dropped her chin to her chest but then looked up in relief. “Silly me. We used the mousse for the macarons.”
Olivia’s exhale could have set sail to a Yankee Clipper. “Thank goodness! We don’t have time for mistakes, and I want this to be as stress-free for that family as possible.”
“I agree.” Julia paused thoughtfully. “Angelo was only five years older than I am. This has made me sit up and take notice.”
Olivia shoved a bowl of ambrosia into the van. “Notice what?”
“You know. Life.”
“I know what you mean, Mom. I guess death always does that to the rest of us, huh?”
Julia shook her head. “Somehow this is different. Did you see the cortege that drove past here on the way to the grave site? I counted sixty-five cars.”
“Sixty-seven,” Olivia corrected her, checking her watch. “Fortunately, not all of them are invited to the house. The family will be back from the cemetery by now. Still, we need to hustle.”
“You’re right,” Julia said. “Why don’t you drive out and get started. I’ll gather up the rest of the salads, the fruit and casseroles and bring them out in a few minutes.”
“Good thinking. I’ll meet you out there.” Olivia patted her pockets to make sure she hadn’t forgotten her camera. Olivia never went anywhere without a camera of some kind. Though it was important for their catering business that she take photos of the food for their website, Olivia was always on the lookout for the exceptional photo, the surprise shot that one day, someday, she could submit in a portfolio for a major magazine.
As Olivia drove off, she glanced in the rearview mirror in time to see her mother wave to her, as she always did when she left her mom’s sight. It was just a little gesture in a long day of catering, planning...living, but it meant a great deal to Olivia. Her mother was right. Death always made people stop and think about their own lives. She smiled at the reflection in the rearview mirror. Olivia loved her mother a great deal; Julia was her best friend. She couldn’t imagine what the Barzonni sons were going through right now.
* * *
HALF A DOZEN cars were parked along the winding path to the Barzonni villa. The dinner guests weren’t due for another two hours, but Olivia knew it would be almost impossible to find a spot on the drive by then.
Olivia continued past a two-story carriage house, with garage doors on the ground level and what she guessed was an apartment up above. She parked outside it, close to the back door of the main house, then followed a short hall past the laundry room and into the kitchen. Easy access was always a plus for Olivia when she was hauling large chafing dishes, food and serving pieces. Her marble-and-silver epergne was lovely, but it weighed thirty pounds.
The aromas of garlic, basil, tomato and baking bread hit Olivia when she entered the enormous, Tuscan-style kitchen. Gina had conferred with Olivia and Julia about the menu and in the end, Gina had decided she wanted to cook a few of her signature Italian dishes for her family.
Gina was dressed in a black silk sheath dress with long lace sleeves and a white apron that was smeared with what looked like red sauce. She was stirring something in an industrial-size stainless-steel pot. She lifted a huge spoon and said to Olivia, “You have to taste this. My cream-of-tomato soup. I froze the tomatoes last fall and dried the basil from my garden. I think it’s my best ever.”
Olivia put the plastic crate she was carrying on the floor next to one of the two granite-topped islands and crossed to the six-burner gas stove. Gina offered her a teaspoon and Olivia dipped it in the soup. “It’s incredible. Sweet,” Olivia said when she tasted it.
“That’s brown sugar. My secret. You can tell your mother but no one else. By the way, where is Julia?”
“She’s on her way with the rest of the food. But may I ask, why aren’t you with your guests and visitors?”
Gina lowered her eyes and looked at the pot. “This was Angelo’s favorite soup. He would have wanted me to make it for the family.” She stirred the soup absently. “I’m better when I’m busy. It’s hours until we eat. I even told the boys to stop hovering. Gabe took Liz for a walk. I think Mica, Nate and Maddie are playing cards with my sister, Bianca. Most of the guests are in the living room. Rafe went out for a ride on Rowan.”
“Rowan?” Olivia asked.
“His favorite horse. We have quite a few horses, did you know?”
Olivia felt a knot form in her stomach. “Oh, yeah. Workhorses. Sure. Makes sense. This being a farm and all.”
“We have those, but I’m talking about Thoroughbreds.”
Olivia’s mouth went dry with an all-too-familiar, though long-buried fear. Gina was talking about racehorses.
“Rafe and Angelo think they have a winner in Rowan. They’re hoping to enter him in some Graded Stakes races for the Kentucky Derby. They changed all the rules two years ago. Even the Illinois Derby isn’t part of the qualifying trials anymore. Angelo—” Gina’s voice hitched.
Olivia reached out to console her.
Racing horses. She said racing horses.
She froze and dropped her arm to her side. She felt the thrum thrum thrum of her heart in her ears. Olivia tried to formulate some kind of empathetic sentence. Nothing happened. Her stomach roiled. The fear she’d felt earlier gripped her. She knew she wouldn’t escape this time.
Gina wiped the tears from her eyes and kept staring at the soup. “Sorry. They won’t be doing that this year. I don’t know what Rafe will do.”
Anger and fear rooted Olivia to the spot. It had been years since she’d been confronted by the demons of her past. Those dark, sinewy fingers of dread that crippled her mind and soul had returned. She felt as if she were tumbling backward through the years. Through a tunnel of black terror.
Olivia’s father had been addicted to gambling. Horse races, in particular. Any horse race: those he listened to on the radio, those he watched on television. But the ones he loved most were live action. His thrill meter soared the highest when he was in the crowd, cheering and stomping for his horse to cross the finish line.
She choked back the sour taste in her mouth.
When she was very young, her father drove her to Arlington International Racecourse near Chicago and showed her how to place bets. He went into great detail about the strategy he used, the amount of money he would win and all the wonderful things he would do for her and her mother once he “hit the jackpot.” Olivia hadn’t cared about the betting, but she had been mesmerized by the horses: their gait, the way the sun glinted off their shiny coats as their muscles strained with each gallop. She admired their majesty and the tilt of their heads in the winner’s circle, as if they knew they were the stars. They were the real trophies.
She’d revisited the memory of her first encounter with horses often in her life. She only wished it had not been juxtaposed with the disappointment and betrayal of her father’s disease.
When Olivia was twelve, her father had drained the family savings account, surreptitiously taken out a second mortgage on their home and run up a mountain of credit-card debt by taking cash advances.
