Ring of Truth (6 page)

Startled, she glanced down again at her right hand in time to see the ring wink in a flash of white. She moved closer to the counter where she gave the clerk a credit card for the twelve bottles that had been filled for her at the back of the store, and then insisted on paying for Tony's as well.

“You told me about this place and drove us here,” she announced firmly.

She seized the pen to sign the purchase slip and couldn't help but notice that the ring's emerald gemstone had once again turned opalescent. The next thing she knew, the voice in her head rang out for the third time since entering the shop.

Good going, my girl! Today's events will prove excellent for more than just your blog...

***

On Saturday morning, Kerry was thankful for her rental car's GPS that easily guided her through the empty streets at seven-thirty a.m. in downtown San Francisco to the Golden Gate Bridge that led north to Marin and Sonoma counties. She felt a thrill as the two orange-colored steel towers rose up, reassuring beacons that she was on the right road. She gave a quick glance to her left and took in the wide expanse of the Pacific Ocean where the morning sun spread a layer of gold stretching all the way to China, it seemed. On her right side, the enormous oval that was San Francisco Bay was dotted with a few large and small craft making ivory trails in the churning waters around Alcatraz and Angel islands.

Less than forty minutes later, just as Renato Montisi had directed, she took the exit before Petaluma Boulevard and followed successively narrower roads through gently rolling hills dotted with oak trees and cattle, until she spotted a wooden sign carved with bas-relief olives on a branch of a tree. She made a left turn down a tarmac road that wound into its own eight-hundred-acre valley with groves of sage-green olive trees marching up and down the hills on either side of her car.

Kerry inhaled deeply of air scented faintly with lavender and rosemary and thought she'd landed squarely in some uncharted corner of heaven. At the next bend in the road she noted that an entire field was planted, not with olive trees, but with rows and rows of lavender bushes, devoid of blooms in December, but stately in the way their sage stalks blew gently in the morning breeze.

She passed through a pair of stone stanchions, drove another quarter mile on hard-packed dirt, rolled to a stop on a wide, gravel turn-round and spotted Ren, once again clad in jeans and work boots. Today, he looked handsomer than ever in a collared, dark green polo shirt, no doubt worn in honor of the impending arrival of the nation's top food writers.

He advanced toward her across the parking area in front of a low-slung, corrugated steel building she assumed housed the olive pressing facility. Two Labradors—one black, one chocolate-colored—danced excitedly around their master.

“Meet Scusi and Prego,” he announced as she emerged from her car's driver side. He pointed to his left. “Ciao, the barn cat, is in the lavender bushes over there. C'mon, hop into my truck for the Grand Tour. The dogs will follow us and get some exercise as I show you the ranch.”

Kerry gingerly climbed into his truck's cab, happy she'd decided against wearing a sundress and sling-back heels in favor of a tapered pair of navy trousers, rubber-soled red flats, and a navy-and-white striped sweater with a red cardigan slung across her shoulders.

“It's really great you're willing to spend some time with me at such an early hour and before that gaggle of food critics descends on you for lunch.”

“Best part of the day,” he said, briefly glancing across the truck's passenger seat and offering her a mildly rueful grimace. “Actually, I was worried because my chef was a bit under the weather this week, but everything seems well in hand this morning.” He piloted his khaki colored pickup truck along a road flanked by an expanse of olive trees in all directions. “Ah...” he said, pointing through the windshield, “here's the view I wanted you to see.”

The pair exited the truck and stood on a rise that offered a panoramic vista of gentle hills intersected by even more rows of mature olive trees. The groves were bordered by another collection of waist-high lavender bushes.

“The flowers make their appearance in May and June, as do swarms of bees which, as you probably know, are essential to propagating all sorts of things we grow here.”

Kerry concluded that the plants' mere presence accounted for the faint scent in the air she had detected earlier and that she loved so much. In the distance were several more lavender fields, “to encourage as many bees as possible to visit us,” he elaborated.

She cast a sweeping gaze at the entire landscape and said softly, “We could be in Tuscany right now. It's... just gorgeous.” She glanced sideways and was struck by the faintly Roman cast to Ren's profile. “I bet your family couldn't believe this scenery when they first saw it.”

“Exactly right,” he answered, indicating they should continue down the dirt road on foot. “The story goes that the minute that my great-grandfather, Renato Montisi, Senior, arrived from Italy and saw this land just before the turn of the twentieth century, he and his wife had just enough money to buy ten acres. Every cent he earned thereafter went into purchasing the other seven hundred and ninety.”

“So your grandparents and parents chose to raise olives, too, instead of grapes?” asked Kerry. “Isn't it pretty rare that a family business survives more than three generations?”

“Well, in our case, it didn't,” Ren replied, staring off into the distance. “Except for naming me after
his
grandfather, my father was the rebel. Went to law school at Cal and wanted nothing much to do with ranching after that.” He paused and then continued. “Both my parents died in a private plane crash flying out of Palm Springs in bad weather. I came to live here with Nona Concetta when I was twelve. My grandfather, Renato, Junior, died three years ago, so I chucked Silicon Valley—which, trust me—I was only too happy to do,” he added with a grim smile, “and took on the management of the ranch from my grandmother, who will be ninety-two next year.”

Kerry thought of Angelica and how much she missed her already, wondering what Ren's grandmother was like, a woman a decade older?

By this time, Prego and Scusi had caught up with them and followed in their wake down a steep section of the road that ended in a small creek bed at the bottom of the ravine.

Kerry stole a quick look at her host's left hand and asked, “And so... you are the third Renato Montisi, yes? Is there a Renato Quattro you'll be training to take over here someday?”

After all, not every man wore a wedding ring.

Ren shot her a puzzled look. “You're asking am I married, and do I have children?”

Kerry flushed, embarrassed by her obvious probe. She expected some sort of scolding jolt to shoot up her arm from the Claddagh ring, but felt no such sensation. Before she could apologize, however, Ren turned to meet her glance.

“Yes, I was married, but no children. My wife died several years ago as a result of a skiing accident.”

“Oh,” she said on a swift intake of breath. “Oh, I am
so
sorry, Ren. You've lost your parents
and
your wife, and your grandfather, too. That's awful... and I apologize for bringing it up. I was just being a nosy reporter.”

She was startled when he placed his hand on her arm and gave a slight shake of the head.

“You don't need to apologize. You wanted to know about the ranch and my role here. It's fine. Really.”

Once again, at his touch, a strange tingling spread up her arm and the moment seemed suspended in space as if they'd slipped off the time wheel and were simply
there
together with clear, crystalline space surrounding them.

Ren turned and pointed. The tree-filled hills came back into focus.

“Would you like to see how honest olive oil is made?” he asked.

All Kerry could manage was to offer a slight nod and follow him back uphill to where he'd parked his pickup truck.

Kerry's breathing had almost returned to normal by the time they'd driven back to the gravel parking lot. Once inside the low-slung bottling facility, Ren gave her a quick rundown about the process of the mill turning olives into Montisi Extra Virgin Olive Oil.

“These large stainless steel troughs are where the olives are separated from the leaves and branches, washed, and eventually pressed by that large, revolving stone disk over there that crushes the fruit and extracts the liquid,” he explained.

“Olives are fruits?”

“Yep. They grow on trees and have pits, so they qualify,” he said with a laugh. “This first pressing—done ‘cold' without heat or chemicals and hence, the term ‘Extra Virgin'—eventually ends up in large vats before being decanted into bottles like the ones you purchased at Amphora Nueva, or the oil is stored in stainless steel drums.”

“Like the one I saw you deliver to them yesterday, yes?”

Ren nodded, continuing, “Unlike wine, olive oil is best when used as soon after it's harvested as possible.” He pointed to a bottle sitting on a nearby counter. “See... we stamp the
harvest
date, not the bottling date—which, with some outfits, can be a couple of
years
after the olives are picked and pressed.” He pointed to a back shelf. “There are a few dusty bottles sitting there from last year that are probably rancid by now.”

“Is it true there is a certain amount of fraud and misleading advertising in your business?” she asked, suddenly putting on her reporter's hat.

“Just read Tom Mueller's book
Extra Virginity
and you'll learn all you need to know about that subject.”

Kerry nodded. “I read the original piece Mueller did for
The New Yorker
, which got him the book contract, I heard. So you agree with his analysis?”

Ren grimaced. “Not only do I agree, I'm living with the consequences of my product being undercut by mislabeled olive oil posing as Extra Virgin... but that's a longer conversation.” He stole a glance at his wristwatch. “Want to have a quick tour of the ranch's kitchen garden? Then, I've really got to check in with our chef and staff about today's lunch.”

“Are you sure you have time to show it to me? You could just point me in the right direction and then direct me to your office. I promise I'll stay out of your way until my fellow foodies arrive.” She was grateful that he had been willing to spend so much time with her, given the imminent arrival of some serious VIPs.

“We've just got time. I want you to see every carrot and herb plant, 'cause I'm hoping you get at least five blogs out of what you've seen today,” he teased, pointing toward a screen door and guiding her outside the olive mill and into the parking lot again.

All during their tour she had been snapping photos on her iPhone and paused to take a picture of Scuzi, Prego, and the barn cat named Ciao. The three animals were outside the building waiting patiently for Ren to reappear.

“If these cute guys have any specific jobs around the ranch, I can even do a blog about
them,
” she proposed, a giddy feeling of sheer happiness bubbling in her chest at the sight of Ren's faithful companions. She adored animals, but had never been allowed to have a pet as a child in Manhattan. And Charlie had been allergic to anything with four feet—or so he said.

“Scuzi and Prego are actually very effective watchdogs and chase off their fair share of coyotes and raccoons, and Ciao is in charge of catching mice wherever she finds them.”

Kerry quickly snapped a series of pet portraits. “I'll post their story next Saturday,” she said, chuckling, “but today's blog will definitely be about the food writers lunch.”

That'll take care of that pesky extra blog they expect you to do!

Kerry didn't have time to speculate whose pronouncement had just sailed through her mind as she concentrated on keeping up with Ren's long strides leading toward the magnificent vegetable and fruit garden laid out at the back of a cluster of one-story buildings that served the various activities at the ranch.

“We planted half an acre of mostly vegetables a few steps from the door to our big kitchen where the food for the ranch's special events is prepared,” he explained.

They had only walked twenty feet along the path that cut between the herb beds and pole bean plots when Kerry heard Ren's cellphone emit an insistent sound. He fished the device out of his jeans pocket and stared at a text.

“Oh boy... this is
not
good.”

“What?” Kerry said.

Ren's voice conveyed his alarm. He showed her his text message.

Major emergency. Chef sick.

“Oh, no! Do you have a sous chef?” Kerry asked, knowing precisely how dire this situation could be, given that a busload of national food writers were due at the ranch within a few hours.

He punched in a text message.

“Yes, I've just told Jeremy's assistant, Sara Lang, to call for an ambulance.”

“How far along is your prep?”

“Let's go see,” Ren said, heading toward the kitchen door some fifty feet from where they were standing. “Jeremy Garafola is a terrific chef and a great guy and he'd never—”

By this time, they had both burst into the main room of the separate building that housed the kitchen, only to see a large bald-headed man in white chef's attire doubled over on a bench next to the farmhouse dining table. At the sink stood a stocky young Mexican-American who was washing dishes. As they entered, he cast his employer a worried glance.

Meanwhile, a woman about Kerry's age with long blond pigtails draped down the back of her white chef's jacket like a cast member from
Little House on the Prairie
was yelling into the phone attached to a nearby wall.

“Well, how
long
before you can get here?” she demanded shrilly. “We need
help
with this Goddamned luncheon, Tommy! I can't do this all by myself. Jeremy is toast! We're waiting for an ambulance, you jerk! Well, screw
you
!” And she slammed down the receiver.

“Take it easy, Sara,” Ren admonished sharply, and then leaned over to bring his face even with Jeremy who was clutching his midsection and gasping with pain.

“God, I'm sorry, boss. This came on so suddenly. One minute I was fine, and the next—”

“It's going to be all right, buddy,” Ren reassured him. “Just hold on. The Sonoma County cavalry is on its way, right, Sara?”

“Well, I hope so!” she snapped. “I called them right after you texted back.” She turned her attention toward Kerry. “Who are
you
?” she demanded. “I want this kitchen clear of visitors, Ren! We have enough problems without—”

“This is Kerry Hannigan,” Ren cut in. “She's a graduate of the CIA and a well-known food blogger. And she's
my
guest today at the food writers luncheon, so cool your jets, will you, Sara?”

“Well, how do you expect there to
be
a food writers lunch with this mess, Renato!” she shouted, and Kerry sensed the woman was on her way to a complete meltdown.

An amateur in the kitchen...

Kerry surveyed the counters. A big bundle wrapped in white butcher paper and marked SALMON FILETS had yet to be opened. Piles of winter root vegetables, including carrots, turnips and beets, along with Brussels sprouts, were draining on a sideboard—uncut. On the marbled pastry counter it appeared that Sara, her cheeks smudged with flour, had been working on making Parker House rolls. Close by, a big bag of sugar stood, unopened, probably waiting for someone to prepare the dessert.

Just then, sirens could be heard as a county fire truck and an ambulance pulled up outside. Ren dashed through the screen door.

“In here, fellas...” he shouted and within minutes, the groaning chef was strapped on a gurney and wheeled toward the door. “Sara, you go with him!” Ren ordered. “Make sure he has his wallet with his insurance information.”

“But—”

“I mean it,” barked Ren. “You ride in the ambulance with him and text me when the hospital can confirm what's wrong. José and I will handle the lunch. Now, get
going!
”

“Are you crazy!” she screeched. “You can't even fry eggs and José is nothing but a glorified bus boy! Send
him
in the ambulance—”

“We're going to
need
a bus boy today, and a sous chef, and a hard worker, and José is all three. Now do what I say!” he insisted.

“Or
what?
” she hissed, her eyes shifting over to Kerry. “You'll recruit Ms. CIA to replace me... after all I've done around here!”

“Will you just do what I'm asking?” Ren said measuring out his words equally.

Sara shot both Kerry and the hapless José equally poisonous glares and stormed out behind the EMT brigade. Kerry was relieved to see the woman sprint into a nearby building that looked as if it might have been a former bunkhouse and quickly emerge with a wallet in her hand. Soon, the sirens began to wail once more, and the two red vehicles disappeared up the ranch road in a cloud of dust.

Kerry glanced at her watch. It was ten o'clock in the morning.

“Well... Mr. Montisi... José,” she said with a sense of excitement she hadn't felt since the meal she'd produced for her “finals” at the Culinary Institute of America, “it's two hours to Show Time. Let me lend you a hand.”

***

  For Kerry, the next hours were a complete blur as José readied the outdoor grill—located just steps from the kitchen door—and prepared the root vegetables for roasting, after which they'd be finished on the open fire, along with the salmon which would be cooked, al fresco, at the last minute.

Kerry donned a long white chef's apron that hung to her ankles and immediately went to work creating a dill aioli sauce for the salmon from a giant jar of mayonnaise, lemon, fresh garlic, Ren's olive oil, along with fresh herbs she cut from the kitchen garden when she raced out to gather a huge basket of greens for the salad.

“Be sure to mention to the tour guide that we made both the dressing and salmon sauce with Montisi Extra Virgin Olive Oil,” she urged Ren with an encouraging smile, hoping to calm the near-panic atmosphere in the kitchen. For her part, she'd felt nothing but a soaring sense of exhilaration, up to her elbows in fresh ingredients.

The heart knows, doesn't it, Kerry?

Ignoring the Claddagh's latest little message, Kerry thrust a small lettuce leaf into the dressing, sampled it, and added another large dollop of Napa Valley Mustard, an additional plump garlic clove, and several more grinds of cracked pepper.

“Here... taste this,” she urged. She dipped another piece of lettuce into the dressing, popped it into Ren's open mouth, and experienced a strange sense of intimacy in that simple gesture. “What do you think?”

Ren chewed slowly, his eyes closed. Then he opened them.

“I think it's genius.” Their glances locked. “I think
you're
genius.”

“Let's wait till this meal is served before you say that,” she cautioned, busying herself with tidying up the cutting board so Ren wouldn't see the damnable color she could feel flooding her cheeks.

I met this man
yesterday!
Cool it!

She shifted her gaze to the ring on her right finger. The heart-shaped emerald remained green as green could be.

While the rolls were baking, the “Three Musketeers,” as Kerry dubbed the efficient team of Ren, José, and herself, raced outdoors to set individual tables positioned around an open-air pavilion—designed and built to Grandmother Concetta's exact specifications, Ren explained.

“Thank God there's no wind today. We have outdoor heaters in the barn but they'd be a bitch to haul over here.”

“No time, anyway,” Kerry agreed. “But no worries... it's going to be a fine California day.” She pointed to the thick beams supporting the building's tile roof. “How in the world did you find someone to build something so authentic? It's absolutely beautiful and completely in keeping with everything else on the ranch.”

“Concetta tracked down the son of a craftsman her father-in-law knew in Tuscany and had it built in Montisi, shipped in pieces to the ranch, and reassembled here. She planted every one of the wisteria vines you see winding around each pillar.”

The terracotta Italian floor tiles beneath the roof had been installed on a broad promontory overlooking olive groves that marched up and down several hills barely a football field from where they stood. A heavy basket of cutlery in her arms, Kerry paused to stare at the panorama surrounding them.

“Good heavens, this is
another
gorgeous view! And to think you grew up here.” Then, she turned and abruptly asked Ren, “What did you plan for centerpieces?”

His expression went blank and he asked the question of José in Spanish, who timidly stammered, “Señorita Sara... non...”

“No worries,” Kerry repeated swiftly. “You expect thirty-two guests, plus the driver and tour guide, right? Which means we should set seven tables with about five guests each, don't you think? Didn't I see some small pots of succulents on the back patio? José could wipe the pots clean, wrap them in those colorful tea towels I saw piled up in the pantry, and put them on the tables, along with pitchers of ice water with thinly-sliced lemons, and we're good to go.”

“Brilliant!” Ren agreed, and translated Kerry's idea to José, who sprinted off to collect terracotta pots of local cacti, while Ren and Kerry doled out the silverware and linen napkins.

They were just putting the final touches to the table settings when Kerry suddenly exclaimed, “What was Jeremy serving for dessert?”

Ren's expression of alarm showed the anxiety he had managed, thus far, to keep under control.

“Some fruit tart thing, I think,” Ren said. “Sara was up to her elbows in flour yesterday, but I didn't see anything stored in the big cooler, did you?”