The Spia Family Presses On Read Online Free PDF

Cadillacs, a black BMW SUV and a black BMW Roadster. My family had a thing for black cars.
    I didn’t recognize any of them, but I assumed they belonged to my relatives from San Francisco. Most everybody tended to get new cars every year, something my father liked to do to keep his enemies guessing, he would say. It seemed that these relatives had no shortage of enemies.
    I grabbed Mom’s paperwork, slid out of the front seat, slammed the door behind me and just as I walked up the steps to Mom’s back porch, Aunt Hetty came charging out from the screen door. As soon as she saw me she pulled in a breath, let out a little “yeow” and grabbed the front of her white cotton blouse, which was half unbuttoned, a strange phenomenon for my overly modest aunt. “Holy buckets! You scared the bejesus out of me. Don’t you know better than to sneak up on a person?”
    Aunt Hetty had a hearing problem she wouldn’t admit to which caused her to be a little edgy. She thought everyone snuck up on her.
    “Sorry. Is my mom in there? I’ve got something for her.”
    She spun around, buttoned her blouse, pulled her skirt around so that the seams went down her hips, straightened her frazzled hair, smeared on some lipstick from a blue tube she always kept in her pocket, then turned to face me, grinning. That alone told me something was up. Aunt Hetty never grinned.
    She and Aunt Babe were half-sisters, and sadly looked nothing alike. Babe had all the good looks in the family, while Hetty had nothing but a talent for baking. Her graying short hair stood out in little tufts around her heavily creased face, and because of her tendency to wear bright red lipstick that extended above her lip line, she always reminded me of an aging clown.
    Unfortunately, Hetty took life seriously so the clown part was only in my imagination.
    “She might be, but I didn’t see her. I’m too busy delivering cookies for the party. But I saw her go into the barn earlier. Or did I see her go into the barn this morning? I can’t remember. Don’t ask me these questions when I have so much on my mind. I don’t have time for them.”
    Aunt Babe and Aunt Hetty, who weren’t actually my aunts — more like married-into-the-family-because-of-Cousin-Dickey — who actually was a cousin, owned and operated the pastry shop on the property: Dolci Piccoli, Little Sweets. They also shared a small California bungalow on the opposite side of the main driveway and were part owners of the orchard along with me and Federico, who also lived on the land in a one-bedroom house. Mom owned the lion’s share, or at least I thought she did. Now, after reading that document, there was no telling what would happen.
    “Do you want some help?” I knew it was going to take a lot of cookies to satisfy this crowd.
    “No thanks,” she said, and gently squeezed my arm with affection. I was momentarily put off. This simple act of warmth was something Aunt Hetty rarely did. Aunt Babe called her a “cold fish” because Hetty never offered a hug to anyone, and whenever she received one, her arms would be glued to her sides. “You’re such a sweetheart.”
    Sweetheart?
    I wondered if the woman had been drinking, not that she ever did. Hetty was a dry state all the way. A role model if there ever was one. Then it dawned on me. “You’re worried about Babe being around Dickey again, aren’t you?”
    “Huh?”
    I was sure she was playing the dumb card for my benefit. Or she simply couldn’t hear me.
    I raised my voice and enunciated my words. “I said, YOU ARE WORRIED ABOUT DICKEY AND BABE, RIGHT?”
    “Don’t shout Mia, it hurts my ears.”
    “Sorry.” She categorically ignored my question, which I let pass thinking perhaps she was preoccupied with her baking.
    “I have to get back,” she suddenly announced after an awkward moment of silence. “Babe has two more trays of biscotti to take out of the oven and she won’t be able to handle them on her own. I’ll have to do the