Ring of Truth

by Ciji Ware

  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 f
inding 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—”

  The waiter interrupted with the check just then and Ren paused to sign the credit card receipt. Kerry took that as a signal to rise from her seat, threading her way through the restaurant with her escort following along behind. Once in Ren’s car, she turned and offered a tight smile.

  “Thanks again for dinner. It was delicious.”

  “We discussed the food, but didn’t particularly savor it,” Ren countered. “You haven’t answered my question. Why did you shut down on me?”

  Kerry was caught off guard by Ren’s refusal to pretend their dinner date was a casual affair that had simply fizzled between two people who barely knew each other. Feeling the heat of his steady glance, she hesitated for a moment and felt a pulse of energy shoot up her arm.

  “Here’s the deal: on the flight coming out here Friday, I broke up with my live-in boyfriend and business partner of over a year because I found out he was having a Facebook—and now a real life—affair with his former high school girlfriend who just happens to be our new boss at LifeStyleXer. I’m afraid I have a lot on my mind right now.”

  “Good God!”

  Kerry said crossly, “Well, you appear to have a tangled situation of your own, so...”

  She couldn’t think how to finish her sentence. After all, she’d just met the man who was now piloting his Mercedes up California Street, away from the downtown W Hotel.

  Ren stared straight ahead, driving in silence a few minutes more until, at length, he said, “I am not involved with Sara Lang on any level that I think you’re assuming I might be.”

  Why did Kerry get the sense that—as with President Clinton’s denial of his relationship with Monica Lewinsky—Ren had parsed his last sentence very carefully?

  She was about to respond when he continued, “I’d still like to discuss one of the other reasons I asked you to dinner, besides wanting to thank you for yesterday. Will you have a quick nightcap with me at the Top of the Mark? I wouldn’t be a good ambassador to San Francisco if I didn’t show you the view.” She could feel him studying her profile when he added, “Please, Kerry.”

  Ren continued to drive the car up California Street’s steep incline, past Powell. She gave a brief nod of assent, then saw that right beside them, an iconic San Francisco cable car was creaking up the hill.

  “It’s amazing those old things are still running,” she commented, hoping to lighten the heavy atmosphere in the car.

  “Those babies are more than a hundred and forty years old, but they draw a lot of tourists to this town, so somehow the city engineers keep them going.”

  Wisps of fog had begun to swirl around the hood of their car as it crested Nob Hill, a summit that featured a square park surrounded by a group of magnificent buildings. On Kerry’s right stood the six-story “wedding cake” beaux-arts Fairmont Hotel.

  “It was restored after the disastrous earthq
uake and firestorm of 1906,” Ren explained, his tone acquiring the politesse of a tour guide. On the north side of the park he pointed out the former Flood mansion—a brownstone that now served as the exclusive Pacific Union Club.

  “Still only male members, I read somewhere,” Kerry said.

  “Right. Some of us have been trying to change that, but so far... no go.”

  On their left was the much taller Mark Hopkins Hotel. Below, Ren pointed to the Stanford Court, and in the other direction, near the towering Grace Cathedral, the Huntington Hotel.

  “Some of these hotels on Nob Hill replaced the mansions destroyed in the quake that had belonged to the four railroad barons that built the western section of the transcontinental route... and so these post-quake buildings were named in their honor.”

  Ren wheeled the car into the gated and bricked courtyard of the Mark Hopkins and immediately liveried doormen on both sides assisted them out of their vehicle.

  Kerry began to shiver in the damp, cold air. She wrapped her arms around her upper body, hurrying toward the hotel’s entrance. Ren quickly caught up with her and put a protective arm around her shoulders clad in a thin sweater.

  “First lesson in San Francisco. Whatever the season, always carry a fleece jacket,” he joked, and Kerry could feel herself smiling in spite of the dark mood that had overtaken her at dinner.

  Ren guided her up the red-carpeted steps, through the revolving glass door, and into the warmth of the plush lobby. Kerry was surprised when he kept his arm around her, even as they waited for the elevator which, when it arrived, whisked them nineteen floors to the hotel’s former penthouse, now a bar with reputedly the best view of both bridges in the entire city.

  Stepping out onto the top floor, Kerry halted in her tracks.

  “What a shame. Look at how thick the fog is up here. There’s absolutely no view.”

  “Good,” Ren declared. “We have to talk. You’ll see the view another day. Come... shall we take that table in the corner?”

  A waiter across the empty room gestured they could sit anywhere they liked.

  “A stinger?” Ren asked her when a member of the staff came swiftly to their side, since they were virtually the only customers.