Read Online Ring of Truth by Ciji Ware - Free Book Online Page A

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!
    Startled, she glanced down again at her right hand in time to see the ring wink in a flash of white. She moved closer to the counter where she gave the clerk a credit card for the twelve bottles that had been filled for her at the back of the store, and then insisted on paying for Tony’s as well.
    â€œYou told me about this place and drove us here,” she announced firmly.
    She seized the pen to sign the purchase slip and couldn’t help but notice that the ring’s emerald gemstone had once again turned opalescent. The next thing she knew, the voice in her head rang out for the third time since entering the shop.
    Good going, my girl! Today’s events will prove excellent for more than just your blog...
    ***
    On Saturday morning, Kerry was thankful for her rental car’s GPS that easily guided her through the empty streets at seven-thirty a.m. in downtown San Francisco to the Golden Gate Bridge that led north to Marin and Sonoma counties. She felt a thrill as the two orange-colored steel towers rose up, reassuring beacons that she was on the right road. She gave a quick glance to her left and took in the wide expanse of the Pacific Ocean where the morning sun spread a layer of gold stretching all the way to China, it seemed. On her right side, the enormous oval that was San Francisco Bay was dotted with a few large and small craft making ivory trails in the churning waters around Alcatraz and Angel islands.
    Less than forty minutes later, just as Renato Montisi had directed, she took the exit before Petaluma Boulevard and followed successively narrower roads through gently rolling hills dotted with oak trees and cattle, until she spotted a wooden sign carved with bas-relief olives on a branch of a tree. She made a left turn down a tarmac road that wound into its own eight-hundred-acre valley with groves of sage-green olive trees marching up and down the hills on either side of her car.
    Kerry inhaled deeply of air scented faintly with lavender and rosemary and thought she’d landed squarely in some uncharted corner of heaven. At the next bend in the road she noted that an entire field was planted, not with olive trees, but with rows and rows of lavender bushes, devoid of blooms in December, but stately in the way their sage stalks blew gently in the morning breeze.
    She passed through a pair of stone stanchions, drove another quarter mile on hard-packed dirt, rolled to a stop on a wide, gravel turn-round and spotted Ren, once again clad in jeans and work boots. Today, he looked handsomer than ever in a collared, dark green polo shirt, no doubt worn in honor of the impending arrival of the nation’s top food writers.
    He advanced toward her across the parking area in front of a low-slung, corrugated steel building she assumed housed the olive pressing facility. Two Labradors—one black, one chocolate-colored—danced excitedly around their master.
    â€œMeet Scusi and Prego,” he announced as she emerged from her car’s driver side. He pointed to his left. “Ciao, the barn cat, is in the lavender bushes over there. C’mon, hop into my truck for the Grand Tour. The dogs will follow us and get some exercise as I show you the ranch.”
    Kerry gingerly climbed into his truck’s cab, happy she’d decided against wearing a sundress and sling-back heels in favor of a tapered pair of navy trousers, rubber-soled red flats, and a navy-and-white striped sweater with a red cardigan slung across her shoulders.
    â€œIt’s really great you’re willing to spend some time with me at such an early hour and before that gaggle of food critics descends on you for lunch.”
    â€œBest part of the