Hugo (Olive Township #2)

5. Hugo

Chapter 5

Hugo

Friday night family dinners have been a staple of the De la Vega family as long as I can remember. At one time they were loud and bustling, a cacophony of forks scraping plates and excited voices talking over one another. Our numbers have dwindled over time. The first departure was my dad's, followed by my grandparents over the next ten years. My dad's parents were the glue that kept our family together, and with them gone, the connections withered. Aunts and uncles began to move away, and cousins, too. For jobs, for love. Now it is only me and my sister, Vivi, and her two kids. My mom and my aunt.

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 na?veté. 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've managed 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 a problem 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 my use of the term she taught me. Legs are 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.

"Uncle Hugo!" Everly, who turned six last week, launches herself at me. She's a wild child, emotional and loud. Whether she's happy, mad, or sad, the whole room knows it.

I catch her one-handed, holding out my wineglass so she doesn't knock it out of my hand. Vivi helpfully takes it from me, setting it down on the kitchen counter.

Burying my face in Everly's dark hair, I make a show out of sniffing her. "Why do you smell like"—I pause for dramatic effect, and Everly giggles—"a rhinoceros?"

Everly leans away from me, nose wrinkled, and palms my cheeks with her tiny hands. "I do not smell like a rhino," she informs me with utter seriousness.

"Oh sorry, I meant to say you smell like a warthog."

Everly leans sideways, looking at her mother over my shoulder. "Mommy, your brother is hopeless."

Laughter erupts around the room, including from my mom and Aunt Carmen, who entered the kitchen in time to hear Everly.

"Sor-ry," Aunt Carmen singsongs the apology. "I accidentally taught her that today."

"Whose brother were you calling hopeless?" I ask. Everly shimmies and twists in my arms, telling me she wants down without saying the words.

"Obit," Aunt Carmen explains, sliding into her favorite chair at the kitchen table.

Nobody ever believes Aunt Carmen when she tells them what she does for work. She writes funny and irreverent obituaries, and she's typically hired by people before they pass away.

It's an odd job, one she didn't get into until after my dad died. She hated her brother's obituary, saying it was the equivalent of the color of dirt. Boring . Read like a grocery list. She later rewrote it, and my mother had it printed and framed. To this day, it sits on a bookshelf in the living room, reminding us that his pursuits in the olive grove were more successful than the time he tried out for the town play, and how he never met a coupon he didn't clip.

I was a teenager when she rewrote it, and I was temperamental and full of grief, and I told her I hated it. Now, I love it. It keeps him alive, reminds me that he was more than an olive farmer who was preceded in death by his older brother, Jack, and his great uncle, Martin.

Crouching down, I open my arms for three-year-old Knox. He's the opposite of his sister, measured and thoughtful. He'll be four in a month, and takes after his father with his sandy brown hair and fairer skin.

Knox's little legs carry him into my embrace, his small head resting against my chest. He is the calm to his sister's storm.

"Hey, buddy," I say, pressing my cheek to the top of his head. The kid gives a great hug, and truth be told, I need it. I'm still reeling from my run-in with the podcaster earlier today.

"Hi," comes his tiny voice.

I wrap my arms around him, gathering him into me and standing. He resets himself, resting his head on my shoulder and tucking his arms between his body and my chest.

My mom sends me a wistful look. I know what it means. I'll be thirty soon, and I haven't given her grandchildren. She reminds me of this far too often.

"Please don't say it, Mom."

She rolls her eyes at me and rounds the counter, opening up a cupboard and taking down dinner plates. The sound of their stacking fills the air as she says, "You look good with a child in your arms, Hugo."

I feel good with a child in my arms too, but I'm not about to tell her that. My mother does not need any additional ammunition to use against me.

Mallory Hawkins' face flashes to the front of my mind, maybe because we're talking about children and she's the only person I know of who's expecting. Vivi knows a podcaster has been emailing me, but I haven't told my mother.

"Mom," I start, stepping back so she and Vivi can move freely around the kitchen. "A while back I got an email from a woman who hosts a podcast. Case Files."

Vivi's knife, tip poised above a head of purple cabbage, freezes. She looks at me with a mixture of curiosity and dread. We agreed not to tell our mom, but with Mallory in Olive Township, it feels like I should say something. What if somebody asks Mallory why she's here, and she tells them the truth, and then the truth gets back to my mom? It's a small town, gossip is more like currency. She should hear it from me, not the old hens who cut their teeth on idle chatter.

"Case Files?" Mom holds the stack of plates in one hand, adding folded dinner napkins on top. "What does she talk about? Crime, I'm guessing?"

I nod, rubbing a hand over Knox's back. He's content where he is, and I'm happy to have him. It's as if he is soothing me. "True crime."

Something flashes across my mother's eyes, but it's hard to decipher what it is she's feeling. "And? What did you say in response?"

"I haven't responded. She's emailed me four times."

My mother says nothing, and Vivi leads the way to the dining room table, holding the ceramic bowl of heavenly smelling ground beef. My mom follows with the plates and napkins, and Aunt Carmen comes up behind her, parading in with a platter of taco fixings.

I get Knox situated in his chair, and on the other side of me, Everly is using crayons to draw a picture on a piece of paper.

Everyone is quiet as they process this information, and I start to feel bad. I hope I didn't ruin family dinner. Vivi makes one more trip to the kitchen for the warmed taco shells, and on her way by me, she flicks my ear with her middle finger.

I sigh, hating that I'm having to bring this up, but I know I have to get all the words out, so my mother understands why I've said anything. And Vivi, too.

"The host, Mallory Hawkins, claims she only wants to have a conversation with me about Dad. According to her, her show has helped family members work through their grief about unsolved cases, and in some instances, has helped solve a few." This is from her most recent email, verbatim. The one I read, then promptly deleted.

My mother's hands are in her lap, her eyes on me. "But you've ignored her?"

I nod.

"Why? "

"Because I don't see the point of talking with her. The past is in the past. Why drag it back up?"

"Exactly," Vivi snaps, losing her patience. "Why are you telling Mom all this?"

"Because she's here, in Olive Township." At Vivi's obvious confusion, I add, "The host, I mean. Mallory." My elbows meet the table, my chin resting on fisted hands. I might appear calm on the outside, but on the inside, I'm a wreck, trying to reconcile the person who wrote those emails with the person I met today in Sammich. Before I knew who she really was.

Vivi blows out a harsh breath. "Of course she is. Apparently you ignoring her for months wasn't enough of a message." Vivi grabs a taco shell, roughly spooning beef inside. The hard shell cracks in two, and she drops it onto her plate.

"Mommy's making her taco into a tostada," Everly comments. She picks up a piece of diced tomato, removes the seed, and eats it. I hand her a napkin, but she wipes her hand bearing the seed on her pants, grinning at me.

I shake my head in warning, fighting an indulgent smile.

"Why can't she leave us alone?" Vivi moves forward with fixing her plate. "What is her interest in Dad's case, specifically?"

"I don't know if it extends beyond basic curiosity." There have been people over the years, true crime junkies who have shown up at Summerhill. Mostly, they pretend to be here for one of the tours we offer, or meander through the store on our property. They pretend to be interested in the olive mill, but inevitably conversation and questions take a turn to Simon De la Vega. It's exhausting, and a poke at a wound that will never fully heal. In these moments, I would love more than anything to knock the overly curious people onto their asses, but I think of my dad and how he would want Summerhill to be represented. And then I shake my head and politely say, "That topic is not up for discussion. I hope you enjoyed your tour."

I understand the allure. It's the same reason people slow down to look at car accidents. Part morbid fascination, part learning opportunity. What did they do wrong, so I don't make the same mistake? Only, my dad didn't error. He did nothing wrong that day. The best the detectives could tell, it was a crime of opportunity. Someone depraved.

It sickens me to think of it, a repugnance that hasn't faded with time. I cannot comprehend taking someone's life, especially when they are unarmed, and non-threatening.

Hurting nothing, and nobody.

Only once in my life have I hit somebody, and it was to defend a woman from unwanted advances. Even the sport I chose was civilized. As the saying goes, I'm a lover, not a fighter.

But on nights when I can't sleep, my mind drifts, and I envision meeting the person who killed my dad. In my imagination, I become somebody I don't know if I could ever be. The violence I'm capable of in my fantasy is frightening .

“Find out why she’s here.” My mother speaks with a calmness that unnerves me.

"Mom, are you sure?"

We've never given interviews, or spoken with anybody about my dad. As a family, we decided enough was enough. All the so-called journalists invading our town, the true crime shows, the amateur sleuths, we've said no to them all. There's only so much mud a person can stand to be dragged through, and bringing it up time and time again was stunting us. You can't heal from such a horror if you constantly relive it.

I glance at Aunt Carmen, attempting to get a read on her reaction. She might be my dad's sister, but she's my mom's best friend. She’s the reason my parents met. Her face is blank now, watching my mom carefully.

"If she has emailed you four times, it's more than typical curiosity," my mom points out. "And then for her to come here?" She ends her sentence with raised eyebrows.

"She says she’s here for the spa." It could be a lie, but it's one that is easily verifiable. I know the owners, and the girl who works the front desk. Vivi knows the kitchen staff who work at the on-site café.

Vivi gives me a come on look. "That cannot be true."

I shrug. "She claims to have a massage and a facial scheduled for tomorrow."

Vivi crosses her arms.

"Mommy is mad." Everly giggles.

I welcome the dose of six-year-old humor into the conversation. It keeps everything from being too tense, too awful.

Mom changes the topic, asking Everly how her week was at school. I say nothing, listening as Everly recounts an altercation near the swing set, and how she overheard the principal say a bad word. Vivi tells us she’s doubling down on efforts to source as many local ingredients as possible, and in doing so has cut a deal with the Hayden Cattle Company. She will exclusively use their beef, in exchange for a discount off her cost. Aunt Carmen reads us her latest obituary, further lightening the mood (as weird as that sounds). Knox and Everly don’t understand any of it, but they know to laugh when we do, one second late and somehow still on time. I love these family dinners, but despite how bright and fun they are, there’s always a bit of a shadow. A dark lining around the picture we make, reminding us who is missing.

After dinner is over and I’ve cleaned up the kitchen, I snag a bottle of beer from the fridge. I pass through the living room on the way to the back porch, where Vivi is snuggled up on the couch watching a movie with Knox and Everly. Everly takes notice of the bottle and promptly informs me, "My dad says beer is bad for you."

Tell your dad it also wasn't a good idea to poke his admin in the whiskers while he was married.

"Thank you for letting me know," I respond diplomatically, then continue on my way.

The back porch has a spectacular west-facing view, and this time of year, the sky holds onto the sunset with a fierce grip. Tonight it's showing off an expanse of magenta and orange, a fiery red around the edges.

I settle in one of the outdoor chairs, take it all in. How the grove goes as far as the eye can see. Olive trees, rows upon rows, acres upon acres of gnarled trunks and rounded crowns.

Home. I missed this place while I was gone. First to college, and then after to train for the Olympics, staying with my coach in Denver, and then San Diego. I enjoyed the other places while I was there, the majesty of the Rocky Mountains, the sparkling blue Pacific Ocean. But little compares to the riotous colors of a setting sun filtered through the olive branches.

The screen door snaps shut, breaking my reverie. My mother sinks into the open seat beside me. She holds a glass of Vivi's red wine.

"What has your eyebrows pinched?" she asks.

"They aren’t pinched," I argue.

She reaches over, smoothes them out with two fingers like she's zooming in on a phone screen. "Not anymore."

"Just appreciating the beauty," I say, gesturing straight out with the bottom of my bottle.

Mom looks out with me. "And considering how your mother could possibly want to open up a dialogue with a true crime podcaster?"

I breathe a laugh, tapping the side of my bottle against the arm of my chair. "I suppose."

"All these years I’ve been saying no, but I’m not sure if that was a mistake. "

I look up sharply, trying to understand how she could say that. Back then she was protecting us, and herself.

"It's been a long time since everything happened." She sits back, adjusting her long, flowing skirt. "I see now what I couldn’t then. I tried hard to shield you as best I could, not understanding no matter what I did, the effects of what happened to your father would be far reaching."

I shake my head at her, digging through her words to uncover what it is she’s really saying.

She continues. “Your sister married her first boyfriend, even though he was all wrong for her. She wanted to create a home like the one she had lost. And you?" Her eyebrows lift.

"You are busy achieving great things, and keeping every woman you meet at arm's length."

My mouth drops open in surprise.

"Oh yes," my mother says, chuckling softly to herself. "I pay attention."

"Mom," I start, needing to defend myself at least a little. "It's damn near impossible for me to have a relationship. Confiding in a woman about what happened to Dad is a recipe for relationship disaster. Some of them are too curious, and for others it kicks in an odd kind of maternal instinct, and they start wanting to take care of me. Fix me.” I’m not broken, and I don’t need to be fixed, thank you very much.

My mother has always been a good listener, an attribute she still has to this day. Her head nodded along while I was speaking, and even now she says nothing, gazing out over the land .

When enough time has passed that I think maybe she will drop it, she says, "Talk to this woman, for me."

"Mom—"

Her hand covers mine, silencing me. “It’s been a long time, Hugo. Maybe it’s ok to talk about him. About what happened.” She sighs into the open spring air. "Maybe I never should have silenced you."

I shake my head. "Don't do that, Mom. Don't blame your past self. You can't change any of it."

"Fine," she answers, sipping her wine. "I won't blame my past self, if you agree to step into the future with me."

I eye her warily. "And the future consists of talking to a nosy podcaster?"

"For now, yes."