“Don’t even go there,” Olivia admonished her. “Sam is fine, and he does see Nate when he’s supposed to.”
Liz nodded glumly.
“I just had a thought,” Maddie said to Olivia. “Could you do me a favor and put together a tray of sandwiches and maybe a bowl of potato salad—the yogurt kind Nate likes—so I could take it out to the farm? It’s my bet people will be stopping by all day today.”
“All week, you mean. Sure. Absolutely.” Olivia went over to hug Maddie.
Liz rose. “I better go. Gabe’s going to meet me at the farm. You want to drive with me, Maddie?” she asked her sister-in-law.
“Sure.” Maddie paused and looked at Sarah. “Will you tell Mrs. Beabots or do you want me to call her?”
“I’ll go over to her house. I’ll call Luke from my cell. Charmaine, too.”
Olivia hugged each of her friends one more time and as they walked off in separate directions, she was struck with the significance of the moment. In one way or another, big and small, they’d each been touched by Angelo’s life...and now death. Maddie and Liz had married his sons. Katia’s fiancé, Austin, was Rafe Barzonni’s best friend. Though Olivia didn’t know Angelo all that well, her best friends were part of his family now and that affected her. Olivia had always believed that all living organisms were connected, somehow. This sad event was a kind of proof.
The rupture in her friends’ world was overtaking them. And the tragedy touched Olivia, too. But Angelo was an inspiration, and Olivia couldn’t help but wonder whether there was a lesson in the life he’d lived.
Olivia dreamed of taking her photography skills and talent to the next level, but she’d never done much about it. She left her ability buried and untried, never giving it a chance to flourish. Angelo had never compromised on his ambition, working dawn till dusk to achieve his goals and build a legacy.
She went back inside the deli, taking out her pad to begin making a list of what they’d need to cater the funeral. She could ponder the meaning of Angelo’s death on her life, but this coming week would be brutal and heart-wrenching for her friends. She could only hope to give them support and words of solace. She would be the loving friend they needed.
THE DAY OF Angelo Barzonni’s funeral dinner sounded like the clanging of requiem bells as Olivia and Julia slammed pots, pans and metal trays into the back of their eight-year-old Chevrolet minivan. With her hair shoved into a tight knot on top of her head, wearing little makeup and comfortable black leggings, a chef’s jacket and running shoes, Olivia’s only concession to fashion were the gold hoop earrings in her ears.
“Did you get the copper chafing dish and the Sterno?” Julia asked.
“Yes. Did you remember the warming tray and the plug?”
Her mother’s dark eyes grew wide. “The plug. I never remember the plug.”
“I taped it to the back of the tray after we catered the Halsteads’ brunch last Sunday. I just wanted to make sure it was there.”
Julia turned the heavy electronic tray over. “Here!”
“Great. Also, I packed the three-tiered epergne for my macarons and napoleon pastries. The gingerbread cookies are in tins, and I’ll put those in the scoops of cinnamon ice cream right before we serve the desserts.”
Julia looked around the inside of the van. “Where’s the chocolate mousse?”
Olivia gasped. “What mousse? Was I supposed to make chocolate mousse? I didn’t see it on the menu. Oh, no. What’ll I do?”
Julia 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