Fear Of Falling

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. All the rehabilitation meetings and counseling sessions that Julia had dragged him to hadn’t made a dent. He continued to borrow from friends, claiming the money was for Olivia or some other lie he’d concocted. Finally, one night during a screaming match between her parents, Julia had asked for a divorce.

Olivia’s father left the next morning and never contacted them again. Julia had no formal education, but she was an excellent cook. With the help of Ann Marie Jensen, who co-signed the lease for the space that would become the Indian Lake Deli, Julia began her catering business. It took every last cent Julia had hidden for Olivia’s college fund to pay off her father’s debts and to keep the deli open in those early years, but together Olivia and her mother had survived.

The shameful years. That was what Olivia had called them when she was younger. Kids often whispered behind her back or bullied her. But her real friends, like Sarah, Maddie and Isabelle, had stuck by her and got her through. It had been Sarah’s idea to help Olivia get over her fears by forcing Olivia to accompany her to dressage classes.

She couldn’t afford the lessons, of course, but Sarah had insisted she just come along and watch, maybe take photos of her. And it had been fun. Sarah had helped Olivia realize that horses were not just beautiful, but also intelligent and not to be feared. Eventually, Olivia realized that it was her father’s addiction that terrified her, not the horses. In fact, Olivia believed she understood not just horses but all animals, too, more than she understood humans. What she wished for horses was freedom to run unencumbered by a rider, especially a jockey, whose sole purpose and drive was to win a race.

Olivia had never forgiven her father. She blamed him for all the difficulties she’d faced, and for having to stay home and work when almost all her friends went off to college. She’d developed an abhorrence for horse racing and anything associated with the sport. She despised gambling and though several casinos had opened nearby, she hadn’t even driven past them.

As she stood in Gina’s kitchen, Olivia was astounded that the Barzonni family was in league with what she considered the pond scum of all sports. But she was here for a job, and she had to stay professional.

“Gina, what can I do?”

Gina tapped the spoon on the edge of the soup pot then gently laid it in a blue-and-white spoon rest. “We should get on with it.”

Olivia knew Gina’s thoughts were just as much in the past as hers were. She could only hope the older woman’s memories were not as bitter.

“The bartenders are serving the wine. Would you mind putting out more canapés?”

“Absolutely. I brought spinach dip in a round of rye bread. Boiled finger potatoes filled with sour cream and salmon, and stuffed cherry tomatoes with herbed cream cheese.”

“Lovely. I got out some silver trays for you to use. Over there on the counter.” Gina nodded toward the far side of the kitchen near the butler’s pantry.

Just then Rafe walked in, wearing old jeans and a faded T-shirt that stretched across his broad chest like a second skin. His cowboy boots were scuffed. His black hair was windblown and ragged, but apparently, he didn’t notice or care because he didn’t make the first effort to smooth it.

“Hi,” he said, going to the refrigerator and taking out a protein shake. He popped the top and slugged it, tilting his head back as he drank.

Olivia watched his Adam’s apple bob up and down. Beads of sweat trickled down from his temples, past his strong jaw. When he finished, he wiped his mouth with his tanned forearm. Rafe was arrestingly handsome, yes, but there was also something dangerous and wild in his expression. He must be hurting so much right now, Olivia thought, remembering what Katia and Maddie had said about his relationship with Angelo.

“Raphael, did you wipe those boots outside?” Gina scolded him. Olivia got the impression her comment was out of habit more than necessity.

“I did,” he replied flatly.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart. How was your ride?”

“Good. Rowan really poured it on. It was as if he was running to show Pop how he could measure up, you know?”

“I do,” Gina replied, walking over to Rafe and putting her hand gently on his cheek. “He loved you a great deal.”

Olivia felt like an intruder as Rafe’s eyes filled with tears. She winced at the pain she both saw and felt. Gina seemed to have forgotten she was there, and she wasn’t sure Rafe had noticed her at all.

Rafe squeezed his mother’s hand. “I’ll go change. I’m sure Aunt Bianca wouldn’t think too highly of me in these clothes so soon after Dad’s funeral.”

“She always was a stickler for decorum. Probably another reason I was so anxious to leave home and travel halfway around the world to get away from her.” Gina laughed softly at her joke.

“You shower,” she said, pointing to the back kitchen door. “And then you can get Nate and Mica to help you with the tables and chairs for dinner.”

“Will do.” Rafe crossed the kitchen. As he stepped out through the back door, he glanced at Olivia. “See you later.”

“Sure,” she managed. She empathized with Rafe; he was obviously grief-stricken, and Olivia knew what it was like to lose a father. Yet Gina had just told her that Rafe was involved with horse racing, the evil of all evils. She should dismiss him. Dissolve the imaginary freeze-frame of him in his worn jeans and T-shirt, vulnerable yet masculine. But she couldn’t. Then again, it made sense that his presence would affect her so strongly. She’d been thinking about her dad, and here was Rafe, suffering a similar loss. But at the same time, Rafe represented everything Olivia loathed in this world.

Death always made people think, muddled them up. Olivia struggled to clear the fog from her brain and get back to her work. “I’ll get those appetizers for you, Mrs. Barzonni.”

“I have a table set up near the bar in the den.”

“I’ll take care of it,” Olivia assured her.

On her way to the van, Olivia suddenly wondered why Rafe would be going outside to take his shower. She looked over at the carriage house and saw that the door to the upstairs apartment was slightly ajar. That explained it.

Olivia had moved to her own one-bedroom apartment a few years ago, needing to get some space and independence from her mom, especially as they continued to work at the deli together. Now she lived on the first floor of one of the Victorian mansions on Maple Boulevard. It was a small space, but the twelve-foot-high, floor-to-ceiling windows filled her little kitchen and living area with light. There was a back entrance that was hers alone, and she’d lined the steps with pots of daffodil and tulip bulbs. The gardens in back were not as spectacular as Mrs. Beabots’s, but the yard was ringed with blue spruce, maples and oaks, and it provided a secluded respite from the world. She could understand why Rafe had wanted a place of his own, even if it was only a few steps from where his parents lived.

* * *

OLIVIA SPENT THE rest of the afternoon putting out food and helping her mother clean up in the kitchen, stealing whatever moments she could to give her condolences to Nate, Gabe and Mica. Twice, she approached the table where Rafe sat with his mother, her sister, Bianca, and the priest who had performed the funeral service, and twice, she backed away, unable to talk to him.

After her second attempt, Olivia felt as if the walls were closing in on her. The room had grown stifling. She remembered these reactions from those years right after her father left. Her aunt and some of her mother’s friends had told her she was being dramatic, but Olivia’s symptoms were very real. Her words would be cut off midsentence, or she wouldn’t be able to speak at all. She would sweat and her hands would shake—just like they were doing now. The cure was to simply avoid the triggers. In this case: Rafe. She had to stay away from him at all costs.

There were more chores waiting for her in the kitchen, and she needed to take photos of the elegant pastry display she’d created. But when she reached the kitchen, she noticed Gina had come in behind her.

“I want to serve the dessert and coffee now,” Gina said. “Come help me fill the coffeepots. Olivia, you’ll pour the left side of the room, and Julia, will you take the right?”

“Of course,” Olivia said. “What about the ice creams?”

Gina nodded briskly. “I’ll serve them after we’ve put them together.”

Olivia went to the island and opened the containers. “I got the ice cream from Louise.” She took out a silver dish, scooped a perfect ball of ice cream into it, stuck a ginger star cookie in the middle and then sprinkled spun sugar “glitter” on top. “It was my idea to add the stars,” Olivia said hesitantly. “I like to think of Mr. Barzonni being in heaven, walking among the stars.”

Gina flung her arms around Olivia. “My sweet girl. That is the loveliest thing anyone has said to me all week. I’ll remember it forever. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Olivia fought back tears as she glanced at her mother and saw pride and love shining in her eyes.

Gina took a deep breath and swept her fingers under her eyes. “I’ll announce dessert. Oh, Olivia, don’t forget the cream and sugar. I put it over there on that silver tray.”

Olivia smiled. “I got it.”

She watched from the kitchen as Rafe and Mica stacked their plates with her pastries. She wished she could take their photos; their smiles were the first she’d seen all day, and it warmed her to know that her creations brought them this little joy on such a sorrowful day. Once everyone had visited the dessert table, Gina began serving the ice cream, and Olivia followed her out with a china pot of hot coffee.

As she rounded Rafe’s table, pouring coffee, Rafe reached out and clutched her hand.

“Is it true you made these macaroons?” he asked, holding up the colorful cookie with chocolate mousse filling between the layers.

“I did. Do you like them?”

“They’re great,” he said sourly. “But these aren’t macaroons. There’s no coconut in these.”

“I didn’t want to correct you, but yes, these are French macarons. Macaroons do have coconut.” She leaned down to pick up his cup and saucer. Her arm passed very close to his shoulder, but he didn’t move to give her more space. “Would you like cream or sugar?”

“Black. There’s enough sugar in the cookies. I could eat a dozen of these. You’re very talented.”