by Olga Bicos
He shrugged. “I’m sorry. I was wrong. I made a mistake.”
She shook her head. “More, please.”
But apparently, he wasn’t one for details. “I was leaving and I saw you walking home alone. And by the way, that’s not a good idea.”
“Because some strange man might follow me?”
He gave his first genuine smile of the night, and it was a dilly, one hundred percent bad boy caught in the act.
But just as suddenly, warm and fuzzy went poof. “Why would I follow you?” he asked. “I know exactly where you live.” He hadn’t meant to sound comforting.
Maybe it was the creepy mist, or the moody lighting from the bay window above shining down on them, but she saw something there, in his face. Not Mr. Nice Guy, after all.
“You better go,” he said.
“Yes.” She stepped back. “Thanks.”
She could have bitten her tongue. Thanks for not mugging me—so fortunate you held the line at near heart attack.
She started walking fast, faster still, debating who she should be angry at, Ryan or herself. Behind her, she heard the familiar clink, clink—clink, clink as a car crossed the cable car tracks just ahead on Washington. But she didn’t hear him following her.
Which didn’t mean he wasn’t there. Pins and needles still danced up and down her spine.
She found the landmarks she’d missed, the now familiar Foo dogs keeping guard over the apartment cattycorner, the Italian restaurant tucked into the building across the street. She crept past the courtyard gate and slipped down the garden path, taking the steps up to her apartment two at a time. Her hands shaking, she tried her key in the oak door twice. When she dropped the keys, she gave up altogether and had Harris buzz her in.
She was trying to catch her breath. When she reached the third-floor landing, her brother opened the door.
“About time—”
The lecture died on his lips. Instead, he followed her into the apartment where she tossed her coat on a metal sculpture that doubled as a hat rack, kicked off the shoes in the foyer and made for the living room. She didn’t even try to hide what she was doing as she knelt on the leather couch and pried open the blinds.
She could see Washington Street from the window, maybe even a bit of Taylor below.
“What happened tonight?” Harris asked.
“Nothing,” she whispered, careful to keep her voice down.
As if Ryan could hear her. As if he might be down there right now, watching her fingers shaking against the blinds.
In San Francisco, the fog came early and lifted late. She wasn’t familiar with the local nomenclature, but she figured it was like the Inuit and snow. They had a million words for the stuff. Tonight, she could see the lights from the Transamerica Pyramid filtered through the lens of fog. Smoky tendrils crept along the street as Holly searched for strange men in leather jackets.
“Okay, I’ll bite,” Harris said in the same whisper, leaning over her to peer through the blinds. “Why the 007 act?”
“It’s a beautiful night,” she said. “I’m enjoying the view.”
The funky building just across the street with its improbable balconies and columns—was there someone standing in the arched entry? Or maybe up ahead, under the awning? By the tree?
Harris dropped onto the couch. He picked up a bowl brimming with cereal from the kidney-shaped coffee table and tucked in. “There’s something, all right,” he said around a mouthful. “And by the way, Danny boy? Mr. Flash and Cash? Please tell me that even you, oh naive one, finally hear the alarm bells?”
“It’s a job, Spiderman, not an episode of Alias…and I should listen to a man who comes home from a gourmet bash to eat Cap’n Crunch. Did I mention it was a really nice paying job?”
“Come on, Hol. He paraded you around like you were some head of state. Meet my architect. Please. You want to tell me the last time someone threw a party for you before the job? Kinda makes you question things, like I’ve been doing ever since Danny made his appearance, all David Copperfield-like.”
She turned away from the window, dropping her hold on the blinds. Harris was pushing her buttons. And there was an extremely annoying possibility that her brother could be right.
“He wants people talking about Cutty House long before the doors open,” she explained, finding an argument or two up her sleeve. “It’s a strategy known to work. And he read about me in Architectural Digest. I have a wonderful résumé.”
“And he’s damn lucky to have you.” Harris put down the cereal. “It’s just a little hard to believe some dweeb like Daniel East figured that out.”
“Maybe that’s how it happens. Someone like Daniel, ready to take a chance.”
He didn’t say anything, but she recognized that deadpan expression.
“I’m going to do this, Harris,” she told him, putting the kibosh on her own misgivings. “And when I’m done, I’ll write my own ticket as an architect. No more relying on other people like Drew. Do you get that? Freedom. The American way.”
“I keep forgetting I’m supposed to be the cheerleader here,” he said. He stood and stretched his six-foot-some frame, then grabbed the cereal bowl and headed into the kitchen. “I’ll work on it. Really. Good night, Hol.”
But at the hallway he stopped, not near ready to throw in the towel. Her brother tended to treat her like a piece of Murano glass, delicate and precious—most likely making up for his own risky lifestyle by riding herd on Holly. And it had only gotten worse since he’d joined the ranks of the unemployed. Now that he had all this extra time and energy, where else should he focus it but on her?
He wanted her safe…he needed her happy. What he didn’t get, in typical male fashion, was that Holly wanted the same—for him. And Cutty House might just get them there.
From the hall, he gave her a to-be-continued look. “Hol, do me a favor. Just keep your eyes open, okay?”
She managed a short salute. “Always.”
After Harris left, she turned off the lights. She knelt back on the couch and peered through the blinds again, careful that no one below should catch her snooping. But there was only a man walking his dog navigating the street below.
She didn’t know what she’d expected—for Ryan to step out from the shadows and give her a thumbs-up.
Yeah, it’s me. Your friendly neighborhood stalker.
Still, it was a long time before she left her window perch and headed for the evening’s next struggle, a decent night’s sleep.
Ryan wondered what she would do if he just stepped out and waved hello.
Really freak her out….
As if he hadn’t already. He waited, knowing she couldn’t see him there across the street, standing under the awning. She hadn’t fooled him by turning off the lights. She was still watching from the window. Scared.
“You’d better be scared, sweetheart.”
All night, he’d felt out of control. A lot of things felt out of control tonight. Like Daniel pulling the strings with his gig at Cutty House. All week long Ryan had had this running debate going in his head that the invitation was bullshit. There was no way he’d show. But good ol’ Dan had dangled the carrot of a reunion, knowing Ryan would want to bridge the chasm of the past. Twelve long years…
And now, he was standing outside Daniel’s old apartment, falling into the nightmare of the past, wondering if tomorrow morning he’d find the cops knocking on his door. You tipped your hand….
God, how the hell had Dan found her?
Ryan stepped out to walk alongside a man and his dog. He used them as cover, slipping out to Taylor Street and turning the corner to hike it uphill. He gave the guy a casual “hey,” just to let him know he wasn’t a serial killer. If she was watching, she wouldn’t see him from this angle.
Earlier that evening, taking Daniel up on his invitation had seemed like a fine idea. Slide on back to the old place, let them all know that, hey, there were no hard feelings. Go with God, Daniel.
; And then he’d walked into that room. He’d seen her.
And followed her, and cornered her.
A couple of times in the ballroom, watching her walk around, his hands had started shaking.
Only after she’d started that nonstop talking of hers, acting like some sitcom character, a bundle of nerves, had she broken the spell. Staring at her—her face so animated and curiously kind—he’d had these second thoughts.
She doesn’t know anything. She’s walked into a trap.
It was up to him to tell her the truth. Warn her. Save her, Ryan.
Save her? As if he could….
By the time he reached his car, he was sweating. The night was cold, but his fears were white-hot. He wasn’t sure what Daniel was up to. He wasn’t sure what any of them had going. But it wasn’t good. Not with Holly Fairfield in the picture.
He started the engine, then pulled the Aston Martin into traffic. He headed for the bridge and home, his head all mixed up with these images.
Forget it. Forget every bit of it.
It was one of those gray nights the city was famous for, late enough that traffic was light. When he reached the Golden Gate, the two bridge towers had vanished behind a wall of fog, making the trip over the water look like a magic act, as if the car glided on nothing but a ribbon of concrete.
Daniel had it all now. Cutty House. Vanessa and Samuel in his pocket. Everything he’d ever wanted, ripe for the taking. It had to be enough, even for Daniel.
It was a good story, Ryan thought, heading for home. If only he could get himself to believe it.
4
Holly watched her brother dump the last of the Chex cereal into his bowl. He was sitting at the kitchen counter of what was to be—courtesy of Daniel and her dream job—their new home away from home, a pied-à-terre near the pinnacle of Nob Hill. Having mixed three types of cereal into his bowl, Harris sat reading the morning paper, spoon in hand.
“What is it with you and cereal?” she asked, pouring cream into her coffee.
He flipped open the paper and slid the pages across the counter to Holly. Recently remodeled, the room still had that paint-and-polish “new kitchen” smell. Buffed concrete counters, Gaggenau cooktop and stainless steel gleamed everywhere. Holly might not cook, but she could still appreciate the aesthetics.
“Here,” he said, pointing out the pertinent section with his spoon, a gossip column penned by the improbably named Gigi La Plume. The accompanying photograph showed a praying mantis of a woman with large eyes and an upside-down triangle for a face.
“The society pages,” she said. “I’m impressed.”
“Only for you, Hol.”
It wasn’t the lead story, but the column covered some serious real estate. Even as her stomach took a roller-coaster dip, she had to admire the hook.
Black Sheep Or Fatted Calf?
Tuesday night’s gala at ye olde Cutty House served up more than champagne and foie gras. And judging from Ryan Cutty’s reception, San Francisco’s fav bachelor-with-a-past (yes, we’re still bleating about THAT cause scandaleux— baa! baa! baad!), had his served decidedly cold. Could a Cutty House revival have the black sheep of the clan hoping for the fatted calf? Those in the know seem to think this restaurateur-turned-vintner might just find himself crying over his sour grapes.
She folded the newspaper neatly and returned to her coffee, waiting for Harris to say the obvious.
Her brother obliged. “And the plot thickens. I think this is the part where I say, ‘I told you so.”’
She focused hard on the coffee, pretending her heart wasn’t doing a fair imitation of the Running Man. Last night, Ryan Cutty—the black sheep—had followed the family’s new architect home.
Harris tapped the paper. “If I were you, I might be asking Danny a question or two.”
“Hmm.”
She was mulling over the particulars of the evening, trying to interpret Ryan’s actions in context with this new information. The confrontation in the ballroom. Ryan cornering her on the street. The way he’d focused on her, following her home. If this was about business, why not just talk to Daniel? Or his mother and father, the silent partners in Cutty’s new opening-to-be?
Unless Ryan thought he could somehow scare her off, sabotage the project.
“Okay,” he said. “I’ll bite. Why, Hol? Why not ask Dan a couple of questions?”
Because I might not like the answers.
But she told him, “It’s all family stuff. It doesn’t have anything to do with me.” And when he didn’t look convinced, she continued. “You know that expression, people who live in glass houses? Daniel didn’t pry into my past.” She turned away from the counter, taking her coffee to the sink. “Bankruptcy isn’t exactly a strong suit for an architect. Maybe I’m just giving him the same courtesy.”
“So we’re still going with the beggars can’t be choosers theme to life?”
“You have your point of view, Spiderman. I have mine. Only, from where I’m standing, mine includes a million-dollar view of the Bay.” She gestured past the open kitchen to the living room beyond.
Everything in the place was state-of-the-art and custom-built. Blond ash cabinetry and hardwood floors, hi-tech lighting. The twentieth-century furnishings added both beauty and pragmatism to the apartment’s décor. And last, but not least, that view of the Bay Bridge threading over the water where the sun rose over the hills of the East Bay and gilded the postcard-perfect image.
She pressed her point. “We have a beautiful rent-free place in a wonderful city, with an exciting job that will finally let me unfurl my wings. Why can’t it just be our good fortune?”
She stepped around the custom counter and sat down on the stool next to her brother, honing in. “I know. Life has been this big struggle. That was us, always busting our butts, working harder than the next guy for half as much, beating the odds. Does that mean we’re doomed to struggle for the rest of our lives? Why can’t it be easy?” she added, on a roll, liking the sound of the tune she was playing. “So the job fell into our laps. So what? Why can’t it—just this once—be our lucky day, Spiderman?”
But she could see a few “what ifs” on the tip of her brother’s tongue, even if she wasn’t as good as Harris at the mind reading.
Only, he surprised her, answering with a smile that changed the mood in the room. “And speaking of good fortune,” he said, “I have an announcement. Your good-for-nothing leech of a brother—drum roll please—has a job.”
“Really? Omigod, that’s wonderful—”
“I’m tending bar at this new place on Polk,” he said before she could finish.
Harris had worked for a firm in Denver that specialized in rain-forest pharmaceuticals. He was a bio-prospector, a modern-day Indiana Jones who traveled from South America to Southeast Asia searching for plants and poisons that could provide future medical breakthroughs. That’s how he’d gotten the nickname Spiderman: A spider poison he’d isolated promised to be the company’s cash cow. Only, he’d been canned when he’d caused too many problems, fighting corporate America and the way it bulldozed native rights in the patent process.
“Okay,” she said, trying to hide her dismay. Bartender. Yeah, that’s why he’d needed that tricky Ph.D., to make a mean margarita. “That’s wonderful.”
He patted her cheek. “Atta girl.”
She was still fighting her shock as she shadowed him across the kitchen. Harris rinsed his cereal bowl, taking his time, giving her a moment to let it all sink in. Holly only stared at the water streaming from the gooseneck faucet, needing that mental kick in the shin. Say something!
“I open tonight. Wanna come by?” he asked. “Give me your seal of approval? All you can drink. On the house.”
Holly came up behind him and gave him a hug. She knew how painful this must be for him, to retreat. Harris had always been the fighter in the family, a man who didn’t let much stand in his way. It hurt to see him suddenly roll over and play dead.
She to
ld herself he was just licking his wounds after the fiasco of his job dispute. Goodness knows what the company had threatened. He knew all of their secrets, after all. He might still be contractually obligated by some onerous noncompetition clause. Eventually he’d go back to the work he loved. He had to.
She craned her neck to smile up at him, her brother, significantly taller than her five-feet-two. “Do I get to dance on the table if I drink too much?”
“I might even join you.”
It was a new beginning for both of them. Why rain on his parade? Why not give Harris the same consideration she expected—blind trust. Let him believe the fantasy that he could be happy with the simple life. What did she know?
Getting her keys, she kept telling herself not to worry so much. Everything would work out in the end. It was like she’d told Harris: Why should life always be a struggle? Why couldn’t it be easy just this once?
But she kept thinking about last night, the strange vibes, the story in the paper. And the thought that her brother was nearly always right.
Some things were too good to be true.
Too good to be true.
Those words gave a nice little rhythm to her walk that morning, a percussion beat playing counterpoint to the clang of the cable-car bell and the throb of the underground cables. She’d grabbed a cup of coffee at the Shaky Grounds Café, enjoying the fleeting sunshine of the late morning as she took on the popcorn hills.
Her tour book tucked safely in her purse, she imagined cresting a summit to swan dive into the Bay below. Multicolored condos and townhouses added to the illusion, climbing the steep streets like terraced gardens.
She even found this sign: Prevent Runaways. Curb Wheels. Park in Gear. Set Brake.
Runaways—as good a theme as any for the morning. The article in the paper alluded to some sort of family imbroglio. The fact that Ryan Cutty seemed intent on hunting her down added a rather cryptic note. She knew from experience that family-run businesses could be tricky, and Cutty House was now entering its third generation.