30. Mallory
Chapter 30
Mallory
Summerhill is everything .
Earthy, beautiful, unpretentious but luxurious. I regret that this is not the first place I came when I arrived in Olive Township. Sammich is a local treasure, but this… Wow.
The first stop on our tour is what Hugo simply refers to as the 'shop.' The large sign on the front reads Merry Little Market.
"It was my mom's job to name it," Hugo says, holding the door open for a stream of people. Some say thank you, some say nothing, and none of them know the person holding open the door for them is the operator of this whole business. "I think she was high on Christmas cheer at the time."
"It's cute," I defend.
"Better for a Christmas tree farm," he gripes.
The doorway clears, and Hugo places his hand on the small of my back, urging me inside .
Backwards caps, and small of the back hand placement. This man knows just how to get this girl riled up.
The interior of Merry Little Market veers toward industrial. The floors are a finished gray concrete, and in lieu of a ceiling is exposed ductwork. Row upon row of six-foot-tall rolling carts hold jars of what I'm sure are olives and many other types of goods. There is a section for olive oil soaps, a wall of local wine, and a refrigerated grab-and-go section of food from the restaurant. Near the back of the large space is an adorable coffee shop with cases of baked goods.
"This is amazing, Hugo," I say in awe, watching people mill around, choosing their items. We walk in deeper, and I start on the first aisle.
Vinegars. A classic balsamic with traditional pairings turns into a white balsamic with prickly pear, blueberry, and peach, and even specialty bourbon flavors in bottles that resemble bourbon casks. I keep going, perusing each aisle, taking it all in. I've always felt in awe of what the earth provides for people in terms of nourishment, and this is a bit like that. It's made even better knowing a family like the De la Vegas have a hand in it.
Hugo is quiet as he stands beside me, letting me soak it all in. "Bacon olive oil?" I ask, pointing at a bottle.
"One of our best sellers," he answers. "The olive oil sommelier I'm working with right now is creating a vanilla bean oil."
My eyebrows raise. Lips purse. I say nothing.
His eyes narrow. "You still don't believe an olive oil sommelier is a real job. "
I shrug, teasing him. "There are all kinds of weird jobs. Professional mourner," I point out.
Hugo's eyebrows draw together. "Come again?"
"They go to a funeral with low attendance, so it won't look empty. Or someone might hire them to attend a funeral and make a scene. Wailing, sobbing, all the theatrics."
Hugo's hands slip into his jeans pockets. "That sounds fucking terrible."
I laugh, looking over a bottle of jalapeno oil. I keep going to the next aisle, where there are stuffed olives and selections of olive wood kitchen utensils. "You don't have to look at all this," Hugo says. He sounds almost...shy?
"Hush." I give him a reproachful look. "This is my friend's store and I won't have you interrupting me while I look over each and every item. He puts his heart and soul into this place, he deserves to have people appreciate it."
Hugo's lips purse, nodding, and then, slowly like the dawning sun, his mouth relaxes into a smile.
I elbow him lightly. "Is this the part where you nerd out about olives?"
"I promised myself I wouldn't."
"Why?" I tug at the hem of his shirt. "I was ready to learn about all the things."
He looks uncertain.
"Don't self-censor now," I tease.
I watch as he makes a decision, a resolve forming in those dark eyes .
"We're going to need the ATV," he says. "But first, food. I need to make sure you and Peanut are fed."
Without another word he grabs my hand, marching me out of the store. We stride across the grass lawn where people sit at picnic tables, and others play shuffleboard and bocce ball, and a group of children play an oversized game of Connect Four. Hugo's leading me to another building perpendicular, similar to the store in exterior design, except for the windows on three sides of the second half of the building.
In a beautiful copper sign is the word Simon's .
That stops me short. How have I not noticed that? I haven't been by here on my daily walks, but I have driven through on the road that leads out to town.
"The restaurant is named after your father?"
"Recent development," Hugo answers. He gazes at the sign. "Vivi, my mom, and I had the hardest time choosing a name, so we kept calling it Summerhill." He rolls his eyes. "Not very original."
"But last week I had the idea to name it after my dad. And when I ran it by my mom and my sister, they loved it."
"That's beautiful, Hugo. Truly."
My hand is still in his, and now he gives a quick tug, bringing me closer to him. His dark eyes burn, intense and beautiful and focused on me. Stubble darkens his jaw, and I have the urge to run my fingertips along it.
"I have you to thank." His voice is deep, falling over me. In the middle of this mayhem, the chatter of strangers and the shrieks of children, Hugo makes me feel like I'm the only person here.
"Me?" I squeak.
He tucks a lock of hair behind my ear. A lone fingertip travels the shell of my ear, sending a cascade of desire rippling through me. If he dipped his face a few inches, we'd be kissing. I wish he would.
"You," he confirms. "For a long time, my father was a subject I didn't dare broach. But Mallory, you being here, asking questions, I know I was hesitant about it at first, but you've made him feel accessible again. I didn't know how badly I needed that."
Emotion surges through me, and my body responds by crying. Hugo grins like he finds me adorable. He starts for Simon's, and when we walk inside, he reaches one long arm behind the hostess stand and plucks a tissue from a box. I move to take it from him, but he dodges me, running the tissue over my cheeks. Tender. Sweet. Our breath hitches in tandem.
Hugo takes a step back, tosses the tissue in the trash.
Every table at the restaurant is occupied, the atmosphere jovial. Happy chatter and the sounds of the open kitchen fill the air. The view of the olive orchard beyond is spectacular. I spot Vivi in the kitchen, wearing a white chef's coat. She's not cooking, but she's overseeing every dish produced.
At that moment, Vivi turns around, spots us, and gives us a harried wave. "I thought Vivi had a restaurant in town," I say, my eyes on her as she yells through the open window to someone deeper in the kitchen .
"Dama Oliva is her place in Olive Township, but she helped create the menu here. She's filling in today because the head chef called in sick. Which probably means my mom has her kids at the big house. We can go there later. Say hi."
"I'd like that."
A teenage boy hurries through the kitchen carrying the most adorable wicker basket. Vivi stops him, peeks inside, and tosses in something else. The kid skids around the corner and hustles out to Hugo.
"Mr. De la Vega, here's your picnic."
"Thank you, Leo," Hugo says, and the kid's eyes widen.
"You know my name?" he croaks, then immediately follows it up with, "I mean, you're welcome." Then he spins on the heel of his bulky black tennis shoe and hightails it back to the kitchen.
"I don't think he expected you to know his name," I murmur.
"I know every employee's name," Hugo says, like it's nothing. But it is something, and it doesn't even surprise me. That's Hugo, being Hugo.
Hugo takes my hand again, leading me around the backend of Simon's, across an expanse of grass where two Adirondack chairs sit at the far end. We keep going down a slope, and arrive at a small garage.
Hugo sets the picnic basket on the ground, dropping my hand so he can remove his keys from his pocket. He selects one and unlocks the garage .
"Never know who might decide to take these for a joyride," he quips, lifting the garage door. Inside are three side-by-sides, gunmetal gray with the Summerhill logo on the doors. They look like buggies, but more all-terrain with the deeply grooved tires and sturdy frames.
I wink at him. "I might, now that I know they're here."
He laughs. "I'll look out for your trail of dust going across the orchard." He situates the picnic basket on the floor in the back seat, then swings around the small vehicle and opens the passenger door. Grandly, he gestures inside. "Your ride."
"My chariot," I tease.
"Your wagon," he adds. "Or hooptie."
I love having this inside joke with him, just a little something silly and special, only for us.
Hugo reverses carefully from the garage, putting the buggy in Park to close and lock the door behind him.
Hugo drives slowly. Carefully. Like he carries precious cargo. He skirts the outbuildings, the restaurant, the store, favoring a circuitous route that takes us past his house. My gaze falls over the tidy outside with the rich green front door. It's the most at home I've felt in years. Almost since I can remember. My apartment in Phoenix is nice, and it's a home, but this feels different.
He drives up to the edge of the grove, pausing at the tree line. Using a flat arm, he motions out in the distance. "Do you see that mountain range out there?"
Far away but looming are the Arizona Mountains, followed by the Superstitions beyond. Legend has it, the Lost Dutchman's Gold Mine is somewhere in the Superstition Mountains, holding vast amounts of gold. I believe in legends of lost treasure about as much as I believe in magic, which is to say, not at all.
I nod, keeping my eyes trained where Hugo is pointing. "Those mountain ranges make Summerhill possible. They create a microclimate, giving the valley below a slightly different temperature than the rest of the desert. They also serve as a barrier for wind, and provide the soil with additional water from rainfall runoff."
Hugo shifts into Drive. The ride is mostly smooth, this part of the desert has been tamed. More sand than rocks. Olive trees instead of towering saguaros.
The breeze rolls through Hugo's hair. It's a little long, the brown-black tendrils curling over his ears. His posture is relaxed, muscles loose. He's not humming, but he wears the face of a man happy and carefree enough to do so.
"Summerhill is one thousand acres," he says, then winks at me, "or 404.6 hectares."
He's nerding out, and I love it. The way his eyes become bright and animated, an edge of excitement to them. The passion he feels for what he does makes him that much more attractive.
There's a break in the trees ahead, a dirt path to enter. Hugo turns with care, so much care that I know it's for me. For Peanut.
We enter the grove, and I can't stop my mouth from dropping open. We're surrounded by silvery green leaves, small white blossoms exploding on every side of us. The air is sweet, like apricots, with a spicy undertone.
"Did we go through a portal?" I ask, and Hugo beams with pride, and happiness. I don't think I've seen him this alive. This passionate.
Was he this way about fencing? He rarely talks about it. Now I have a new mystery to solve, something else to be curious about.
"We're in Narnia, aren't we?"
Hugo tosses me a smile. It takes a seat beside my heart.
We drive the path on and on, until we come to a clearing ahead. It's the perfect place for a picnic.
Hugo pulls up beside the expanse of grass, and I don't know how big it is except to say it's large enough to comfortably seat a few dozen people. Fewer if they lie back and let the sun warm their bodies.
"How did this get here?" I ask as we climb out, and Hugo reaches into the back seat for the basket.
"I had them put in."
"Them?"
He nods, opening a little compartment on the back of the side-by-side and producing a blanket. "There are four around the orchard. I wanted places for the employees to relax. Take a break from work and enjoy themselves. One of the other green spaces has a trunk with lawn toys. Frisbee, Koosh, some of those soft footballs." He leads the way to a spot in the middle of the grass. "Happy employees make better tasting olives. "
I didn't know it was possible to be more impressed by Hugo, but here we are.
Taking the blanket from where it drapes over Hugo's arm, I shake it out and lay it down. Hugo bites the side of his lip and looks at the ground. "Do you need help sitting down?" he asks me.
"I'm not that pregnant yet," I sass. "But I might need help getting up."
My belly has grown in just the past few days. According to the app I downloaded last month, Peanut is nearing the size of a banana.
Hugo sits down beside the picnic basket, while I navigate gracefully sitting down. It's not really possible, and I end up deciding not to care how I look.
"I asked my sister to put together a picnic basket, and when I tried to tell her what I wanted, she told me to shut up and let the chef work her magic." Hugo shakes his head. "Let's hope she remembered your diet restrictions."
"I'll make do," I assure him. I'm not worried. I don't think there's much that gets by Vivi.
She's sharp, and she's quick, and it's evident how much she cares for people.
Hugo makes a show of removing items from the basket, announcing them. "Arancini," he says. "Stuffed olives with a note from Vivi that says they have feta, not bleu cheese." He huffs a smile. "Sometimes I forget my sister is a professional. Anyway." He goes back to announcing food items. "Panko-crusted chicken." There's a note attached to it. He reads it quickly, balling it up and throwing it back into the basket .
"What did that say?"
"Nothing."
My eyes narrow. "You think I'm going to buy that? I'm a curious person. You know it, and I know it." My finger circles the air. "I wouldn't be here if I weren't."
Hugo fishes the paper from the basket and tosses it to me. Catching it, I unfurl the small square.
No garlic in any of this
in case you want to smooch.
I dissolve into laughter.
Hugo rolls his eyes. "Vivi's a lot."
"She's great," I assert.
"She's both," he compromises. "I hope you're hungry."
"Always," I answer, because it's true. Sometimes I'm hungry, sometimes I'm ravenous, but I'm always on the spectrum of being ready to eat.
"Almost forgot," Hugo says, reaching back into the basket. He comes away with a bottle of something dark orange and sparkling. "Blood orange Italian soda."
He pours the drinks, and we munch on the picnic Vivi packed us. Unsurprisingly, everything is delicious.
"This is gorgeous, Hugo," I comment, popping a stuffed olive in my mouth. "But I'm sure I don't have to tell you that. You get to work here every day."
He lies back, propping himself up on one elbow, and looks around. "I'm in the fields less than I thought I would be. Taking over as the operator means a lot more office time. Sometimes I grab a side-by-side and come out here during the day, just to be out in nature. Vivi and I used to run through here as kids. Pick up the fallen olives and pelt them at each other." He smiles at the memory.
He looks at me with careful, considerate eyes. "Did Maggie ever do anything like that to you?"
"No. Maggie was an angel on earth. Sweet nearly all the time. Maybe she would've been a hellish teenager." The idea of it puts a rueful smile on my lips. "Something to balance her out and make her seem typical. The truth is, she was anything but. She was gentle and kind. She held funerals for bugs." Usually these memories hurt, but right now they feel... ok . What is that about?
"My dad, too. I mean, he didn't have the innocence of a child of course, but he was a better human than many others." Hugo smoothes out a ruffle in the blanket, eyebrow furrowed. "The police said he likely didn't see his attacker. I've always hoped that's true. If it was somebody he knew, he would've felt confused. Hurt. Disappointed."
I shift on the blanket, lying down and mirroring Hugo. "Sal told me that not only did your father not have enemies, but he only had friends."
"It's true. So it must've been a random crime, right?"
I picture my notes, spread out around Hugo's dining room table. The way I've been toying with the possibility that Simon might have known his killer. "Maybe," I hedge. "Anything is possible."
Hugo shifts to lie on his back. I do the same, my hands naturally falling to my stomach .
"Oh," I say, as Peanut twirls and jumps.
"What's wrong?" Alarm puts an urgency in Hugo's tone.
"Everything is fine. Peanut likes Vivi's food."
"You can feel the baby?"
"Only recently. The first morning at Summerhill, actually." Where I was safe, in Hugo's guest bed.
Peanut somersaults again. Right now, it feels like something swimming, but everything I've read says that before long, it will look like an alien stretching inside me, an elbow and a knee and the heel of a foot passing over, visible from the outside.
Hugo props himself up on his elbows, gaze zeroed in on my stomach. "What does it feel like?"
"A flurry of bubbles, but stronger. Almost like a darting back-and-forth."
I prop myself up on my elbows too, looking down at my belly. It's still relatively small, especially compared to what I know it will grow to be, but its profile is taking up more space now. Protruding, making itself known.
"It's cute," Hugo says. "Your bump."
I smile down at it. "I happen to think it's pretty cute, too."
"Can I touch it?"
I glance right, and find his eyes are already on me. He looks hopeful, but also shy.
The only other person who has put their hands on my stomach, besides my doctor, is Jolene. When I chose to have Peanut on my own, I never could have guessed how it would feel to do everything by myself. Nobody to tenderly run a hand over my stomach, or coo and read to my bump. I can do all that myself, but it would be nice to share it with another person.
Never in a million years would I have guessed Hugo might be the person to ask if he can touch my belly, but it doesn't feel weird.
"Yes," I hear myself say.