It's sad, really. There used to be a running joke in Olive Township that a person couldn't throw an olive pit without hitting a De la Vega. That joke expired a while ago.
"Who needs the others?" Vivi likes to scoff, adding, "The cream rose."
My sister, thirteen months my junior, is known for saying the most unbelievable things.
Stepping through my front door into the waning late afternoon sun, I take the extra ten seconds to fish my keys from my pocket, waiting for the thudded slide of the deadbolt.
Plenty of people wouldn't think to lock their front door all the way out here, ensconced in desert and olive orchards. But not me. I've never been able to shake the fear, ever-present and ugly, that coils low in my stomach. The person who murdered my dad was never caught.
You'd think nearly twenty years would be enough time to dull the fear, but it's not. It serves as a reminder that justice is a gift, and it's not given to everyone.
My dad's murder took more than his life. It stole a nine-year-old's innocence and naïveté. Made me jaded, paving the road for the distance I keep between myself and women. Arm's length is about where I can stand them.
The thought causes a certain chestnut-haired beauty to materialize in my mind. The way she tilted her head and smiled. Flirted. Using those feminine wiles on me for a story. Those tears though...were they real? Because they looked it. She's either a good actress, or...No.She wasn't genuine. It was an act, all for the purpose of getting my guard down. Not that my guard is all that visible to most people. I am talented in the art of being Happy Hugo. Carefree. Nice. It's not an act, but it is a wall. I know it's there, I know it's unhealthy, but it's not something I'vemanaged to scale. I keep it there, because who am I without it?
Nobody, especially a showstopper with ulterior motives, is getting through.
I push across the field of short grass, cutting over the dirt road that leads to the looming big house. It's an imposing structure, big enough to house my family comfortably, and host the extended family when they visit.
I let myself in the back door, toeing off my work boots and stowing them on the shoe rack. My mother is a very relaxed person, but not when it comes to work boots in the house. She was always shooing my dad back with her hands, frowning with a furrowed brow until he deposited the shoes where they belonged.
Smells of oregano and chili powder lure me to the kitchen. Vivi stands at the stove, dark hair gathered in a ponytail high on her head. In one hand she holds a glass of red wine, in the other, an olive wood spatula.
"Smells good," I comment, walking up behind her and peeking into the cast-iron pan.
"I should hope so," she sasses, giving me a look.
Vivi's restaurant, Dama Oliva, is the best and nicest restaurant in town. Open only for dinner, and booked out for a month. She's the owner and head chef, and I'm proud of her. Usually it's the younger sibling looking up to the older, but I admire the hell out of her. She's the opposite of me, marrying her first boyfriend and making a home. It's not her fault the asshole turned out to have aproblem keeping his pants up when his administrative assistant was present.
"Where are the kids?" I ask, reaching around my sister and plucking a beefy crumble of finished taco meat from the pan. Vivi moves to smack my hand, but I'm too fast, popping the extremely hot meat into my mouth as I duck out of her reach. It's too hot and I end up wincing.
"Serves you right," she says, taking a slow sip of her wine while I suck air into my mouth in an attempt to cool down the food. "Everly and Knox are being spoiled by Grammy and Auntie Carmen. Where else would they be?"
"Running wild through the orchard."
"As children should."
Elbowing her gently until she gives me her wine, I grumble, "I almost whacked Knox in the head with a shovel." Scared me half to death, the way Knox appeared out of nowhere. Little guy had no idea what almost happened, but he loved the way I dropped the shovel and gathered him up into my arms. I snorted into his neck to make him laugh, and relished in the sound.
Drinking half of Vivi's wine in one gulp, I offer her the glass, but she waves it off. "I'm not drinking after you. You have?—"
"Cooties?" I pull a face. "Really?"
She sniffs. "I was going to say syphilis."
I laugh as I watch her pour herself a fresh glass from a half full bottle. She swirls the ruby liquid, scrutinizing the way it clings to the sides of the glass.
"Does it have legs?" My lips widen with pride at myuse of the term she taught me.Legsare the droplets on the sides of the glass after swirling.
"Yes," she answers, giving the meat in the pan a quick stir. "I'll talk to Mom. Ask her not to let the kids run around the grove."
"She wasn't far off. But they're faster than her. She either needs to learn how to roller-skate or keep them out of the fields during the week when everyone is working."
It's not like it was when we were kids, and we both know it. My mom on the other hand, not so much. She still sees Summerhill as a family-run small operation, and remembers the way our dad trekked through the trees with us taking turns sitting on his shoulders. And then, when we were older, the way Vivi and I pelted each other with fallen olives.
Since I took Summerhill over two years ago after I retired from fencing, it's grown nearly as fast as Olive Township. I'm not done yet, either. I've pushed into creating a wedding venue, and agrotourism. It's going to be everything my dad never thought to dream of. Everything he didn't know was possible, because his life was cut short.
A stampede of little footfalls announces my niece and nephew's impending arrival. They blow into the room, a whirlwind of chaos and euphoric smiles.
