It's not that it's not my dream, too, but my singular focus was recently interrupted. Getting pregnant was a personal development that left me gobsmacked. So was the realization that I'll be raising this baby on my own.
But, if there is one thing I know for certain, it's that I can't stand the idea of bringing a child into a world where my sister's killer roams free.
I'll do almost anything to get to the bottom of what happened to Maggie, and it starts with a trip to Olive Township.
Chapter 3
Hugo
There areplaces in the United States where March is a winter month. Here in the Sonoran Desert, March signals the beginning of spring. And, on warmer days, the start of summer. Not the real summer the desert is known for, but a taste. Anamuse-bouche, as my sister Vivi would say. The chef in her is always thinking about food, or something food-adjacent.
The climate here in my little corner of the world is hardly something to complain about. If it weren't for the arid desert and its relatively mild winters, my family wouldn't have an olive mill. I wouldn't have had a profession to fall back on following the close of my fencing career.
I swing my truck bearing the Summerhill Olive Mill name and logo into an empty spot in front of Sammich. Unaccustomed to the size of the truck, I end up bumping the curb with my front tires. I have a personal vehicle, a cherry red Audi R8. It's sexy and sleek and smooth, alladjectives I should ascribe to a woman. Despite that, they fit the car perfectly. I don't usually pass up the chance to drive my car, but I'm not clean enough to sit in her today.
Pruning olive trees is an arduous, dirty, and oftentimes boring task, and all morning I've been thinking about lunch. Days like today, when I wake up before the sun and make my way to the room I've turned into a home gym, leave me famished. It would've been easier to stop in at the big house, where my mom lives with my aunt on the Summerhill property, and grab something to eat there. But for hours now I've had my heart set on a double meat Bellamy sandwich, named after my best friend Penn's mom. She passed away last year, and Margaret, the owner of Sammich, promptly added her favorite sandwich to the menu. The double meat order is my twist on it.
The familiar yeasty scent of fresh bread envelops me as I walk through the swinging door. Margaret, positioned behind the cash register, beams when she sees me.
"I was wondering if you were going to mosey in here today," she says, planting one hand on her hip as she leans on the counter. Her gaze roves over me, taking in my dirty jeans, my equally filthy shirt.
"Oh yeah?" I ask, stepping up to the counter. "Why is that?"
"Pruning time always makes you hungry." A pleased twinkle makes its way into her eyes.
"You like to think you know me," I joke, crossing my arms and leaning back on my heels.
She makes a noise likehmph. "I've known you since you were running down Olive Avenue in diapers."
The corners of my lips turn down at her exaggeration. "I was always clothed."
Margaret grins, and I groan. I played right into her 'old embarrassing stories about Hugo' trap. "Except," she says, "that one time you unzipped your fly and tried to pee on a cactus."
Laughter sounds from a few feet away, and I turn. A woman I hadn't noticed when I walked in sits alone at one of the pub tables against the wall. She's turned away, her shoulder up, like she's trying to muffle her laugh.
I've never seen this woman before, not that I know everybody in town. Olive Township has grown exponentially in the last few years. All those restless Phoenicians, fleeing the bustle of a city that has also seen tremendous growth. I don't blame them. If I didn't live here, I'd want to.
I turn back to Margaret, exasperated.
She winks. "The next time I tell you that story, I'll be sure to say it quietly. Now, do you want your usual, double meat?"
I place my order, adding an iced tea and a white chocolate macadamia nut cookie, and settle at a table closer to the front of the place. At first I try not to stare at the woman, but soon give up. She's making it a point not to look up from her phone, or whatever else it is that has her attention, so I am free to stare at her back as much as I please.
Her chocolate brown hair draws the overhead light,shining under its harsh glare. It's the color that captures my attention first, followed by her shoulders and the skin left bare by her thin-strapped top. I'm a sucker for a set of shoulders, and hers are as perfect as they come. A feminine curve, a delicate climb up to the creamy skin of her neck. Shoulders are underrated, and unsung. I love them.
She shifts on her stool, crossing one leg over the other and tucking her shoes under the footrail at the bottom. As much as I'd love to let my gaze drop, wander over other parts of her, I force it away. A long, appreciative stare is one thing, but I don't need to be a creep about it.
Ventura, one of Margaret's granddaughters, approaches the woman. The young girl holds out a sandwich and fries, reciting the order as she sets it down. The woman glances left to speak to Ventura, and her facial profile comes into view.
A sound steals up my throat, the very opposite of a gasp, the sound I'd make if I were playfully punched in the gut.
That's how I feel, in a way. Like I've been punched in the gut. This woman is gorgeous.
Stop-traffic, chin-droppingly stunning. Straight nose, full lips, a Grecian goddess. In so many other instances I'd be on my feet, headed her way, snatching her up before another man could make a move. But here, in a sandwich shop in a small town, where it happens to be only the two of us eating in the middle of the afternoon, I stow my impatience. She's just received her lunch, and I don't want to interrupt her. My gaze falls to my jeans, caked with that persistent Arizona dust. It's probably nota great time to talk to a beautiful woman. My back pockets bulge with thick work gloves and pruning shears, and I'm sure I smell of sweat and the bitter smokiness of olive leaves.
I grab my iced tea and suck it down, nodding my thanks as Ventura slides my lunch in front of me. I tuck in, being very purposeful about where I place my eyeballs.
It takes me all of five minutes to polish off my sandwich, house-made chile-dusted chips, and cookie. I wipe my mouth with my napkin, balling up the paper and tossing it on my empty plate. And then it happens. I look up, just in time to catch the beautiful woman's eye.
