by Jill Barnett
Unlike her mom, she refused to sit quietly and wait while the Del Mar Company picked the winning bid for the Camino Cliff project, so without her mother’s knowledge, she’d made an appointment with the man in charge. The elevator doors opened to a softly lit, plush lobby with a polished receptionist behind a half-moon desk made of brushed chrome and burnished mahogany.
“I’m Annalisa King. Of King Design. I’m here to see Mr. Banning.”
The woman checked her appointment book. “I’m sorry. I don’t see your name for today.”
“It’s regarding the Camino Cliff project.”
“You want to see Matthew Banning.” She flipped open another leather-bound appointment book. “Here it is. Have a seat. I’ll let him know you’re here.”
Annalisa sat down on one of the cushy sofas and crossed her legs, tapping the red sole of her designer shoe against a chrome-and-glass coffee table spread with glossy issues of Orange Coast magazine. Murano glass wall sconces provided soft light on sueded walls, and the sofa fabric was expensive mohair. She leaned to the side and looked behind her, where an original Miro rose a good seven feet upward. Money, money, money.
Three months ago, King Professional Design had submitted plans and a bid for a new resort with seven restaurants and ten professional kitchens, which meant a five-million-dollar contract. Camino Cliff would cover thousands of acres of Southern California’s prime coastal real estate, just a few miles from Pelican Point and from the luxurious Ritz-Carlton. The golf courses would be designed by Arnold Palmer’s company; the hotel and condominium projects were upscale, with staggering Pacific views, and the Swiss spa world-class. The restaurants spanned everything from an authentic Japanese tea room and sushi house to a marble dining room with a glass-domed ceiling, expansive ocean views, and the finest in California haute cuisine.
She hoped to edge in front of their competition by meeting with the man in charge. Not the head of the Del Mar Ranch Company, to whom they had submitted the bids, but with the corporate owner and parent company, BanCo.
“Mr. Banning will see you now.”
Annalisa followed the receptionist down a long hallway flanked with offices and an elegant glass conference room, before they stopped in front of a massive rosewood door carved with the image of a wind-swept Monterey pine. Annalisa followed her inside.
“This is Ms. Annalisa King of King Design.”
Hand extended, Annalisa stopped when she saw the man who came from behind the desk. He was younger than she expected, late twenties, and somewhat devastating.
“Matthew Banning.” He took her hand and stood there, looking as if he’d walked out of a love song, deep voice, dark hair, blue eyes, and a good six inches taller than she was in her three-inch Louboutins. She glanced at his left hand. No ring.
“Is something wrong?” he asked.
“You’re so young,” she blurted out.
He laughed genuinely. “I was just thinking the same about you.”
“I’m a child prodigy.”
“Good. I like working with brilliant women. Have a seat.” He didn’t return to his desk as she expected, but leaned back casually against its edge and crossed his feet.
“You know, if I sit down in this chair and you stay like that, I’m going to feel like I’m talking to God.”
“Good. I’m glad we’ve established our relationship,” he said, deadpan.
“So do I have to pray to get the Camino Cliff contract?” She tried for a relaxed look and laughed, thanking God she hadn’t said anything about getting down on her knees.
“There’s strong competition.”
“I know Cuttler did the Ritz, the Palms in Indio, and the renovation for the Ranches at Santa Ynez. Riverton’s company did Pelican Point and the Inn at Cote de Casa. But we did Megryl’s Del Sol, Jonathan’s, Tommy Bahama’s, and Cutter’s.” She reached inside her briefcase for the King portfolio, but when she looked up she saw the remnants of surprise on his face. “You aren’t familiar with our jobs.”
“No.”
She stood a little taller when she said, “You weren’t considering us for this job at all.”
“No.”
“Funny, you don’t look like a man who makes mistakes.” He didn’t move or speak. “I want this contract, Mr. Banning.”
“Tell me why I should give it to you.” He was good. His expression gave nothing away.
“Because my mother understands the function of the restaurant kitchen better than anyone. She can work with even the most demanding chef. She was a chef at Camaroon.”
“Beric King’s LA restaurant?” He paused. “King Professional Design,” he repeated slowly. “I don’t suppose that’s a coincidence.”
Annalisa smiled. “My mother handled my father for a long time. Still does, though they’ve been divorced for years. We Kings know the restaurant business and we know design.”
“Cuttler and Riverton have more experience. Both companies are well over twenty years old. They do the majority of projects this size.”
“When I walked in here you said I was young. I’m twenty-two. Inexperienced maybe, but I grew up in this business. It’s in my blood.” She quoted her dad. Matthew Banning was listening. A good sign on a day for big risks. “We’re a small company,” she continued, “but that works to your advantage. You’ll have our complete attention until this job is done. Our focus will be solely on your job.”
“Riverton’s bid is lower.”
“And you believe that bid?”
He didn’t respond.
“There’s no deal cutting other than the standard volume discounts. No trick sales. We all pay the same price. But I expect Riverton will tell you he can get a discount, then just make up the dollars in another area. Stainless steel at fifteen percent more a foot, a little more here in the lighting, a little more in stonework. Your contractual allowance for overages is ten percent over bid, right?”
“Right.”
“Riverton and Cuttler will come in over, as close to that ten percent as they can. You’ll want to call their past jobs and ask if they were on or under bid. The answer might surprise you.”
He still looked nonplussed.
She handed him the glossy portfolio she’d put together. “Here’s a list of the jobs we’ve done. You can call and ask every single one of them about us. We have never once gone over our initial bid.” When he took the portfolio she could see she had him thinking. “Neither my mother nor I will make promises we cannot keep. You won’t need your ten percent overage allowance.” She knew it was all or nothing. “You give us the deal and you can remove the allowance clause from the contract.”
“That’s half a million dollars.”
“Yes it is.”
“Risky.”
“I don’t make promises I can’t keep.” She picked up her briefcase, pulled out her card, and handed it to him. “Please call me if I can answer any more questions.”
He took the card and straightened. “Well, you’ve certainly given me something to think about.”
“I’ll bet I have,” she said with bravado that came from having nothing to lose. She gathered her things and shook his hand. “I want this job.”
“I can see that.”
“Then I needn’t take up any more of your time.” She walked away, but stopped in the doorway. He was looking at her legs. If a pair of costly shoes and a short, Italian-designed skirt would get the job, they were worth every penny. “Don’t make the wrong decision, Matthew.”
Without looking back, she headed for the elevator. The door opened and shut behind her before she sagged against the wall, her heart pounding, clammy sweat on her hairline and under her arms. Going after what you wanted was not easy.
Surfside, California
Laurel Peyton King understood that no marriage was a straight line and time tested the truths in any relationship of the heart, but her divorce had left her with a flayed feeling. She was a helpless failure at love, who married for the wrong reasons, too inexperienc
ed and wounded, and stayed married long after she should have picked up her pride and left. Après divorce, her life was less complicated, and she realized staying together for their daughter had been another lousy choice in the name of love. Beric King was a master chef, the man who created those extravagant post-Oscar meals, an energetic TV charmer when he cooked for the morning shows, a name scrawled across green awnings on famous boulevards called Hollywood and Fairfax, and a husband who made life like water constantly boiling over.
The only material thing she had wanted from the divorce was their beach house in an enclave that straddled a strip of land between the sand and the Pacific Coast Highway, where homes were stacked together like books on a library shelf and were as diverse as the people who made up California.
She and Beric happened upon their gray bungalow with white trim only hours after the For Sale sign went up, and had bought the house immediately. Before long, the crisply painted porch anchored with giant pots of fat geraniums and lush impatiens became her safe haven, barely inches from the toasted California sand, where she could feel the waves hit shore, taste the sea in the air, and watch a neon sunset with the moon already high over her shoulder. Nights there were cool and dark, no line of streetlamps to outshine the stars, and the sky was deep and indigo; it started at sunrise and didn’t end until it reached the place where the sun set.
In a land of sameness, days constantly seventy-eight degrees, neighborhoods of two hundred homes (four models and five phases), and too many white, German-made convertibles on the endless miles of Pacific Coast Highway, her small slice of coast didn’t look or feel homogenized. With the wide blue Pacific spread out before her, Laurel found her center there and lived alone with her mistakes.
Most days for lunch she left the office to go home to a sandwich, a breath of salt air, and a quick look at the early news. Today lunch was late; it was midafternoon when she sat across from her TV in the kitchen corner eating a tuna sandwich. A thin blue ribbon of news stories ran across the lower screen while the station’s legal journalists and experts discussed a death-penalty murder case of national attention. The defendant, a high-profile Seattle executive accused of killing his wife, had been captured near the border. No white Bronco footage replayed again and again, but courthouse clips of family, children, and alleged mistresses filed across the screen in a kind of grisly cartoon.
A defense expert’s familiar face flashed on the screen. “This is a circumstantial case. No murder weapon. No concrete forensic evidence. The prosecutor has his work cut out for him.”
“But we all know he’s guilty,” an ex-prosecutor and analyst jumped in, disgust and judgment in her voice. “The man called his mistress and pretended he was in Hong Kong the day after his wife was found dead.”
“Just because he’s a liar doesn’t mean he killed his wife. The assistant DA will have to keep the jury focused on the victim.” The TV screen filled with the young prosecutor’s image. “Greg O’Hanlon has a ninety percent conviction rate. He’s the son of Judge Patrick O’Hanlon, proof the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”
Laurel turned off the TV. She should have never turned it on. She tossed her tuna sandwich into the garbage disposal and drove back to the office in Irvine Business Park, where King Professional Design occupied the southwest corner of the fourth floor.
“Your mother called about her new show,” her assistant told her the moment she came through the door. “She wanted to make certain we had the right dates. Why won’t she let any family come to opening night?”
“Superstition of some kind. I gave up trying to understand my mother years ago.”
“Annalisa called a few minutes ago. She’ll be here by four thirty. And I took care of the airline tickets and hotel reservation for the trade show.”
“Fine,” Laurel said distractedly and put the bank receipt on Pat’s uncluttered desk. Inside her office, she dove into a set of project plans. Eventually she stopped trying to make herself work and unlocked the filing drawer in her desk. A thick manila envelope in the last file hadn’t been removed in over a year, a record for her.
The letters inside were from an investigation agency, the large photo of a tall young man with sandy hair whose face was part of her youth. A sudden, bitter taste filled her mouth, as if she had bitten her tongue. All these years and she still couldn’t let go. The paper shredder was behind her, the trash can next to her. She looked at them both before she locked up the envelope again as she always did.
Moments later the door burst open. “I don’t need an appointment. She is my wife!”
Pat blocked the doorway. “Ex-wife.”
Beric King stuck his head inside. “Can you not stop this woman?”
“It’s okay, Pat. Let him in.”
“Of course it is okay.” Beric looked at her assistant as if she were a fallen soufflé.
Pat rolled her eyes and closed the door. Her ex-husband straightened his jacket and scowled, then faced her, pulling down the ends of his sleeves with sharp little jerks. “You should fire that woman.”
“Why? Because you don’t like her?”
“Yes.”
“Well, you’re out of luck. She does a great job.”
He made one of those scornful noises in the throat the French make instead of calling you stupid.
“Maybe I’ll give her a raise.”
“Everything you do is to spite me.”
“I have more important things to do in my life than to spend my days thinking of ways to annoy you. Besides, annoying you is so easy.”
He sat down in a chair and leaned back comfortably. “I do not know what I ever did to make you so angry.”
Laurel sank her head into her hands. “Oh God, please, not today.”
Beric was silent, his arm slung casually over the chair back, one leg crossed, an ostrich leather boot resting on his knee. His deep red hair was slicked back in a low, long ponytail, his silk and linen jacket open over a thin dark T-shirt and jeans.
For so many years she had tried to love this man. “Why are you here?”
“I want to talk to you about Annalisa.”
“You should talk to Annalisa. She’s twenty-two.”
“She will not listen to me.”
“You mean she won’t do what you want.”
“She should be working with me. I am her father.”
“And I’m her mother. She’s working here and doing quite well.”
“She is wasting her talent.”
Laurel stared at her ex-husband. He could hurt her so easily. “Our daughter has more than one talent.”
“When she was a little girl, she would always say, ‘I want to be a chef, like you, Daddy.’”
“When I was six, I wanted to be Karen, the Mouseketeer. When I was ten I wanted to be Gidget. When I was twenty-two I didn’t want to be either.”
“No, you were a chef by then, like Annalisa should be. You. Me. My father. My mother. My brother.” Beric moved his hands in the air and his voice grew louder. “I tell her it is in her blood! The fruit in the dirt is like the tree.”
“The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree,” she said. Like the O’Hanlons.
“That is what I meant. Annalisa is my apple. I want to stop her from making the mistake of her life.”
“Really?”
He looked at her stubbornly.
“I think you just want your own way.”
“This is not about our marriage, Laurel.”
He could twist anything. “No, it’s about our daughter. You have to stop hounding her. She loves you, but she wants to work with me. I’m not forcing her to be part of my company.”
He leaned forward and poked the desktop with one finger. “You have this company because of me.”
She leaned forward and placed both hands on her desk. “And you have Annalisa because of me.”
Now he looked as angry as she was. He pushed the chair back hard and stood. “I can see coming here was a mistake.”
“I
t usually is.”
At the door he stopped. Beric loved parting shots. “You do not care about your daughter.”
“Go away, Beric. Please.” She waved her hand. “Go . . . go . . . cook something.”
He made that noise in his throat again before he left.
Laurel popped a couple of antacids, then spun the chair around to face the windows. The freeway interchange looked like a concrete knot in the distance, and behind it, tall steel-and-glass buildings framed South Coast Plaza. Overhead the sky was that vibrant California blue, the late afternoon sun reflecting gold off the mirrored skyscraper windows. She had worked in the kitchen of the restaurant at the top of the tallest building, months after they moved back from France, and had earned that job herself; no one knew who Beric King was in those days. But he changed that dynamically by branding his world. He put his name on everything—the Donald Trump of haute cuisine. And she had used that brand in naming her business. When she had first told him she wanted to start a design business he’d laughed at her. Now he was taking credit for it. The possibility she was riding on the glamorous coattails of her ex was like a pail of cold water in her face.
A light tapping came from the door and Annalisa stuck her head inside. “Daddy’s gone, right?”
“The coast is clear.”
“I heard him when I came in, so I went straight to my office. I had to listen to him on the cell phone all week.”
“Let your voice mail answer it.”
“He calls until he fills my mailbox.”
“No one can ever accuse your dad of not going after something when he wants it.”
Her daughter made the French throat noise perfectly. Annalisa was everything good about her ex. “Your father doesn’t believe in taking a backseat.” Laurel paused, then said what she was thinking, “Maybe I should have named the company Peyton Design.”
“No. My name is King,” Annalisa said simply.
Laurel merely stared at her daughter. Tension she hadn’t even felt drained from her body. One of the problems with her marriage was Beric could so easily make her doubt herself. “Sorry. Fresh wounds, and too much of your father’s fly-by drama.”