Ring of Truth

by Ciji Ware

  “You’re right, though,” she continued. “You did do all those things to promote my blog. It’s just that how you’ve gone about it is pretty slimy, Charlie Boy.”

  Gazing across the limo’s wide seat, she wondered how in the world she had slipped into an intimate relationship with a man who should have remained a business partner—if that, even—given the dishonest troll that her CIA classmate had turned out to be. Out of her lack of confidence in her talents as a newly-minted chef, along with sheer fear about living on her own, she’d ignored all the signs that Angelica had obviously picked up on.

  Kerry glanced down at the ring on her right hand. Know Thy heart the Claddagh’s inscription advised

  She wondered, now, if she knew the first thing about hers. And if she were brutally honest, she’d learned today that she had never been in love with Charlie Miller, any more than he had been with her. She had wanted to be in love, but that definitely wasn’t the same thing.

  Then, much to her amazement, the Claddagh ring’s deep green stone began to radiate an inner light until it appeared white hot.

  Keep the faith, Kerry... wanting to be in love is the same thing as being open to love... but next time, listen to your heart, instead of your head.

  ***

  The moment the limousine arrived at the Howard Street lobby of LifestyleXer.com, Kerry watched, dumbfounded, as Beverly Silverstein immediately took Charlie’s arm, led him into an elevator, and disappeared without more than a curt nod in her direction. Meanwhile, a trim, toned young woman in tight-fitting, straight-legged, two-hundred-dollar jeans and a boat-necked coral cashmere sweater that barely reached her midriff sashayed over to Kerry and swiftly ushered her down a deserted hallway and into a vast bullpen of wall-to-wall cubicles.

  “Here is where we’ve set it up for you to work,” announced Kerry’s ‘minder’ who’d introduced herself as Tiffany Gergus, Assistant Director of Human Resources. “People in here are at their desks by eight o’clock, by the way,” she added with a thin smile, as if she greatly enjoyed informing new hires about strict company rules.

  Kerry’s assigned cubicle was positioned in the middle of perhaps fifty others, all jammed cheek by jowl into the enormous room with track lighting overhead and a row of windows facing the back of the building.

  “I plan to work at home a few days a week,” Kerry said in a firm tone of voice. No twenty-six–year-old was going to treat her like a minor little worker bee, given the deal she’d signed with this company.

  Ms. Gergus arched an eyebrow.

  “We’ve tightened up the WAH rules, so I’m afraid we expect you to be in that chair every morning by eight.”

  “WAH rules?” Kerry repeated, furrowing her brow. “Oh... you mean ‘working at home.’ WAH.”

  Ms. Gergus cast her a look of disdain as if everyone in the Universe knew that WAH stood for working-at-home. Then she pronounced with steely officiousness, “And also, Kerry, I see there was an addendum to your contract last week that stipulates you’re to blog 500 to 800 words on food, travel, and restaurant subjects twice a day, and once on Saturday.”

  “What?” Kerry exclaimed, and sensed her cube-mates were all ears. “I never agreed to posting on Saturday!”

  The young woman smiled primly.

  “You certainly did. I just read your personal services contract word-for-word this morning, before you arrived. Mr. Miller, as president of your former company, signed that addition and said you’d okayed it.”

  “Well, I didn’t,” Kerry retorted.

  The HR assistant narrowed her gaze.

  “Well, then I suggest you’d better speak to Beverly about it.”

  Beverly, is it? It was definitely more than “casual Friday” if a lowly assistant spoke of a company vice president in such a familiar way.

  “Also, the vice president wants a full report by a week, tomorrow, on how many new bloggers you’ve recruited in the major markets, as outlined in your deal.”

  She had a week to find food bloggers in ten cities as experienced as she was?

  Impossible.

  Tiffany Gergus pursed her lips and said by means of farewell, “And a final few things you should know... I want to be sure it’s clear to you that your stock options do not vest for a full two years after this company tenders its announced Initial Public Offering three weeks from now and, after that, you can only sell your shares in twenty-five percent increments—”

  “Yes, Tiffany,” Kerry interrupted, deliberately calling the little twit by her first name. “I’m sure Ms. Silverstein told you to emphasize that fact, but I’m well aware of standard, boilerplate regulations about selling company stock.”

  As if Kerry hadn’t uttered a word, the HR representative continued, “And, I hope you are aware that your contract also stipulates that if Ms. Silverstein doesn’t find your blogging up to par, you could be out-placed before that date.”

  Kerry stared at the assured young woman, unable to mask her astonishment. She hadn’t realized that little feature must have been in the fine print somewhere.

  Tiffany slapped down on the empty desk something that looked like a credit card with Kerry’s photo on it that LifeStyleXer must have scraped off the CookChic website.

  “Here’s your ID that will also serve as your cafeteria card. You get the first hundred dollars of food free every month.”

  Before Kerry could reply, the young woman handed her a thick manila envelope. “And just so you won’t bother a busy executive like Beverly about any of the other details in your revised employment agreement, I made you a copy and I suggest you read it very carefully... line by line.”

  Without so much as a farewell, Ms. Tiffany Gergus turned on her Kate Spade wedge heeled sandals and marched toward the exit. Kerry noted that the Human Resources assistant was not offered a single friendly wave from anyone encased in the other cubicles that the tight-assed woman walked past on her way out.

  Chapter Three

  Alone in her cubicle, Kerry stared at the contract she’d trustingly signed on Charlie’s assurances that it was “practically a free giveaway,” reeling from the shock of having read it thoroughly and understanding, now, that the terms were far more advantageous to the parent company than to CookChic. Unable to think clearly about what she should do next, she made her way to the company cafeteria with the desperate hope that wine was sold with lunch.

  The ultra-modern steel-and-glass expanse featured food stations with every imaginable cuisine provided to fuel workers who toiled the long hours that employment at LifeStyleXer apparently required. Sometimes, according to a cynical cube-mate named Jason who’d provided directions to the cafeteria, he slept under his desk when a new feature of the website was due to be launched. “It’s way cool that it’s open twenty-four/seven.”

  Kerry noted the variety of ethnic choices: Thai, Chinese, Japanese, to say nothing of fragrant Indian curry and the heavenly aroma of Tandoori chicken, along with the sweet scent of steaming jasmine rice. Kerry had begun to feel queasy from her sleepless night and the flight across the country—to say nothing of the full scope of the upsetting situation that faced her, now that she’d read every word of her contract. She stood in line at the made-to-order salad bar in hopes that eating something light would settle her stomach.

  “Next?” called out a short, dark-haired young man wearing a nameplate that identified him as “Tony Perez, Salad Associate.”

  “I’ll take the Arugula Carpaccio, please, with the raspberry balsamic dressing on the side.”

  The cafeteria worker gazed curiously across the counter. “Best choice we offer,” he complimented her, adding, “You just got here, right? You’re the new food blogger we just bought?”

  Kerry gave a short laugh. “Well, yes... I do sort of feel as if I’ve been bought and sold. How’d you guess?”

  He pointed at the ID around her neck.

  “And you ordered the arugula with thin-sliced beef. Half the people who work here claim they’re vegetarians or vegans,
and besides, it’s a new item and nobody wants to take a chance until I can tell them it’s a favorite with some of the bigwigs.” Tony Perez grinned as he began to assemble her order. “Also, I saw the announcement on the company website last week. Only a foodie would know what a killer salad this is,” he said, his smile growing even wider. “I only added it to the menu on Monday.”

  Kerry smiled back, cheered by Tony’s enthusiasm for his work as she took the plate piled high with fresh greens, topped with paper-thin slices of grass-fed beef—or so the menu card on the glass case asserted

  “I’ll let you know how I like it, but it looks wonderful.”

  “And tell me what you think of the salad dressing. It’s made with locally-produced olive oil and raspberries from an organic farm just north of here.”

  Kerry was immediately intrigued.

  “You sound very knowledgeable about what’s going on in this neck of the woods. Can you give me the contact info for the local olive oil producer you mentioned?”

  Tony shrugged. “Sure... I’ll come over to your table before you leave. I’m just getting off my shift.” He glanced at the clock that registered two p.m. “In fact, I was thinking about going over to Berkeley later this afternoon to pick up a case of Montisi Olive Oil at Amphora Nueva. Rumors are, they’re just delivering their latest press.”

  “Really? It’s just been released?”

  “Yeah. The Montisi ranch is up north, near Petaluma, forty minutes from here in Sonoma.” Tony hesitated and then blurted, “Wanna come with me to Berkeley? The olive oil store is fantastic! You won’t believe how much stuff they stock from all over the world!”

  The brash young man was obviously eager to make friends with his company’s latest acquisition, despite his lowly status as “salad associate.” Kerry admired his moxie. And besides, it appeared as if he might be well connected to the food scene in the Bay Area. She was already worried about keeping up with the crazy deadlines stipulated by the sweatshop contract she’d unwittingly signed.

  She smiled at Tony. “The olive oil store sounds like it might make for a good first blog post, but you’d better let me see how I like the salad. Talk to you in a bit.”

  Kerry headed for a small table-for-two positioned away from the other diners. She was not in the mood to meet or talk to any of her fellow slaves. However, her spirits perked up the instant she sampled Tony Perez’s leafy concoction. The fresh, peppery arugula was complemented by the full-flavored slices of delicious carpaccio, and the entire assemblage was wrapped in a smooth slurry of rich, fragrant olive oil with an after-burner hit of raspberry-flavored balsamic vinegar.

  It was brilliant!

  She was just rising from her chair to find Tony when the young man came bounding over.

  “Well?” he demanded.

  “It’s absolutely wonderful!” she declared. “The blending of flavors and textures is first rate, and the freshness of all the ingredients—”

  “Then you wanna go over to Berkeley with me? The people at Amphora Nueva are kinda friends of mine. They sell only the best stuff—and can tell you all about the scams in the olive oil biz!”

  Tony’s enthusiasm was infectious, but first she had to have it out with Charlie about the Addendum that he’d signed in her stead without telling her.

  “What’s your cell number?” she asked. “I just checked into my cube and I have a few things I need to take care of. Can I call you and let you know if I can make it? If not today, then I’d love to go there with you another time.”

  Tony whipped out his cell, got her email address and phone number, and sent her his contact information as well.

  “I need to leave by no later than three-fifteen,” he warned, “otherwise the traffic across the Bay Bridge is killer.”

  Kerry nodded, her thoughts careening between several story ideas based on what Tony had told her and her burning desire to tell Charlie Miller exactly what she thought of him for the second time in a single day.

  “I’ll call you either way,” she promised. “And thanks! You’ve been the nicest thing that’s happened since I got here.”

  ***

  Kerry figured that the quickest route to finding Charlie in the huge office complex was to ask for directions to Vice President Beverly Silverstein’s office. Once there, however, another junior assistant type leapt up from a chair inside the glass-fronted conference room where Kerry spotted Charlie, along with their mutual boss and several other jeans-clad whiz kids, as well as a man who might have been approaching fifty.

  Kerry wondered if the adult supervisor-looking guy was LifeStyleXer’s CEO, Harry Chapman, gathered with his inner circle around the polished, oval glass table where one of their number was giving a Power Point presentation with a display of brightly colored pie charts.

  Kerry heard a whoosh of air as a painfully thin young guard dog pushed open the conference room’s glass door and rushed toward her before Kerry could rap her knuckles on the transparent wall and embarrass Charlie so he’d come out in the hall.

  “I’m sorry, but you can’t go in there... they’re in a meeting,” the twig of a woman added, stating the obvious. She swiftly handed Kerry an envelope as if she somehow knew the visitor was due to arrive. “Beverly said to give you this.”

  Startled, Kerry stared at the missive the young woman had practically shoved into her hands.

  “What is this?”

  “Your housing voucher for the W Hotel down the street. You have two weeks free lodging until you find a place to live,” she said with a bright smile.

  “Two weeks?” Kerry protested. “In a city with a zero vacancy rate and eleven blog deadlines from hell? That’s ridiculous! Where will Charlie Miller and I keep our furniture when it arrives from New York?” she demanded.

  Glancing worriedly over her shoulder, Beverly Silverstein’s messenger grabbed Kerry by the arm and with surprising force for an anorexic, guided her a few feet down the hall toward the elevator.

  “Shhh... there are some high-level discussions going on in there about the IPO!” she admonished. “I was told that Charlie would help you sort out your belongings when they came and—”

  “Charlie!” she echoed, shocked that an underling would be on a first-name basis with an employee who had arrived less than two hours earlier. “How the hell do you know what that rat man Charlie Miller would or wouldn’t do?”

  She glared over her shoulder at the man himself who, by this time, had turned in his chair and was staring nervously back at her.

  Kerry held his glance for a long moment as a warm, pulsing sensation flooded up her arm. She glanced down at the Claddagh ring whose center had turned pearly white.

  Smile sweetly and make a dignified retreat!

  The voice in her head was adamant and she chose, at that moment, to believe it was her own good sense that advised her to get away from the conference room as fast as her legs would carry her before she decked the young woman now clutching her other arm.

  “Ah... okay, then,” she said, tugging free.

  For some reason she had a moment’s sympathy for the messenger who had been tasked to give her such an ignominious brush-off. At a mere twenty-something, the poor, skinny excuse for a human being had already sold her soul.

  Kerry somehow summoned a smile.

  “You try to have a nice day, won’t you?” she addressed her latest minder. “And when you get something to eat after the meeting—and I hope that you will—try the arugula and carpaccio salad in the cafeteria. It’s fabulous!”

  ***

  Kerry made fast work of checking into her assigned room at the W Hotel on Third and Howard streets where a reservation had been made in her name—only—by “LifeStyleXer’s Vice President, Beverly Silverstein, herself,” the desk clerk admiringly informed the new guest. “I hear that’s a cool company to work for,” she added, noting, “I’m just finishing up my degree in computer science at SF State. Could I get in touch with you, Ms.—” she glanced down at the registration, “...
Ms. Hannigan, when I graduate? Maybe you could put in a good word?”

  Still steaming that Charlie’s latest girlfriend had plotted every aspect of their arrival in San Francisco, Kerry grabbed her key card off the front desk and snapped, “Contact Beverly Silverstein directly and see how much she helps you!”

  By three o’clock, she had unpacked her belongings, reached Tony Perez by mobile phone, and was standing curbside when a battered VW Jetta drew up to the hotel’s entrance.

  “Hop in... we gotta get over the bridge before it’s bumper to bumper,” he directed.

  Traffic was sluggish, but moving, as they crossed the four-and-a-half mile expanse of water separating San Francisco from the East Bay communities of Oakland—and a few miles further north—Berkeley, the university community nestled into hillsides with spectacular views back to the city. Then a thought struck her.

  “Isn’t the Bay Bridge the one that collapsed in the earthquake?” she asked, suddenly apprehensive as she gazed out the car window at the enormous body of water whizzing by below.

  “Way back in 1989,” he assured her cheerfully, “but they’ve done a retrofit.”

  “Oh. Great. So... Tony,” she asked, wanting not to think about either the bridge, incipient earthquakes, or the impossible situation that had so suddenly been thrust upon her today, “tell me, how did you became Salad Man at LifestyleXer?”

  Tony, his eyes on the road, gave a short laugh.

  “My parents were field workers, you know? From Mexico. I was the eldest, so I grew up making the meals for everyone in my family when they crawled home at the end of the day, down in Castroville.” Tony paused, adding with a big grin, “You know Castroville, dontcha? ‘Artichoke Capitol of the World?’“

  Kerry nodded. She’d done her research about the agricultural bounty in California.

  “Well, even as a little kid, I always liked to cook,” he said with a shrug, “and when I flunked out of community college because I hated it—and I couldn’t afford culinary school—I decided two years ago to get hands-on experience, here in the city, and learn as much as I can while I keep an ear out for a job at one of the top restaurants.” He looked across the passenger seat and grimaced. “I know that sounds pretty cocky... that I could go from a cafeteria to a name restaurant... but I think I’m really good.”