Ring of Truth (11 page)

“I've given you a definite ‘maybe,'” she corrected him.

Kerry could sense a subtle shift in Ren's demeanor.

“Ah... the money, is it? The stock options
carrot
? I can practically hear that conversation in your head. I've heard it often enough in my own. You'd like to keep the bird in the hand and capture the one that's just fluttering within reach.”

His expression had become unreadable and Kerry knew instinctively that she'd disappointed him somehow.

“It's not
just
the money, Ren! I worked my ass off to get to where someone is offering me a half million bucks, and I have every right to try to see it through, if I can. And besides, I don't want to work at the ranch behind the back of my current employer. You wouldn't like it if I did that to
you.
I need to have a conversation with the big boss and see if I can renegotiate my deal and, by the way,
you
need to get Sara Lang off the ranchero, right,
señor
?”

Without reply, he rose and walked with her toward the door.

 “How about you give me your answer tomorrow night, Kerry, after you've met with the CEO? I've got to get someone teed up right away to give the ranch its best chance for survival, and if it's not going to be you...”

Kerry rested her hand on the hotel suite's doorknob, wondering if the electricity she'd felt flowing between them earlier was merely wishful thinking on her part. In a flash of insight she could see that Ren Montisi did not like to get
left.
And, he was also a tough businessman, and likely skilled at playing both Good Cop/Bad Cop to secure what he was after. Right now, it felt as if he were suddenly playing Bad Cop to pressure her to help solve his problems at the ranch.

Was this just another Charlie Miller move, she wondered bleakly? Worse yet, was this really her dream job, or would the presence of Sara Lang in her life turn it into another nightmare?

Kerry glanced down at the Claddagh, wishing for the first time that it would offer clear guidance. The emerald retained its normal color without a hint of iridescence.

For once in your life, just do what
you
want!

Startled, she continued to stare at her hand, expecting the ring's gemstone to change color—which it did not. Those were
her
thoughts, she marveled. With absolute clarity, she
knew
she wanted to do the kind of life's work represented by the Montisi Olive Ranch, whether Renato Montisi and she were an “item” or not. It felt so liberating to finally know what her path should be! She squared her shoulders and in her most professional manner, bid Ren farewell.

“I'll do my best to get in to see the CEO first thing tomorrow. Meanwhile, let me know if you've gotten a commitment from Sara to leave by the end of the month.”

And with that, Kerry allowed Ren to say a circumspect “Good night,” and put her in a cab downstairs, noting that another invasion of fog off the wide Pacific Ocean now cloaked the night sky atop Nob Hill.

Monday morning, Kerry took the elevator at LifeStyleXer directly to the floor where Harry Chapman's office was located next to the glass-enclosed conference room. It wasn't even eight a.m. yet, but instinct told her that with an IPO deadline looming, the company's CEO would be at his desk when the markets in New York opened three hours ahead of California time. She knocked at his open door, apologized for interrupting, and was bidden to take a seat.

Chapman, a trim man who looked to be in his early fifties, listened without interruption as she swiftly explained her sudden and unexpected offer to live on the Montisi Olive Ranch and—in exchange for a roof over her head—lend her talents as a part-time chef and food consultant to this enterprise.

She did her best not to lose her nerve when she saw that the CEO's features had grown grave.

Before he could respond, she hastened to add, “Finding somewhere decent to live in San Francisco in my price range is practically impossible. And, actually, I think my
not
sitting in an office cubicle all day and being part of the world of everything I'll be writing about—as I did with the first few posts you seem to like so much—will greatly enhance the quality of my blog and keep driving traffic to the parent website. I'm happy to work in the city two days a week if you'll cover a room at the W on Mondays and Tuesdays.”

She nearly winced when he raised an eyebrow at that suggestion, but plunged ahead with the proposed arrangement she hoped he'd agree to.

 “Honestly, Mr. Chapman,” she rushed to assure him, “working among the artisanal California food producers can only be good for
this
company. I think my living in Petaluma two-thirds of the week will be good for
both
our causes.”

She held her breath, watching Chapman mull over her long speech. She wondered if she had just made the stupidest move in her life.

The CEO began to tap one end of his pen on his desk.

“Okay,” he said with a final flick. “Here's what I'll agree to do: The company will cover two days a week at the W Hotel and we'll keep our arrangement with you—
minus
fifty percent of that weekly salary Ms. Silverstein agreed to pay you. I'll keep two-thirds of your stock options intact—
if
the number of page views on your blog remains as high as it is today until LifeStyleXer goes public in a few weeks and, after that time, restore them to the full five-hundred thousand dollars
if
the page views
remain
at least eighty percent of that figure, on average, for the next two years.”

After only a few seconds' hesitation she said, “Fair enough,” and then added with a
frisson
of trepidation, “And can this new agreement be drawn up as a separate contract from Charlie Miller's? He's really much more suited than I am to managing those ten new food bloggers I'm recruiting... and, by the way,” she told Chapman parenthetically, “I already lined up four good ones at the food writers' dinner I attended at Montisi Ranch over the weekend.”

“Well, that's excellent news,” Chapman said, appearing pleased. “Good idea. I'll make a note to have Ms. Silverstein tell him he'll manage the national food blog team once you've recruited the remaining six.”

Kerry could barely keep from grinning. “Also, Mr. Chapman, I believe that Ms. Silverstein has assigned Mr. Miller some tech projects, as well. His job, now, has very little relation to what you've hired me for, which is why I'd like my contract to be separate.”

Harry Chapman paused and appeared to be considering her words carefully.

“Yes,” he agreed, nodding his assent. “You and Mr. Miller are fulfilling different roles now that you're here working for us. I'll let HR know what we've decided today, and have Legal draw up your new agreement.”

“That's terrific.”

Chapman pointed to his computer's screen. “By the way, Ms. Hannigan, my wife is a huge fan of your blog, and has been ever since you started writing it. She made that marvelous dill sauce recipe of yours for the salmon we served Sunday night and she loved the second blog you posted this morning about what to plant in an edible, organic backyard kitchen garden.” He laughed. “It's a good thing I like vegetables.”

“T-that's wonderful!” Kerry stammered. “Thank you so much for telling me.”

He leaned forward and tapped his pen once more on the desk. “What you've been writing about is exactly what we needed to add to the mix of what we're doing around here. In fact, it's very important to the overall approach we're taking with the company leading up to the IPO. So, good job!”

Kerry felt color infuse her cheeks at hearing such high praise and rose from her chair, anxious to depart Chapman's office before he had any second thoughts.

“Thank you so much for seeing me this morning without an appointment,” she said, reaching across his desk to shake his hand. “And you have my absolute promise to work harder than ever to merit your wife's and this company's support.”

Harry Chapman nodded absently and began typing notes into his computer that Kerry could only assume were the details of the new bargain they'd just struck.

“Check your email later today,” he confirmed, not looking up. “You can print out, sign, and deliver the new contract directly back to me.”

“Will do,” Kerry said over her shoulder, exiting his office as quickly as she could before she ran into any vice presidents who might be wandering the halls.

***

Kerry slipped into her Aeron chair inside her cubicle, pulled out her cellphone, and texted Ren the news that her negotiations with LifeStyleXer had concluded, resulting in everything she wanted in order to be able to move to the ranch as a Montisi Olive Ranch food and marketing consultant—and “Jeremy's sous chef,” she added, for good measure.

Within seconds, an electronic message popped on her screen.

Totally delighted. Pick you and luggage up at seven and take you to dinner at Poggio's in Sausalito to celebrate on the way home?

She felt a fluttering and glanced at her right hand, only to realize that the feeling of butterflies was vibrating inside her own chest.

Perfect,
she texted him back. Then she realized Ren hadn't mentioned the situation with Sara. She'd ask him when he picked her up at the W later.

By close of business later that same day, Kerry received her new contract and delivered it—signed—back to Harry Chapman's desk. Just as she was leaving, she nearly groaned out loud at the sight of Beverly Silverstein briskly walking down the hall in her direction. Kerry glanced at Harry Chapman's door that she'd left ajar at his request.

“You've been meeting with Harry?” Beverly demanded with a sharp edge to her tone. “What about?”

“Just summoned for a little meet-and-greet,” Kerry said with a deliberate shrug. For some reason, she was no longer intimidated by the woman and continued to walk past her. Over her shoulder she added, “Turns out, Mr. Chapman's wife is a big fan of my blog. Isn't that great?”

Before Beverly could say anything else, Kerry stepped into the elevator that would take her down to the floor where she could write a couple more blogs in her despised cubicle with the knowledge she would only be sitting in it two days a week.

At ten minutes before seven p.m., she checked out of the W Hotel and made a reservation for a single room there, every Monday and Tuesday night “for the foreseeable future,” as she informed the desk clerk. Ren was waiting in the Mercedes at the entrance when she wheeled her suitcase through the doors and halted at the curb.

“Is this all you have?” he marveled.

“This is it, at least until my stuff from New York arrives,” she replied. “I guess I'll have to put most of it in storage until we see how everything works out.”

Ren grabbed a hold of her wheelie to store it in the trunk of his car and grinned.

“It's going to work out just fine.”

“What's the latest about Sara?” she said, hesitating to get into his car.

“Tell you at dinner.”

Once again, Kerry wondered if she weren't about to trade the problems of dealing with one difficult female for another. As they headed across downtown San Francisco towards the Golden Gate Bridge, she longed to ask Ren exactly what, if anything, had been decided. Then, she resolutely pushed all thoughts of the yawning unknown from her mind and gazed at the dark expanse of water on both sides of the bridge. She'd made her decision, and come what may, she'd power through it.

Once on the Marin County side, Ren took the first exit off Highway 1 and wound his way down a steep incline and into the maritime village of Sausalito. Lights winked at her from the cluster of dwellings that climbed the hills above the Bay as if they were part of a landscape in Portofino, Italy.

Ren left his car with the valet, took Kerry's arm, and guided her into Poggio's Trattoria on Bridgeway, Sausalito's principal thoroughfare. Close by was a series of piers where several luxury yachts and the ferries to San Francisco docked, along with more modest sailing craft.

“What a pretty place!” she exclaimed, pointing to several art galleries and shops they passed whose windows displayed chic clothing and all manner of handicrafts.

“It's a town of about seven thousand, full of artists and serious sailors,” he explained. “Sausalito is fighting to hold on to its uniqueness against an onslaught of digital millionaires who are buying up houses here, right and left.”

“I can certainly understand why they might want to live here. What an amazing waterfront town, and yet so close to the city.”

Once inside Poggio's, they were led immediately to an intimate leather-clad booth whose high sides bookended a table with starched linen and a forest of stemmed glasses and handsome cutlery.

Ren ordered a plate of bruschetta and a bottle of
Veuve Clicquot
.

“Shouldn't it be
Prosecco
?” she teased, referring to an Italian sparkling wine.

“This calls for busting the budget one last time,” he replied and then fell oddly silent as their waiter poured the French champagne into slender, crystal flutes.

When they were alone again, Ren raised his glass.

“To you and our new venture,” he toasted her, “and I can't wait to hear how you pulled this off!”

With some pride, Kerry described her session with CEO Harry Chapman and the fact he'd agreed to a renegotiated employment package.

“Chapman seems to be a very decent guy, and he actually
listened
when I explained what I wanted to do and why. Luckily,” she said with a laugh, lifting a piece of toast with tomato, basil and drizzled olive oil from the plate that sat on the table between them, “his
wife
is a fan of my blog and he appears to listen to her, as well!”

“Sounds like you convinced him to let you keep your stock options.”

“Two-thirds of them to begin with, and half my current salary, which seemed fair, since I'm not available to do much else but my blogs for them.” She briefly recounted the rest of the CEO's changes to her employment package, concluding, “If I hang around past the two year period, I get more stock.” She smiled, and added, “But I fully expect to be working full time at the ranch by then, so
that
won't happen.”

“You are the
best
, Kerry Hannigan,” Ren said, smiling back. “Not bitten by the Big Bucks Bug, are you? What a gal...”

With a shrug, she popped the bruschetta into her mouth, slowly began to chew, and closed her eyes, savoring the explosion of flavors. Then her lids flew open.

“Poggio uses your olive oil, doesn't it? This is one fabulous concoction they've just served us!”

Ren inclined his head modestly. Kerry took a deep breath. Despite her brave words about her future at the ranch, she couldn't seem to stop worrying about Sara Lang. The truth was, the woman
was
a problem for her as well as for Ren, and she wanted an idea what she would be facing by living in Petaluma.

“So tell me,” she asked. “What's the latest about Sara? Did you two have a chance to talk since yesterday?”

“We did,” Ren confirmed. “It wasn't a very pleasant conversation, but I got her to agree to move on within the month, whether or not she's found a new job.”

Kerry supposed that was progress, if not perfection.

“One problem, though,” he added.

“What?” she asked, wondering what trick Sara might be concealing up her sleeve.

“We added a dinner on Tuesday for visiting experts from the UC Davis Olive Oil Center.”

“That's where they test products for purity and grade and publish their findings—to the dismay of the cheaters,” Kerry confirmed, “the ones claiming extra virginity for products that are actually of a lower grade?”

“Exactly. It's a big deal, and with Jeremy forced to stay off his feet most of the day, would you be willing to take charge, with José and Sara assisting? I'll help, too,” he assured her.

“And protect me if Sara suddenly decides to find a new use for the kitchen knives?” she asked, only half in jest.

“I won't leave you two alone for an instant,” he assured her.

“Well, if Jeremy can give us both directions from the couch, she'll probably behave, don't you think?”

“Let us hope. You and I will just have to work on marketing and product development issues later in the week.”

Kerry groaned inwardly at the thought of dealing with the quarrelsome woman under the pressured circumstances of producing a stellar meal for such an important group, but then she reminded herself that Sara would be gone in a month.

  “Despite my concerns about your sister-in-law,” she mused, “I might as well admit to you that hanging out in the kitchen is the part of the job I most look forward to.”

“Slaving over a hot stove?” he asked skeptically. “Some kind of feminist writer
you
are.”