One Foot in the Grove (5 page)

“Even Billy couldn't get it down.” Pep blushed. “And believe me, he tried!”

“I see!”

“So, I was wondering, do y'all have any of Daddy's olive oil? We're out. And if I can just get a little oil on the zipper, maybe I can get it to move again.” Pep's eyes wandered over to my collection of olive oils. “I like this outfit and all, but I'm not game to wear it forever,” Pep said dryly.

“I have tons.”

Under a turn-of-the-century cranberry glass lantern, a tattered Oriental rug stretched out under a round gateleg table and a couple of whitewashed Provincial-style side chairs in the center of the cottage. To the right of the table, a high counter with a reclaimed marble top separated my central “dining room” from a sparsely outfitted galley kitchenette that was next to the fireplace. A couple dozen clear bottles of olive oil lined the countertop between the kitchenette and dining table.

“By the way,” I chatted, “I see that Daphne's become quite the gardener. I had some of her tomatoes today. Chef Loretta paired them for me with fresh chèvre on a baguette and drizzled it all with garlic- and basil-infused oil and balsamic vinegar. It was heavenly.”

“Chèvre—that's fancy talk for goat cheese, right, hon?” Pep rolled her eyes. “Sounds good. But I'm still a meat and potatoes girl myself. I reckon I'd need to have a big New York strip with that. And a cold beer. Don't get me wrong, hon—I love olive oil and all, but I'm more likely to drizzle it in my hair than over Daph's precious organic fruits and veggies.” Pep sniggered like a little piglet.

“I hear you.” I chuckled, motioning to the bottled olive oils. “Pick your poison.”

Instead of the usual dark green glass to preserve freshness, the sample bottles were clear so they showcased richly colored gold, green, and amber olive oils inside. Each bottleneck had a purple ribbon tied around it securing a handwritten tag that identified the oil, its origin, and flavor
notes. Like wine, each reflected its terroir—the geography, soil, and climate in which the olives were grown. Several were harvested from olives at our farm. Some were from California. Others were imports from Spain, Portugal, Greece, France, Argentina, and Chile. A few were infused with flavorings, like lavender, lemon, and rosemary.

“Cracky girl! Y'all weren't kiddin'! There's an olive oil smorgasbord over here!”

“I'm taste testing. To educate myself.”

“Better you than me. I'd be on oil overload. Still, I reckon my hair would shine and my skin would glow like crazy.” She tipped her head and batted her eyes in fun as she studied the bottles. “Fresh pressed. Not the rancid crud from the market we had growing up.”

“I've been reading how Americans have been buying crappy, out-of-date oils sent over from Europe for years, thinking that's the way fresh, good oils are supposed to taste.”

Pep picked up a bottle. I pointed to another one at the end of the row.

“Still, there are wonderful, fresh, premium oils available today,” I said. “I like that fruity one from Portugal with the light, peppery finish. It surprised me. The pepper doesn't ‘bite' at all. And the California one next to it, see? It's lighter green in color—it has a fresh, grassy flavor. I'm thinking it'd be perfect with pasta. Of course, Daddy's own Knox Liquid Gold, rich, buttery, and creamy with the sweetly floral, slightly green flavors of the Arbequina olives, is hard to beat.”

Pep rolled her eyes at my effluent descriptions.

“I see you
have
been brushing up on your olive oils!” She laughed. “Darn tootin'. Daddy's is best. Although, I like the lemony one from California. Loretta made some mini muffins with it for a morning wedding here last month. They were killer.”

Pep uncorked the lemon-infused oil. She poured some on her fingertips before kittenishly licking it off her fingers.

“Hey, how come I haven't seen you mornin's in the big
house for breakfast? Billy and I eat over there every day. Everyone does. We all have a sit-down in the kitchen.”

“You mean, like old times?”

Pep slipped the cork out of a bottle of Dad's olive oil. “Daddy's there early—he comes over from his place usually by the crack of dawn, before chores. Billy and I show up a little after that. Daphne comes down . . . well . . . when she gets there with the little ones.”

“Daphne, mother of five, the oldest just twelve. What was she thinking?”

“I dunno, hon,” said Pep. “She and her ex were busy as bunnies, that's for sure. And I'm sure he's payin' for it now, up there with his new squeeze in Atlanta. At least he should be. Of course, with Daphne, he could pay her until the cows come home and it'd still never be enough.”

“I'll be at breakfast tomorrow. I
love
Chef Loretta's cooking! I'm miffed because I missed dinner tonight. Loretta had some trout warming for me in the oven. Only, when I meant to turn down the oven, I turned on the broiler instead. While I set a place for myself at the table, the trout went up in flames.”

“I see your cooking prowess hasn't changed over the years.” Pep laughed.

“No kidding. That was my second fire of the night. I can still smell the smoke in my hair.”

“About breakfast tomorrow, hon, didn't y'all get Daphne's text?”

“Text?”

“Yes. She texted me earlier; I just assumed she texted y'all, too.”

“Everybody texts me. I hate my phone. I never check it. It's always nut-jobs proposing to me, or rag reporters and paparazzi.”

“Oh yeah. The runaway bridey thing, right? Sorry, hon. Anyway, Daphne texted to say that Loretta left a note. Daphne found it in the kitchen when she went down a while ago for some ice.” Pep poured a bit of olive onto her fingertips.

“Pep, you're killing me here. What did the note say?”

“Loretta and that new guide Daphne hired last month—Leonard? They ran off to get hitched in Vegas.”

“You're kidding!”

“Sweetheart, I'm dyin' if I'm lyin'!” Pep snorted and dabbed more oil on her fingers before working them into the zipper again. “Gosh, this zipper really is a stinker.”

“I never heard Loretta say anything about leaving.”

“That doesn't surprise me. Something about her always struck me as being ‘off' somehow.” Pep fiddled with the zipper some more.

I had to agree, Loretta was strange. And the fact that she'd been seeing someone romantically shocked me. I couldn't imagine ungainly, grumpy Loretta on a date. Let alone being intimate with anyone. However, who was I to judge someone's love life, especially when my own was in the toilet—once again? As far as I knew, Loretta had been a decent employee; she took directions well, and she was a fierce cook. We needed her, grunts and all.

“Pep, this is serious. Who's going to
cook
? What about breakfast? We've got guests!”

“I dunno, sweetie. It's not my cup of tea. It's Daphne's bailiwick, and she made it clear that I'm not ever to meddle in ‘her' guest affairs. I think she's afraid I'll make everything black . . . you know, hang black lace curtains, set out black leather placemats, and burn all the muffins. And I probably would. Actually, I think it might be kind of fun to try it once—just to see the look on her face.” Pep broke into little piglet snorts again. “Although, you seem to have that covered.”

“Very funny.”

I watched Pep furiously massage the oil into the fixed zipper. The woman who couldn't get a simple zipper to work was a mechanical genius. Growing up, while all the girls were playing imaginary fairy games, Pep had been off with the boys, picking at frogs, daring one another to eat crickets, and mooning over John Deere tractors. From the time she was little, Dad taught Pep the intricacies of farming and
heavy equipment, and he'd made her his right-hand gal on the farm. Household affairs were definitely not her thing.

“Seriously,” I said, “who's going to cook for the guests at breakfast . . . Dinner?” Fortunately, Daphne had made the executive decision not to serve regular lunches at Knox Plantation, unless it was by request for a picnic or special event. That was one meal we didn't have to prepare.

“Tell me about it, sweetie. Oh . . . hey . . . voilà!” Pep yanked the zipper up then down to reveal a lacy confection under her mini leather corset dress. She smiled, showing off beautiful white teeth. “Billy's gonna be
so
excited to see this! She patted her bosom. Listen, I've got to skedaddle before he falls asleep—if he hasn't already.” Pep frowned. “I don't want the ‘magic' to wear off, if y'all know what I mean.”

“Here, then. Take the whole bottle.” I stuck a cork in the top and handed Pep the bottle of olive oil. “I'm sure you'll think of something romantic to do with it . . . It's all natural,” I teased.

Pep let out a hearty laugh and batted her eyes. “We'll put this naughty lube to good use!”

“
Lube?
” I blushed. “Oh gosh . . . Pep, you're one step ahead of me. I was thinking
massage
!”

“That, too. Okay, I'm off to rock and roll.”

Pep's tiny leather skirt flounced as she trotted across the floor. She unlatched the hook, pushed open the screen door, and jumped over the stoop into the wet night. The door banged shut.

“Have fun.” Then, I remembered. “Hey, Pep, did you hear a gun go off earlier?”

“I don't reckon so. Just thunder. Or I thought it was thunder. Anyway, it's not huntin' season, far as I know.” She thought a moment as she grabbed the bicycle and dropped the oil in the basket. “Although, folks can shoot wild boar anytime, night or day. Some of the big huntin' lodges advertise boar huntin' parties. Maybe they go out at night. Although, it sounds kinda sketchy.”

“Must've been thunder.”

“Okay, I'm off. And don't forget about my offer!”

“Offer?”

“About finding y'all a hunk to hook up with.” She reached into the basket, pulled out the oil, and wagged it in her hand. “You could try a slip and slide!” Pep broke into giggles and snorts before dropping the oil back into the basket and straddling the bike.

I slapped my hand on my forehead. “I'll pass on that for now, thanks.”

“And Eva!” Pep called out as she pedaled away. “Don't worry about the guest meals—Daphne will have a plan. She always does!”

Too late. I was freaking out about all that had to be done. I needed to plan a breakfast that was just a few hours away. Obviously, I wasn't going to sleep.

Now that the rain had stopped, maybe a quick run would help me think.

I yanked open a drawer in the dresser and grabbed from a small pile of clothes. There weren't many to choose from—I'd been in such a hurry to get away from the throngs of people camped outside my apartment in Boston—not to mention Zack—that I'd walked away from almost everything I'd owned. I threw on a sports bra and pulled on cutoff shorts before slipping back into my
GEORGIA VIRGIN
tee and my running shoes.

Still, before I knew it, rain pounded on the roof again and the palmettos swished wildly outside the door. A lightning bolt lit up the sky, and a rumble of thunder followed. The weather had turned in a snap. Mother Nature had given Pep just enough time to pedal home. But for me, it wasn't safe to run.

I sighed.

“No running for us, Dolly.”

I wrestled my limp tresses into a knot on top of my head. Over in the kitchenette, I grabbed a loaf of olive bread that Chef Loretta had baked. The last loaf, I thought disappointedly. I knew it'd be delicious. Loretta had made the bread
after I'd asked if she could re-create a loaf that I'd tasted in New England, figuring it'd be a slam dunk to go with Dad's olive oil. The inspiration bread came from a little Moroccan restaurant just outside of Boston proper in nearby Brighton, Massachusetts. My fiancé, Zack, had liked the restaurant because it was dark and people didn't recognize him. Zack's proclivity for going unnoticed when he wasn't on TV, or making public appearances to further his career, should've been a red flag.

My chest tightened.

Forget him, Eva
.

I pulled the cork from a bottle of French oil and poured thick, iridescent liquid into a Blue Willow teacup. Then, I shuffled back to bed, armed with Loretta's loaf and my teacup of olive oil. I ripped off a hunk of bread, stabbed it into the vibrant green oil, and shoved it between my teeth.

Outside, there was a
CRACK
and a flash followed by a thunderous roar. The cottage shook. Dolly huffed quietly in her bed. I reached into the nightstand drawer, grabbed another doggie biscuit, and tossed it to Dolly. I tore off a second chunk of bread and ripped it into smaller pieces while still munching on the first big bite. The hard outer crust in my mouth hid surprise bits of soft, savory black olives in the bread. As I chewed, the olive bits infused a piquant brininess that contrasted with the rich, buttery flavor of the bread. Prophetic for my life, I thought. Everything looks good on the outside, but when you bite into it, there's an unexpected, salty twist.
Like Zack
.

Zack Black. Fair haired, blue eyed, and oh so charming. The Massachusetts native was heralded as Boston's “very own” prime-time weatherman for WCVB-TV. We'd met and literally fell in love—or so I thought—five years earlier when a runaway goat crashed into us and we'd fallen together into a giant tub of ice and beer at the Most Beautiful Goat Contest. The contest had been my idea. It was a publicity stunt sponsored by a microbrewery client launching a spring bock beer.

Anyway, our crash into the icy tub—along with the goat
named Destiny, who'd landed smack in my lap along with Zack and a TV light stand—had been broadcast all over New England as “soft” news. The public had loved it. The TV station had promoted the hell out of it. Soon after, Zack and I'd begun making appearances together for public and charitable events. New Englanders had come to adore their “very own” couple, Zack and Eva. It was “Destiny,” they'd said. The couple is sure to get married, they'd decided. And when our engagement finally had been announced, people celebrated with parties. School kids sent us cards. For everyone, it'd been a romantic fantasy come true.

There was another flash of lightning and a loud grumble of thunder.

I pushed a piece of oil-soaked bread into my mouth and closed my eyes, trying to concentrate on the flavors . . . trying to block Zack, the stupid goat, and a million unpalatable memories from my mind. Loretta's loaf was definitely better than the restaurant inspiration, I thought. The burly Italian cook had done a masterful job reinventing what I remembered.

I stared up at the creaking ceiling fan, watching it churn uselessly in the hot, balmy air. Like my mind, it went round and round, but nothing came of it.

I needed a meal plan, I thought. I wiped my hands on a tissue, opened my laptop, and typed “Southern breakfast recipes.” However, probably because of the storm, the Internet connection had quit. My mind rambled. What was Zack doing back in Boston? What were my old clients thinking? Did they believe the stupid, flack-spun story?

A big
BOOM
echoed outside. Again, it didn't sound right.
Gunshot?
I listened. The rain slowed; yet, I heard nothing more. Pep was probably right, I thought. There must be a boar hunting party somewhere in the woods. Still, they sounded awfully close to our plantation. Dolly woofed from her cushion, looking up with winsome dark eyes and girly lashes, her long black tail hairs waving back and forth like a feathery flag.

I opened my nightstand drawer, pulled out yet another
doggie biscuit, broke it in half, and tossed Dolly a piece. Dolly gobbled it up instantly.

“Last one for the night, Dolly.”

Rain spattered hard and fast through the open back window. I picked up a
Wall Street Journal
article about olive oil titled “Can American Virginity Be Saved?” From somewhere, perhaps the drawer of my nightstand, my iPhone made some sort of soft burping noise. I had a phone call. Or maybe it was a text message. Or an e-mail. I didn't know which. It didn't matter. I wasn't responding. Whomever it was, I just wanted them to leave me alone.

I wiped my hands together. Already, I'd absently consumed an entire loaf of bread.
Who cares
. My mind flashed to Boston. The horse-drawn carriage had been parked on a quiet side street outside the Beacon Hill church before the wedding. Zack and I had planned to enjoy our first minutes as Mister and Missus Black by taking a carriage ride through Boston Common after the ceremony. After that, a vintage Rolls-Royce would whisk us away to the North Shore yacht club reception. The livery man had looked surprised when I'd approached the horse. All I'd wanted to do was pat the horse's muzzle before following my sisters inside to the church anteroom. Yet, something wasn't right. I heard whispers and giggles coming from inside the rollicking coach. I'll never forget Zack's startled, yet smug expression after I'd thrown open the coach door. I felt a sickening, heavy panic in my gut as I realized not only Zack's infidelity, but also, the enormity of his egregious indiscretion. He didn't, hadn't ever, loved me. Our impending marriage was no more than a colossal publicity stunt to enhance Zack's career. I felt nauseous. My world went black. Next thing I remember was the slick, icy feel of well-worn cobblestones under my bare feet as I rounded the street corner and bolted up Beacon Hill. Once they caught sight of me, a gaggle of reporters and photographers who'd set up outside the front of the church shouted and bounded up the hill after me. Of course, that was my mistake. I should've stopped and led them back
to the discreetly parked carriage around the corner. I should've let them see for themselves.

Just read, Eva
.

Still, I couldn't help myself. I wondered what happened to my fairy-tale lace wedding gown, with the princess-like full-length skirt, fitted three-quarter-length trumpet sleeves, and corseted sweetheart bodice. It'd taken me eight long months to find it, and five fittings at the chichi designer boutique, Prunella's of Boston, to get the fit just right.

I'd ripped it off and left it in a heap.

And what happened to the custom-designed wedding cake from the award-winning North End Italian bakery, Anthony's Awesome Pastries? I'd made half a dozen trips to the pastry shop, carefully designing and planning the eight tiers of luscious raspberry- and chocolate-filled lemony layers covered with blush fondant in a subtle, quilted diamond pattern decorated with a cascade of delicate Cherokee roses representing Georgia and mayflowers representing Massachusetts, all topped with a painstakingly accurate sugar sculpture of Destiny the goat. Had four hundred guests gnawed at my scrumptious custom confection without me?

Poor Daddy, had they made him pay for the ritzy yacht club reception that took place without me? I'd make it up to him. I'd promote the heck out of his olive oils. I'd make his business world famous. I'd make him a wealthy man. More important, I'd make him proud of me again.

My phone burped. I tried to concentrate on the olive oil article. Still, my mind kept torturing me. Already in my thirties, would I ever find my soul mate? Get married? Have kids?
Oh gosh
. I needed to think about something else.

Anything
else.

Another flash.

I remembered Zack's familiar touch on the back of my neck. It used to comfort me. Now, I shuddered. Tears welled. My chest tightened. My heart pounded fast. I'd been a fool. And no one would ever know. I was so embarrassed. They blamed me. Not him.

This time, it was his fault
.

I dropped the article on the bed.

It's too damn hot to read
.

I shoved away piles of books and papers and brushed a tear with the back of my hand. I pulled another tissue from the box. I wasn't sure which felt worse, the small humiliated part of me that somehow still ached for the man and the wedding that wasn't, or the smarter part of me that was mad that I still wanted any part of either.

Dolly jumped up, ran to the door, and let out a piercing, loud bark.