Ring of Truth (8 page)

Startled by this thought, she turned and reached for the car door.

“What an amazing day,” she said, pulling it open, an action that required Ren to take a step backward. “I loved every minute of my visit, and I really appreciated the tour of the ranch and all the good material I have for future blog posts.” She cast him a sideways glance. “The one I just wrote about today went ‘live' a few minutes ago. Any sharing on the Montisi Facebook page would be most welcome, especially since this will be my first blog written in California and all eyes will be watching at LifeStyleXer.”

“Done!” he pronounced. “Or at least, done as soon as I get back to my office tonight.” Then he added, “Where can I be in touch with you in case I have anything else to add?”

Kerry had trouble suppressing a grin while she fished out her cellphone and zapped him her contact information.

“It's probably best to text me, though,” she explained. “I'll be pretty busy cranking out eleven blogs this week and following up on getting some of your guests I met today to sign on to blog about food and restaurants in their various cities.” She smiled at Ren with heartfelt gratitude. “You were really great to let me recruit a few of them before they all got back on the bus. It was my only chance and—''

“Glad to be of assistance and I hope some of them pan out.” He looked at her somberly. “Your new bosses have piled a lot on your plate, haven't they?”

Kerry nodded and gave a short laugh.

“They also expect me to find my own place to live within two weeks, can you believe it? After that, my room at the W Hotel is on my nickel. I've
got
to spend some time tomorrow looking for a place to rent.”  She found herself staring into eyes full of sympathy, a shade darker than she remembered, now that night had fallen. Flustered, she quickly murmured, “Well... never mind. It'll all work out, I guess. 'Night, now.”

“Goodnight, Ms. Kerry Hannigan.” He held the car door open while she settled into the driver's seat. “You'll hear from me soon,” he added, and closed the door firmly.

Yes, you will...

She put the car in gear and saw that the ring offered a single wink in the murky confines of the driver's compartment. In her rear view mirror, Ren remained standing in the parking lot, his two dogs at his side, as she nosed her rented vehicle down the dirt road away from the ranch buildings. A sliver of a new moon in the December sky rose above Sonoma County's rolling hills as she cautiously found her way down the country road to Highway 101 and headed south, traveling the 39 miles toward San Francisco.

And despite the triumph of this day and the sense of wonder at the beauty of the Montisi Olive Ranch—to say nothing of the warmth in her host's manner just now—her main memory of the last ten minutes was the malevolent force of Sara Lang's parting glance.

By Sunday noon, Kerry could see that her first blog, illustrated with a few of the photos she'd taken between tossing the salad and helping Ren and José serve the tables of food writers, was an instant hit. The analytics told her that the story of the near-disaster was being tweeted and re-tweeted by some of the attending food writers themselves, and shared all over the blogosphere's top food sites. And before she could even finish her coffee and eggs benedict that she'd had sent up from room service, the CEO of LifeStyleXer, Harry Chapman—Beverly Silverstein's boss—had sent her a priority email.

Welcome aboard, Kerry, and great first post! Just the right “You are there” tone we're looking for.

She was even more gratified to note that Chapman had copied Beverly, Charlie, and even the HR head, along with the little czarina, Tiffany Gergus, who had assigned her to her cubicle and treated her like dirt.

Kerry swiftly hit “Reply All” and responded.

Thanks. More to come!

A cascade of complimentary me-too atta-girls followed from each of Chapman's addressees, to which Kerry responded aloud in her hotel room, “Yeah...
right
. I bet you're all deliriously happy for me!”

As soon as room service removed her breakfast cart, she got down to writing two more blogs based on her journey to Amphora Nueva and reminded her readers to look for the harvest date on olive oil, rather than the bottling or ‘use by' date. Within another hour, she'd also produced an 800-word riff on the best winter vegetables for soup making and ideas for planting, come spring, an all-organic kitchen garden—including pictures she'd snapped with the excellent lens on her cellphone.

Just as she'd embedded the last image, scheduled the day and time for the next post—12:01 a.m. and 12:01 p.m.—and pushed Publish, her cellphone rang.

“Kerry? Good morning! Just checking up on you to see if you survived your baptism by fire yesterday. It's Ren. Renato Montisi.”

As if she hadn't instantly recognized his deep voice.

“H-hey there,” she stammered. “Have you heard any more news about your chef?”

“I went and picked him up from Marin General this morning. He definitely has a problem with his gallbladder and it looks as if he's scheduled for surgery in a couple of weeks... or sooner, if he has another attack.”

“Oh, poor guy,” she sympathized. “That's certainly nothing to look forward to.”

“Look, Kerry... I'm driving into the city this afternoon to visit my grandmother at the San Francisco Towers where she's living now. Can I take you to an early dinner afterward?”

Kerry glanced at the few apartment vacancy ads she'd pulled up on her laptop computer and sighed.

“How early? I've managed to get my blog posts done for tomorrow, but I absolutely
have
to go see some apartments for rent before I find myself homeless in two weeks. I can't believe how expensive it is to rent even studios around here!”

“It's the digital explosion,” Ren commiserated. “The world is moving to San Francisco to be part of this revolution and we're a small, cramped city. Why don't you text me where you'll be around five and I'll come collect you. We can eat after that.”

Kerry agreed to Ren's proposal with a profound sense of gratitude that she had something to look forward to after undoubtedly chasing all over town in search of a hovel that probably would cost three thousand dollars a month to rent.

“That sounds great. I'd love to.”

Then she suddenly wondered what Sara Lang would think of this plan?

It's none of her business!

Startled, Kerry didn't even try to guess where
that
thought came from. She confirmed her supposition by looking down at the glowing gemstone on her right ring finger. Meanwhile, Ren reminded her of his cellphone number and Kerry was soon in the hotel elevator, on her way to seek a new home.

***

Just before five o'clock, Kerry wearily leaned against a run-down wooden building on the edge of San Francisco's Chinatown district, wondering if she could face looking at yet another doghouse for which its owners were asking the moon. She texted Ren the address of her final day's attempt to put a roof over her head, and got a reply that he'd be there in less than ten minutes.

The “studio with a view” was three flights up and might have actually been a butler's pantry or very large broom closet in another incarnation. The kitchen consisted of a shelf, half-refrigerator, toaster oven, miniature microwave, and tiny sink. The “view” was of the tops of trees planted in the minuscule backyard of the neighboring dilapidated four-story building across the way.

She was just about to bid a hurried farewell to the bored real estate agent glued to his cellphone when she heard steps on the outside stairs.

“Ah... there you are!”

Ren, appearing in the open doorway far more refreshed than she felt, was dressed in gray slacks and a cream and black Harris Tweed sports jacket.

“Perfect timing,” she said, trying to hide the discouragement that had, after such a demoralizing afternoon, invaded her very bones.

Ren gave the cramped living space the once-over and said with a straight face, “Not quite right for you, is it?” He seized her by the hand and headed for the one and only door.

Kerry waved at the real estate agent, who didn't even bother to look up.

“Thanks for showing this,” she called to him, “but I work at home and I'll need—”

“No worries,” the agent cut in, clicking off his cellphone. “I think I rented it already.” He patted a file folder. “I got five applications this afternoon. The owner is bound to accept one of 'em.”

Kerry remained silent until she climbed into the passenger seat of what Ren quickly disclosed was his “city car from another life,” a late-model Mercedes. He soon was headed down California Street toward the Bay Bridge side of town.

“The money around here puts New York City to shame,” she groused, and then shot Ren an apologetic look. “I don't mean
you...
I could see how hard you work at that ranch. I just mean...”

“I understand what you're saying,” he sympathized. “All the millionaires manufactured every time a Facebook or Twitter or LinkedIn sells its stock to the public means that twenty-two-year-olds will be outbidding you at just about every turn. It's why I jumped at the chance to bail out of being a venture capital guy and moved back to the ranch to help out my grandmother. It was all getting a bit much for my taste.”

“Speaking of your grandmother,” Kerry asked, “how was she? I take it she lives in a retirement home here in the city?”

Ren nodded. “A very
nice
retirement home. The San Francisco Towers is a stone's throw from the Opera House and City Hall. It looks more like a Four Seasons Hotel than an old folks home. Last month, Concetta had her ninety-first birthday, and today she was her usual peppery self, always complaining that they rarely serve real Italian food... but we had a nice lunch there together.”

“Oh, you've just eaten?” Kerry asked. “Well, then, don't feel you have to—”

“I had a small salad, which is why Concetta was giving me grief. Actually, I'm starving,” he said as he pulled up to the curb and gave his keys to the parking valet. “Come... I'm taking you to one of my favorite restaurants.”

By this time, they had arrived on Mission Street, near the waterfront. Ren took her arm and guided her in the direction of a brass and glass revolving door. To its left was an equally shiny brass plaque that declared they had arrived at “Boulevard.”

Kerry had read volumes about this eatery of renown, housed in a landmark building on the historic Embarcadero that faced the Bay Bridge whose massive silver struts soared above their heads. She smiled at Ren as they entered, delighted this had been his choice.

“Boulevard was practically Number One on my list to try as soon as I got here.”

After giving their waiter their wine order, perusing the extensive menu, and then ordering their selections, Ren gazed across the small table at his diner partner.

“So tell me,” he asked. “You said you were a city girl. How do you feel about living in
this
one, now that you're here?”

Unable to conceal her discouragement, given all the events of the past seventy-two hours, Kerry responded with a small shrug and suppressed a sigh.

“It's too soon to judge, I guess,” she temporized. “It's just all the
pressure,
you know? The move three thousand miles across the country. The extra blogs I stupidly agreed to produce, along with all those writers I'm supposed to recruit. And then there's finding a place to live in a no-vacancy town. All that, plus a few other things I'd rather not think about.”

“Tell me,” Ren urged.

“Tell you about the things I'd rather not think about?”

“The reason I'm prying is that Jeremy is on strict bed rest until all the tests come back and they know whether he'll need surgery. He can only get up to go to the bathroom.”

“Oh, lord... that's not good. Do you have a lot scheduled at the ranch next week?”

Her mind had started to race. She suspected Ren had an ulterior motive in mind when he asked her to dinner—other than merely wanting to connect with her winning personality, she thought wryly.

“We have a couple of no-sweat events scheduled in the next few days,” he said with a shrug. “Nothing like what we faced yesterday.” Then he raised his wine glass.

“Here's to you and the incredible job you did, not only saving the Montisi Olive Ranch from a complete disaster, but pulling together a meal that was truly incredible.”

 “Your chef had already planned it and laid in all the food—”

“Yes, but everything would have fallen apart if you hadn't picked the right stuff from the kitchen garden for the salad and made that killer dressing, to say nothing of that amazing dill sauce for the salmon,
and
produced thirty-six incredible pumpkin
crème brûlées
out of the back of our pantry. Not only
that
,” he added, setting his wine glass on the table and gently seizing her hand, “you whipped out a wonderful blog that brought the entire culinary emergency to vibrant life. You are one talented lady, Kerry Hannigan.”

Ren was staring directly into her eyes as waves of palpitations in the hand he was holding out-vibrated her other hand wearing the Claddagh ring.

Perhaps there was more to his dinner invitation than pure business, she thought hopefully.

“Thank you for such kind words, but really—”

“
Really,
Kerry,” he came back at her, “why do you underestimate yourself so much?”

Yes, why
do
you?

Kerry felt like slapping her right hand with her left, but couldn't because Ren still encased her palm in his own.

She affected a shrug. “I'm sure Sara could have managed just as—”

“Sara would have made an entire mess of everything,” he cut in, not letting go of her hand. “In fact, she was well on her way to doing just that when Jeremy doubled over Saturday morning.”

“Then why does she work in the kitchen?” Kerry asked bluntly.

Ren broke their glance and released her hand.

“That's something
I'd
rather not think about... at least not at the moment.”

“Ren! C'mon! You've asked
me
to tell all. I want to know why such a disagreeable woman is in your employ... or is it something personal?” she added, and then instantly regretted such inquisitiveness on her part.

Just at that moment, the waiter arrived with their entrees and the diversion appeared a welcome delay to Ren's having to answer her question.

When at length they were alone again, Kerry's dinner companion would only say, “Sara was given work at the ranch as a result of a tragic circumstance in her family. It seemed a temporary solution that's now dragged on far too long. After her behavior these past weeks, even before you witnessed her rudeness for yourself, I've been wracking my brains for how to... how to—”

“Tell her it's time to move on?” Kerry interrupted. “It's actually probably kinder to let her know sooner, rather than later, if that's what you want,” she declared, wondering why men so often withdrew their affections long
before
they leveled with the women in their lives as to how they really felt about them?

What was Ren's relationship with Sara, anyway, she wondered, recalling the sense of familiarity that appeared to exist between them when she'd entered the kitchen the previous evening. Was this a “Charlie Move?” Was Ren trying to solve two problems at the same time: unloading
his
girlfriend while acquiring a temporary chef? Because that's what all his praise appeared to be leading up to.

In the space of an instant, the atmosphere between them had grown heavy and uncomfortable. For the next half hour while they ate their meal, she strove to keep her end of the conversation light and impersonal with comments about the food and questions as to the probable source of various local ingredients. As soon as the coffee was served, Kerry pointedly looked at her watch.

“Well, this has been lovely,” she said, “but I'd better get back to the hotel. Cube-land awaits tomorrow, bright and early.”

Ren swiftly caught the attention of their waiter and signaled for the check.

“Kerry...” he began. “Something happened just now, and I want you to tell me what it is.”

She hesitated and then blurted, “Look, you have things you must be dealing with that I know nothing about, and the same is true with me.”

Ren paused. Then he nodded agreement. “That's a fair assessment, I'd say... but even so, a chill just wafted through here. What happened?”

“Since you asked, you should probably know there's a lot about my move to San Francisco that—”