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.”