Ring of Truth

by Ciji Ware

  “Brilliant!” Ren agreed, and translated Kerry’s idea to José, who sprinted off to collect terracotta pots of local cacti, while Ren and Kerry doled out the silverware and linen napkins.

  They were just putting the final touches to the table settings when Kerry suddenly exclaimed, “What was Jeremy serving for dessert?”

  Ren’s expression of alarm showed the anxiety he had managed, thus far, to keep under control.

  “Some fruit tart thing, I think,” Ren said. “Sara was up to her elbows in flour yesterday, but I didn’t see anything stored in the big cooler, did you?”

  By this time, José had returned with a wheelbarrow full of clay pots, so Ren inquired about the dessert course. José grimaced and answered in rapid Spanish, with doleful looks in Kerry’s direction.

  “José says Sara’s efforts didn’t quite work out so Jeremy decided this morning that he’d make pumpkin crème brûlée,” he announced with a groan.

  Kerry fanned her right hand through the air. “Piece of cake... or I should say, piece of ‘custard!’ Canned or fresh pumpkin?” In response to Ren’s apologetic shrug, she turned on her heel and sped toward the kitchen, shouting over her shoulder, “Never mind. This is an emergency... and I’m betting your chef said he could substitute this dessert because he knew he had ten tins of pumpkin on reserve in his pantry!”

  ***

  Amazingly, all was in readiness when the sleek black Sonoma Tours buses, fresh from several stops at nearby wineries, rolled up, spilling out their occupants who were obviously feeling no pain.

  “Lucky for us they’re already three sheets to the wind,” mumbled Ren out of the corner of his mouth as the two of them stood by to greet the arriving guests.

  “Everything will be fine,” Kerry whispered. “You play host and get them seated and their drinks filled, and I’ll send out José with our very simple vegetable hors d’oeuvres and more wine. Then come back as soon as you can and we can get you grilling the salmon, which only will take a few minutes to cook and can be served at room temperature. Meanwhile, I’ll toss the salad and start plating everything else.”

  Ren shot her a look of pure gratitude as he took several steps forward to extend his hand in greeting to the food writers.

  “Well, hello,” he addressed a large-boned woman first out of the bus and wearing an outsized floppy straw hat. “Welcome to the Montisi Olive Ranch. We’re so delighted you can join us today...”

  ***

  The Three Musketeers did double duty as wait staff with Kerry instructing them in her “swarm technique” whereby each guest at a table was given a plate of food before the next table was served.

  “There’s nothing worse than waiting for the last person to have a plate put down in front of them,” she said under her breath, and then smiled prettily at the woman Ren had first greeted off the bus whom Kerry recognized as the food critic for a major newspaper back East.

  Blog material alert!

  She almost laughed out loud when she glanced down at the Claddagh ring glowing a shade paler than its normal emerald green.

  “All right... yes, I hear you!” she muttered, sprinting back to the kitchen to line up on a serving tray three dozen ramekins of perfectly-baked pumpkin crème brûlées that had been cooked while their guests were having their lunch.

  She picked up the device all serious chefs, including Jeremy Garafola, had in their kitchen arsenals: a mini blowtorch to perform the final touch on the desserts. She had just finished caramelizing the last crust of melted sugar when Ren burst into the kitchen, slightly breathless, with José padding into the room behind him.

  “What are you, some kind of witch woman?” Ren marveled with an approving glance at the array of desserts. “José’s bussed the luncheon plates into bins we hid behind the pillars and this wild bunch are happily asking about the final course.” He watched admiringly as Kerry put a dollop of freshly whipped organic cream on the top of each dessert, plus a thin sliver of mandarin orange and a sprinkle of candied ginger she’d discovered in the larder. “These are absolutely stellar,” he proclaimed.

  “And you can say every scrap of what we served came from the ranch or Sonoma County, yes?”

  “Well, at least from Northern California. The fresh salmon were caught further north of here. The vegetables and salad came from the ranch, and the pumpkins are grown and canned in the Central Valley. So, I guess we can say it’s all grown or produced in our state.”

  “Close enough for government work,” Kerry replied, and handed the first heavy tray of desserts to José. “Let’s rock n’ roll!”

  Ren picked up the second tray while Kerry led them out the kitchen door, down the brick path, and into the pavilion, her heart soaring with a sense of accomplishment.

  As soon as the threesome appeared bearing the desserts, the entire assembly of food writers began to clap.

  The diners were soon dipping into their crème brûlées. One by one, they rose from their seats and began to shout “Chef! Chef! Chef!”

  From the sidelines where the Musketeers deposited their trays after serving dessert, Ren stepped forward and gave a nod of acknowledgment to Kerry, whereby Kerry nodded emphatically back at Ren—then they burst out laughing. Impulsively, she seized both Ren and José’s hands, and together, she urged the three of them a few steps forward nearer their applauding guests and the trio took an impromptu bow.

  The food writers’ approval swelled and the kitchen staff found themselves surrounded by smiling, appreciative diners. Kerry felt her hand vibrating and was not at all surprised to hear a now familiar voice resonate in her head.

  Brava! This is what it feels like to follow your heart, Kerry, m’girl...

  ***

  The sun was beginning to sink behind one of the western hills when the last of the black wine tour busses slowly rolled across the gravel parking lot with its load of food writers and headed for San Francisco and another “dining experience” at one of the city’s top restaurants. Before they’d left, Ren had given the visitors his “Grand Tour,” along with bottled sample miniatures of his celebrated olive oil.

  Kerry glanced at her watch and gave a little yelp.

  “Oh, Jeez! I have less than an hour before my next blog deadline! Could I sit in your office and write my piece on your computer? I had no idea what time it has gotten to be.”

  “Of course,” Ren promptly agreed. “Let me get you set up in that building over there while José and I start the cleanup. I also want to call Sara and find out what’s happened with Jeremy.”

  “Yes, the poor guy was in the back of my mind all day,” she said. “You haven’t gotten a text from Sara?”

  Ren pulled his cellphone out of his pocket and shook his head. “Nothing. And that’s not a good sign.”

  “No,” Kerry agreed worriedly, “it’s probably not.”

  No sooner had Ren turned on his computer in a building next to the kitchen then they saw a taxi making its way down the ranch’s entrance road. They heard the passenger door slam and Sara Lang emerged. Ren went to the screen door and called out.

  “Hey, Sara! In here! I was just about to give you a call. What’s the latest?”

  Sara, looking weary and out-of-sorts, marched through the door and threw herself onto a leather easy chair in the corner of Ren’s Spanish-tiled office.

  “God, what a day!” Then she noticed Kerry sitting at Ren’s desk. “You’re still here?”

  “Kerry saved our bacon, actually,” Ren intervened with annoyance. “She pitched in and we managed to pull off the lunch... quite nicely, as it turned out.”

  “Well, bully for both of you,” Sara responded, closing her eyes and heaving a groan. “You had a lot more fun than I did, I can tell you that.”

  “How’s Jeremy?” Ren pressed. “Did they find out what’s wrong with him?”

  “Gallstones. He might have to have an operation.” Sara opened her eyes and looked briefly at Kerry and then back at Ren. “He said to tell you that he’d be on th
e phone to you tomorrow and will let me know what I need to do to keep things going. Apparently, there are a few tours of nobodies scheduled next week. Nothing I can’t handle,” she added with another pointed glance in Kerry’s direction.

  “Let’s talk about this in the kitchen,” Ren said. “Kerry’s on deadline for her blog and needs some peace and quiet.”

  “Does she, now?” Sara snapped. “Well, I need a drink and then it’s bedtime, don’t you think? I’m completely whacked after that miserable mission you sent me on today. You owe me, big time, darling Renato.”

  Startled by this statement, Kerry quickly looked down at the computer keyboard and began typing the slug line that identified the name of her blog, the sequence number, and date it was due to post.

  Bedtime? ‘Darling Renato?’ What’s with that?

  Jeremy’s medical escort asked no details about how the luncheon went, nor offered anymore particulars about the chef’s condition, but rather, stomped on ahead of the ranch manager in apparent high dungeon.

  Drama queen!

  As Sara and Ren left the office, Kerry turned back to the blank computer screen and forced herself by sheer habit to concentrate. Soon, she began typing furiously, relating the tale of the cooking emergency at the Montisi Olive Ranch, along with pictures she’d snapped of the plated fare she’d helped serve. She included a wide shot of the seven round tables with diners holding up their wine glasses in an impromptu salute. It had been a thrilling day, one during which she felt alive and at the top of her game. The entire experience was marred only by the heavy presence of the woman who had just arrived and made it clear she wished Ren’s visitor would go away.

  Kerry contemplated the blog post she’d just produced, and as an afterthought, she decided to include her recipe for the dill aioli sauce served on the salmon that had earned her kudos even before the standing ovation for the pumpkin brûlée. After rereading her prose to catch any typos, she pushed the Publish button and sank back in the expanse of Ren Montisi’s desk chair.

  She was aware of a warm, comforting sensation of being embraced by a half circle of well-worn leather that, daily, surrounded the very nice man with whom she had worked side-by-side this amazing Saturday.

  Then she thought of Sara and her obvious possessiveness when it came to her employer. The situation had all the hallmarks of being quite dicey and one—given Kerry’s own recent troubles as a third wheel—she wanted no part of. She wondered if she shouldn’t just leave a note of thanks on Ren’s desk, retreat to her rental car, and head back to San Francisco? She was bone weary herself after the day’s momentous events, and, like Sara, wanted nothing more than to collapse on her 600 thread count sheets at the W Hotel.

  Say goodbye in person! It’s merely good manners...

  With a sigh, Kerry saved her work in her Dropbox account, shut down Ren’s computer, turned out the office lights, and walked up the brick path to the lighted kitchen.

  Through the screen, she saw that Ren was seated in a chair next to the long wooden farmhouse table, while Sara was stretched out on the small sofa adjacent. Each had a glass of wine and appeared deep in conversation in the otherwise deserted room. The tableau looked comfortable—and familiar—as if the pair might actually be more to each other than merely employee and boss. Kerry hesitated, and then gave a light rap on the screen door.

  “I’m taking off,” she announced, “and just wanted to say thanks again, Ren, for the tour and our interview today.”

  “Weren’t we going to continue the interview in my office?” he asked, swiftly rising from his straight-backed chair.

  “I can email you any additional questions I have for the other blogs I’ll do this week.”

  “You made your deadline?”

  “Yep.” She took a step into the room and nodded at Sara. “I hope Jeremy is better tomorrow and can avoid surgery. Please tell him I said hello.” She turned to Ren. “He bought beautiful salmon. I can tell that guy is definitely an ace in the kitchen. ’Night, all.”

  “At least let me walk you to your car,” Ren proposed quickly. “Or better yet, stay for a bit and have a glass of pinot with us.”

  This time, the voice in her head gave her a real start.

  Say yes to the wine!

  Kerry gave a small shake of her head. She was already trying to extricate herself from the gnarly threesome of Charlie, Beverly, and herself, and did not need another similar situation in her life, especially sensing the sulk that Sara had sunk into as soon as Kerry—whom she clearly considered an unwanted interloper—walked through the kitchen door.

  “It’s getting late, so no wine for me, thanks,” she said, trying to sound casual, “but I’d say yes to walking me to the car. I’m a city girl and—”

  “Remember, the dogs and the cat keep the critters away,” he said with a smile as he took her arm and escorted her out of the kitchen.

  Kerry sensed hostile eyes boring into their backs as they trod the path with Prego and Scuzi following along behind. They strolled down the slight incline to the big parking lot where Kerry’s economy rental had nearly disappeared in the gloom. When they reached the vehicle parked under the canopy of a palm tree sitting in an enormous planter box, Ren took the keys from her hand and clicked open the lock.

  “I can never thank you adequately for what you did today,” he began. “It was nothing short of a miracle that we pulled off that luncheon with such quality—and style— and it was entirely due to you.”

  He leaned against the car’s roof, his face only inches from hers.

  “No... it wasn’t just me. We were the Three Musketeers, remember?”

  The night sky was now studded with a million stars, thanks to the Montisi Ranch being folded into a valley far from city lights. Ren pointed out the Big and Little Dipper and the North Star as she heard the dogs patrolling along the lavender hedges nearby.

  “It’s so quiet,” she whispered.

  “Listen, though, and you’ll begin to hear the night sounds... birds rustling... the wind through the olive trees...”

  They remained absolutely still and Kerry felt Ren’s tall frame radiating a heat that made her want to draw closer to stay warm against the dropping temperature. She wondered if she were imagining, too, the spark of an electric current that seemed steadily to grow stronger, compelling this near-stranger to lean down... and maybe even take her in his arms...

  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 nic
kel. 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.

  Chapter Five

  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.