Ring of Truth (5 page)

“Hey, Ren! Great to see ya! That's your latest? Well then, just wheel that dolly right in here, my friend. I can't wait to taste that first press of yours! We've all been waiting with bated breath.”

“We are
so
in luck!” Tony whispered loudly. “The rumors were true! That's Renato Montisi
himself
back there,” he added excitedly, nodding in the direction of the rear of the large room that had rows of two-foot-high stainless steel olive oil dispensers lined along the wall. “Montisi Ranch usually presses their olives in mid-to-late November, and then delivers soon after, and I guess today's the
day
!”

The store's proprietor walked up to the tall, good-looking figure he had hailed as “Ren” who had wheeled in his dolly loaded with a large, stainless steel drum. Printed on its circumference was an olive branch logo and the words MONTISI RANCH OLIVE OIL.

From across the store, Kerry absorbed the view of the six-foot, broad-shouldered man delivering his wares and felt an unexpected flutter in her chest at the sight of his full head of dark blond, wind-blown hair that was barely tamed by a pair of pricey Ray Ban sunglasses perched just above his tanned forehead. About her age—or perhaps a few years older—his high cheekbones and square jaw, along with trim arms that were also tanned despite its being early December, made him appear more like a sought-after ski instructor than a rancher. She could also easily imagine him in an expensive suit and tie, addressing an audience in the LifestyleXer boardroom. Yet, here he was, wearing jeans, work boots, and a brown T-shirt with the same Montisi Ranch logo stamped in khaki green across a muscular chest that couldn't help but capture a bystander's attention.

“Hey, how's everybody doing?” Ren asked of store owner Michael Bradley and his staff that had gathered in a circle around the dolly. “Yep, this is our latest press. Do you have some bread to give it a taste?”

“C'mon!” exhorted Tony in a harsh whisper. “Let's get in line!” He grabbed her arm and hustled toward the small crowd in the back. “Hi,” he boldly addressed the group. “I'm Tony Perez and this is Kerry Hannigan, who just moved to San Francisco from New York. She's the CookChic food blogger and I brought her here because maybe she'll do a post about your latest product, Mr. Montisi... and also about the store,” he added hastily to the owner of Amphora Nueva.

Both men turned to stare at the interlopers while Kerry could feel her pale complexion flush with color. She was embarrassed by Tony's brashness and a promise she'd write a blog about a new product she hadn't even tasted yet.

“Oh, please,” she protested. “We don't mean to interrupt...”

The man who had just delivered his latest harvest met her glance and a moment later was smiling broadly.

“You're not interrupting,” he said, extending his hand in greeting. As soon as Kerry felt his palm wrapped around hers, she sensed a curious vibration traveling from the ring finger of her right hand, straight to her chest. “I'm Ren Montisi, and—as a matter of fact—I subscribe to your blog, so I'm very aware that you know your stuff.” He cast her a confident smile, releasing her hand. “You're just in time to give me your opinion of this year's first press.”

“I-I love olive oil, but I'm certainly no tasting expert—”

“All I want is your unvarnished reaction as a consumer. We bottled this only last week.”

Their eyes met and Kerry realized she was actually holding her breath. A strange current of...
what
? Excitement? Anticipation? Whatever the sensation was, Kerry had felt a second tremor pass from Ren's hand to her solar plexus.

“S-sure...” she managed to stammer. “I'll tell you what I think... honestly,” she added in the name of journalism.

He took a few small cubes from a basket of bread cut from a French baguette that the store owner had handed him and offered one to her and another to Tony. Then he put a small porcelain saucer beneath the spigot on the steel drum and allowed a stream of green-golden olive oil to fill halfway to the rim.

“Everybody ready?” he asked, his gaze making a sweep of his audience. Despite his smile, Kerry thought she noticed tension gathering at the corners of his generous mouth.

By this time, several other customers had joined the small throng, each holding a cube of bread between forefinger and thumb. Kerry leaned forward, followed eagerly by Tony Perez, and dipped her sourdough into the pool of oil, watching the bread quickly absorb the liquid like a miniature sponge.

She turned away from the group, popped the small square into her mouth, and allowed the bread and dripping oil to slide over her tongue. At first, there was a fresh, familiar taste of olives, soon followed by a sparkling, peppery finish she found utterly delicious. Like Tony's raspberry salad dressing, it was one of the most wonderful flavors she'd ever tasted!

She turned back and again locked glances with the creator of this liquid gold. Eyes wide with astonishment at the complex flavors flooding her taste buds, she continued to slowly chew the bread and finally swallowed it.

“Oh... wow,” she pronounced on a long breath. “Oh,
really
wow! I have never tasted anything like this in my life!” She laughed and pointed to the big stainless steel drum, addressing the owner of Amphora Nueva. “Can you please decant about ten bottles of that for me?” she asked. “No, make that an even dozen.”

Ren Montisi was blatantly staring, eyes crinkling with relief he couldn't disguise.

“No!” she assured him quickly, “I really mean it. I want to send this amazing stuff to friends as this year's Christmas presents, instead of wine.” She took a step forward and gazed into amber eyes of variegated shades that reminded her of the colors in Central Park each autumn. With those amazing eyes and Ren's dark blond hair, she speculated that the original Montisis must hail from the north of Italy. She held his glance and said, “I truly think this may be the best olive oil on the planet.”

“Have you been to Tuscany?” Ren asked.

“Yes, but I never tasted anything like this.”

“Sometime, go to the little village of Montisi—not far from Montepulciano—about forty miles south of Siena,” he said, flashing a dazzling grin as he confirmed her conjecture about his family's origins. “The oil from the original Montisi groves rivals this... almost,” he added, continuing to look at her with unnerving interest, which prompted her to glance down at the Claddagh ring, rather than drown in his steady gaze. Its stone was pure white and pulsing.

Ask for an interview. Go see the ranch where the oil is produced!

Kerry was about to open her mouth to repeat these thoughts aloud when Ren said, “Why don't you come see where we make this? We're hosting a bunch of food writers like yourself at the ranch tomorrow, which means you'll probably feel right at home. I'm sure Chef Jeremy can make room for one more place setting.”

She glanced over her shoulder at Tony. “Tony Perez and I work for the same company now. He's in charge of salads at the LifestyleXer dot com cafeteria and is a big fan of your oil.”

Ren's smile faded and he said, “Oh... well... perhaps since it's two of you—”

Tony shook his head sorrowfully. “I gotta work tomorrow, but Kerry can tell me all about it. It's her very first day in California, Mr. Montisi, and she can't miss out on something like this.”

Kerry observed another of Ren Montisi's faintly devastating grins spread across his handsome features as he turned to the owner of Amphora Nueva.

 “Well, now, why don't we decant thirteen bottles of Montisi's finest for these nice folks?”

***

Ten minutes later, Ren fished into his back jean's pocket and brought out a business card imprinted with his ranch's logo that he handed to the young woman with the shoulder-length, jet black hair and totally arresting sapphire eyes. He couldn't believe his luck running into one of the major food bloggers in the country. And what a stunner! What was she doing in
this
store on
this
day, he marveled?

“Here's where you come tomorrow,” he explained. “Do you think you can find your way to us? On a Saturday, it should take you about forty-fifty minutes up Highway 101 from the city. We'll be serving wine and iced tea and a few things to nibble on at twelve and we'll sit down to lunch at about quarter to one.”

He'd never wanted anyone to accept an invitation to see the ranch as much in his life as he did Kerry Hannigan. Jeremy had been the first to talk about her blog and her philosophy about how America should eat food grown close to its source. “The Hundred-Mile Diet” had become a cliché in Northern California, at least, but the woman standing only a few feet from him had a way of telling stories within her blog posts that won his rapt attention and admiration from the first time he'd read her work.

He would never admit to anyone that he'd studied her picture on her website late one evening, but it was nothing compared to seeing first hand that lovely pale skin with cheeks that blushed when she was excited, as he'd observed earlier when she'd tasted the oil-infused cube of bread. And despite all the food she must consume for her job, she had a slender figure, but one with curves right where they should be. She couldn't be more than five-feet-four, which was so different from—

He didn't want to make comparisons. Studying Kerry Hannigan's every gesture, he had the strangest inclination to take her in his arms to see if she'd fit snugly under his chin...

 She was talking to him now, he realized with a start.

 “Would it be possible to show up at your ranch... say, at ten-thirty,” she inquired politely, “so I could do a quick interview and you could show me the olive groves and your production facility before the hordes arrive? And may I take some photos for my blog?”

“Absolutely, but can you make that eight-thirty?” Ren countered and then grimaced. “I know that's ridiculously early, but I've got to be on tap for my staff getting ready for that big busload of your fellow writers due to arrive sometime before noon. That way, we can walk the groves and see the vegetable garden and the lavender fields, and then sit down in my office with some coffee to talk before things get too hectic.”

“Perfect!” she exclaimed, and he was exhilarated to see by the color staining her cheeks, evidence that she was clearly excited at the prospect of visiting the ranch.

“And if you have a tight deadline tomorrow,” he ventured, “while we wait for the other food writers to arrive—or after they depart—you can use my computer, if you want or need to. I'll be busy being the genial host.”

He was determined to offer the woman every courtesy to smooth the way for a possible mention in her influential blog. If she used his office, he thought with a sudden sense of pleasure that raised his flagging spirits, she'd hang around the ranch a little longer and that would be great on its own merits.

Ren struggled to bring his thoughts back to the business at hand. A relieved expression lit up her lovely features.

“Borrowing your computer would be a huge help,” she said.  “I've just been assigned an extra blog post every Saturday, so I'll definitely take you up on your offer after everyone leaves, if I may.”

“It'll be all yours,” he said with a laugh. “By then I'll be on cleanup duty.”

It seemed like some sort of miracle that this amazingly talented star of the food world wanted to tour his family's domestic olive oil operation and taste Jeremy's wonderful food made from ingredients grown within steps of their commercial kitchen.

Finally, he thought, the Montisi Olive Ranch and its manager might be getting a few breaks, as a spreadsheet flashed through his mind with some discouraging profit-and-loss totals at the bottom.

***

For Kerry's part, Renato Montisi would have been amazed to know what was whirling in her head as the clerk assembled the bottles of olive oil on the desk and began to wrap each one for transport to her friends and relatives on the East Coast.

Her mind was filled with a sense of what she could only describe as unbridled euphoria. Thanks to this astounding meet-up, not only would she get to interview the personable producer of a wonderful artisanal product, she'd also meet a raft of fellow food writers in
person,
instead of merely online. Even better, she already knew she'd get at least three or four blog posts out of seeing the olive groves, the bottling facility, and dining with nationally known culinary critics. Maybe she could even
recruit
some of them to do what she did, but in their own cities?

Relief swept over her at the thought that in one fell swoop, she could make her first week's crushing deadlines and suggest some viable names with whom to launch the LifestyleXer/CookChic brand in ten major markets, as she was contractually obligated.

 And it had all happened on her first day in California! She glanced at her right hand. Surely the Claddagh ring couldn't take credit for
everything
?

Tony broke into her jumble of thoughts.

 “You can borrow my car tomorrow,” he offered, almost worshipfully, his attention glued—not on her—but on the bottles of olive oil that Amphora Nueva's proprietor had already decanted and had handed to him, corks firmly in place.

“Thanks,” Kerry replied, turning to offer her new friend her heartfelt appreciation. “That's very sweet of you, but I'll just lease a rental.” To Ren Montisi she added, “This is
so
nice of you to make time for me, given all that you have to do tomorrow. I'm really grateful—and I absolutely love your olive oil!”

She lowered her eyes with embarrassment in reaction to Ren's look of mild amazement. Was he so unaccustomed to such high praise for his wonderful product, she wondered?

He's intrigued with
you
, you ninny!