only be Mrs. Trovato, unhinged a small copper sauté pan from the rack, a solitary bunch of drying herbs to sway over the scene. She hummed as she tipped golden olive oil into its bottom, followed by a pat of butter and clove of crushed garlic. The bubbling and sizzling from the six-burner stove—merely background to the aromas emanating from the double oven doors.

Misty had never seen or tasted pasta that hadn’t been poured from a plastic bag or box. She peered at the rows of long, wide, freshly pressed fettuccini noodles draped over drying racks. Beside, a butcher block cutting board overflowed with chopped onions, red, gold, and green peppers, and other produce in various states of preparation. Steam rose from an enormous pot of bubbling marinara sauce, filling the air with scents of tomato, sausage, and sautéed garlic.

Flour dusted the dark haired woman’s smiling face. She stood barefoot, dressed in jeans and a red blouse, a blue-checked dishrag stretched around her waist, tied as a makeshift apron. A quick turn from cutting board to bubbling pots, tossing in handfuls of freshly grated parmesan, snips of seasonings, and singing opera along with Andrea Bocelli.

Desiree stuck a spoon into the sauce and tasted, letting a sigh of pleasure escape her lips.

Her mother tsked her tongue in teasing disapproval, and retrieved the spoon. “You don’t help, you don’t taste.” The two hooked arms and turned toward Misty. “Let me take a look at your and Cain’s new friend.”

“Hey, Mama. Sorry we took so long.” Desiree made introductions, and her mother gave Misty a warm, startling hug.

“So glad to know you.” Cain’s mother squeezed her hand, grin a mirror of her daughter’s. “My son’s told me a great deal about you. And your grandmother. We’re big fans of Mrs. Darling in this house. We’ve got tickets for Saturday, and will be there offering our full support.”

Misty found the woman’s smile infectious. “That’s very kind of you, Mrs. Trovato.”

“You must call me Isabella. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.”

Misty flushed under Cain’s mother’s emphasis and scrutiny, but Isabella turned back to her daughter, ordering her to fill up a large copper pot with water. She then selected a bottle from the wine cabinet, and uncorked it with a pop. “I was beginning to wonder if you’d spend the whole evening up there in front of your computer. With your grandfather on the way!”

Desiree hunched her shoulders. “We’re done, Mama.” She slogged the pot to the stove, and lit the burner to high flame. Dipping another spoonful of sauce, she offered a taste of the rich, red marinara.

Flavors of tomatoes and fresh herbs filled Misty’s senses. She licked her lips, a glance to the pot, wondering if she could sneak another taste.

“Can we lend a hand?” Misty offered, regrettably depositing the spoon in the sink.

“Mama doesn’t accept a guest’s help in her kitchen,” Desiree said, handing Misty a chunk of fresh bread. “That is, until it’s time to do the dishes.”

“That’s right.” Isabella blew at her bangs, black like her daughters, but blended with salt-and-pepper gray. “Why don’t you two pour some Chianti and enjoy that gorgeous sunset.” She aimed an elbow at the open bottle, and continued to rinse out the fresh green spinach leaves in her colander. “And bring me back some fresh rosemary, eh?”

Misty followed Desiree out the backdoor, inhaling the ruby red aromas of the excellent Italian wine in the large bowled glass. The warm, drenching Long Valley sun lit the west-facing porch. Long shadows of late afternoon painted the landscape in broad strokes of blue-black shade. She first inhaled, sipped, and then drank from her glass, properly tasting the ripe berry flavors in the rich, red wine.

Desiree grinned in approval, and slugged a sip, rolling her eyes in approval of the flavor. They clinked glasses and drank again.

The groves spread out below the house, in the valley between two hills, and up a third in orderly rows of twisting arms, and gray leaves catching the light of sunset.

“So, how does one decide to start an olive orchard?”

“My mother’s parents made olive oil in Italy—their name’s still on the label even though it’s run by a corporation now. Mama and Daddy moved out here in the seventies. Planted the olive grove from seedlings imported from Italy. From shoots that began on my grandfather’s farm in Tuscany.”

“Most people think of this area as wine country.” She looked across the hills. The quilt of cross-hatched vineyards glowed under the amber sunlight in silent agreement.

“Olives thrive in the same warm climate as grapes—it’s very similar to Tuscany—Mama and Poppa have done really well.” She pointed out the boundaries of their property. “More work than they can handle, so Cain and I pitch in and help out.”

“Even though he’s a musician.” Misty’s mind drifted to his concert, and recorded tracks they used in compiling the featurette.

Desiree nodded. “He’s found a way to work it in to our summer schedule.” She took another drink, and then leaned her elbows to rest on the porch rail. Under her circling forefinger the glass rim thrummed a melody.

“And you?” Misty prodded. “You’re extremely talented to be serving olive oil all day, or waiting tables at night.”

“Thanks. Maybe someday I’ll make a go of it again. But this…” She pushed off, and then walked down and into the forest of gray-leafed trees. “It matters. It’s important to have roots.”

Misty eyed the twisting limbs above. The branches dripped with black and green clinging olives. Their footsteps crunched over the sandy path, down the hill, passing the barn as they strolled down the drive. She wondered at how often in the past few weeks her path had crossed with the Trovato clan.

Desiree interrupted her thoughts. “So, I’ve been meaning to ask. What are your intentions with my brother, anyway?”

Misty choked through her sip of wine, meeting the girl’s bemused gaze. “My intentions?”