The Wedding Bargain

by Lee McKenzie

  Relax. His motives would be revealed soon enough. If he was still after the Whiskey Sour, he could think again. If he thought the evening was going to end with the two of them back at “his place,” well, he could think again.

  Fisherman’s Wharf was one of the busiest parts of the city, even now that the summer tourist season was over, and the red neon sign at the entrance to a parking lot said it was full. Michael merely waved at the attendant as he drove in, then pulled into a spot marked Reserved. Must be nice.

  As they crossed the parking lot, his hand lightly touched her back, just long enough to guide her toward the glassed-in pedestrian overpass that led from the garage to Pier 39, then he dropped it. They hadn’t spoken since she’d misunderstood his reference to “my place,” and she had a feeling that the silence bothered her a lot more than it did him.

  “How long have you been in the wine bar business?” she asked.

  His response sounded easy and relaxed, as though they’d been having a friendly chat instead of being stranded in uncomfortable silence. “We opened here two years ago. The place really took off, so we looked for a second location in Nob Hill.”

  And now he was looking at SoMa, so she assumed the second bar was doing as well as this one.

  At the entrance he opened one of the plate-glass doors and held it for her. “Here we are.”

  They were greeted by a dark-haired woman in an elegant but understated knee-length black dress that had a high neck and long sleeves. Jess saw that as a positive sign. She hated places where female staff were expected to wear skimpy, revealing clothing.

  “Michael, it’s wonderful to see you.”

  “Good to see you, Kathryn. I’d like you to meet a friend of mine, Jess Bennett.”

  She extended her hand and gave Jess a warm smile. “Welcome to Morgan’s at the Wharf. Is this your first visit?”

  Jess accepted her handshake—impressed that it was firm and confident—and smiled back. “Yes, it is.”

  “Then you’re in for a treat.” She shifted her gaze to Michael. “Your table’s ready.”

  She didn’t say “your usual table,” but it was clear that it was. Every table was optimally situated to take advantage of the view and maximize intimacy, but his—theirs—was even more private.

  How often does he bring his dates here? She let out a little sigh. Does it matter? You’re not one of them.

  “Thanks, Kathryn.” Michael held Jess’s chair for her, and she settled into it while she took in the view of Alcatraz. The bay sparkled under the setting sun and the gulls swooped and soared over ferries and other boats moving around the harbor.

  Inside, the decor hinted at a nautical theme without being obvious. Much more “bon voyage” than “ahoy, matey.” Ha. The designer hadn’t missed the boat on this one. The dark polished wood and shiny brass accents were tempered with modern overhead lighting positioned to create an intimate circle of light at each table. The strips of wall between the large windows were adorned with colorful watercolors of windswept beach scenes that Jess immediately recognized as the work of Rory’s mother, Copper Pennington. One of her paintings was pricey. This collection had to be worth a small fortune.

  The table setting was casual chic. Cream-colored linen tablecloth and matching napkins, gleaming cutlery, a narrow glass vase with a single white calla lily, and two large wine goblets that glittered with reflected light.

  The financial investment must’ve been huge, and the payoff was obvious. Morgan’s at the Wharf offered a quiet, classy retreat from the teeming energy of the city’s most popular tourist destination, and now that she and Michael were seated, every table was occupied. As her granddad used to say, this is how the rich get richer.

  “Have you decided on a wine?” Kathryn asked.

  “A bottle of pinot gris,” Michael said. “The 2005, if we still have it.”

  “Right away.” She smiled graciously as she slipped away.

  “I hope you like seafood,” he said.

  “I do.” She’d caught glimpses of shrimp cocktails and great bowlfuls of steamed mussels on other tables, and her mouth was already watering. Kathryn hadn’t given them menus, though, and she suspected that Michael planned to order for them. Under almost any other circumstance that would annoy her—not that it had ever happened under any circumstance—but he was being charming, she liked that he had such a good rapport with his employees, and she felt oddly comfortable with going along with whatever he had planned for them. Within reason.

  “Good. Seafood is our specialty.”

  Kathryn returned with the wine and held the bottle so Michael could inspect the label. After he nodded, she set it on the table and unfolded a waiter’s corkscrew. “I think you’re going to enjoy this wine,” she said to Jess. “It’s one of Michael’s favorites.”

  She removed the foil, quickly twisted the corkscrew into the cork and removed it with that a soft, gentle pop that pleased the ear of even a non–wine drinker. She poured a small amount into Michael’s glass and stepped back.

  He went through all the steps he’d shown her at the wedding—the swirl, the look, the smell, the taste—all of which seemed unnecessary, since he already knew he was going to like it. He set the glass on the table. “It’s perfect.”

  Kathryn poured some into Jess’s glass, then Michael’s. “Do you know what you’d like to order?” she asked.

  “We’ll have the seafood platter and a Caprese salad.”

  “Excellent.” And then she was gone. Several waiters were serving patrons at the other tables. Kathryn’s only table was theirs.

  “No one does shellfish better than our chef.” He picked up his glass and held it out to her.

  She lifted hers, touched it to his, then it gave it a gentle swirl. “It has legs,” she said.

  He grinned at her. “You’ve been doing your homework.”

  “Google comes in handy for all kinds of things.” Wine-tasting terminology. Winery owners.

  He studied her thoughtfully. “I’m sure it does.”

  She knew he was waiting for her to taste the wine. She made a pretense of smelling it first. “Fruity.”

  He was leaning back in his chair now, apparently still amused.

  She didn’t dare try to guess which fruit—she would almost certainly be wrong—so she took a sip and made a point of letting it wash over her tongue before she swallowed. It was good. Very good, actually. “I like it. It has a subtle citrus flavor. Nice crisp finish.”

  “You’re a quick study.”

  Damn right she was. “Is this from your winery in the Napa Valley?”

  Finally, a question that caught him off guard. “You really have been doing your homework.”

  “Google,” she said again. “I didn’t know your last name till tonight. I did a quick search before we left the Whiskey Sour.”

  “Did you, now?” His eyes, thick lashed and dark blue in this light, shone with amusement. “Yes, this is one of ours. What else did Google tell you?”

  “That you own a winery in the Napa Valley and two wine bars here in the city.”

  “That’s all?”

  “There’s more?”

  “I have no idea. I’ve never looked for myself on the internet.”

  She suspected she had barely scratched the surface of Michael Morgan’s web-worthy achievements. “Neither have I. I’m not interesting enough for there to be anything about me online.”

  “I find that hard to believe.”

  Oh, please. She didn’t want to talk about herself, which meant it was time to change the subject. And she might as well get to the point of why they were here. “You said you had an ulterior motive for bringing me here. Are you going to tell me what that is?”

  He took a long slow sip of his wine, then he set the glass down and leaned a little closer. “Are you always this direct?”

  “Almost always.”

  “I see. Well, I meant what I said about wanting you to see the wine bar here at the wharf, and I’m also inter
ested in your thoughts on opening one in your neighborhood. We’re going for a unique atmosphere, wine list and menu at each place, but we still want each to maintain the signature Morgan experience.”

  She wanted to believe him, but her more suspicious side was having doubts. He had to be after something. “You’ve seen the Whiskey Sour, twice, and you still think I’m qualified to offer advice on how to run a wine bar?”

  He laughed lightly. “Don’t sell yourself short. You run a bar in SoMa, so I thought you’d be able to tell me what type of clientele to expect, what kind of atmosphere they’re after, that sort of thing.”

  Should she believe him? If this was an indication of what he had in mind for his new enterprise, he could anticipate a very different clientele from hers. “The Whiskey Sour has been there for years. When Granddad opened it, he catered to people who worked in that neighborhood—especially mechanics and guys who worked in the autobody shops. To some extent we still do.” Unfortunately, there weren’t so many blue collars these days. “That’s starting to change now that condos and loft buildings are bringing in new residents and other businesses are opening in the area.”

  Kathryn appeared with a basket of warm French bread, set white ceramic plates shaped like scallop shells in front of each of them and disappeared again.

  “I knew it would be a good idea to run this by you,” he said. “You’re brilliant.”

  “Oh, well, thanks,” she said, feeling more baffled than brilliant.

  “A classic-car theme could be perfect, something from the fifties. Without being clichéd, of course. Lots of chrome and glass, aluminum garage doors that can be rolled up to open up the space or rolled down to separate the private tasting rooms that my—” He paused. “That the architect suggested.”

  “Sounds amazing,” she said. Glad I could help. She wondered if, along with the corporate lawyer and the architect, he also had a plumber on retainer.

  “Ah, here we go,” he said.

  Kathryn was back with a huge platter, liberally loaded with clams, mussels and scallops, and oysters on the half shell. The steam rising from this feast was lightly scented with garlic and herbs. She set an empty bowl next to the shellfish, and then the salad. “And here’s your Caprese.”

  Jess had never seen such an unusual salad. It consisted of slices of tomato and soft white cheese arranged on a plate, drizzled with olive oil and balsamic vinegar and garnished with fresh basil leaves. It looked delicious.

  Kathryn poured a little more wine into their glasses. “Bon appétit,” she said as she left them to enjoy their feast.

  Jess’s taste buds had died and gone to heaven. She helped herself to a generous sampling of seafood, careful to avoid the oysters. Which were the first things Michael took, she noticed. He picked up one of the shells and handed it to her. “Try one. You won’t find a better oyster anywhere in the city.”

  Much as she loved seafood, in her opinion there was no such thing as a good oyster. “Are they cooked?” They didn’t look cooked. They looked as slimy as if they’d just been shucked.

  He set one on her plate, picked up one from his and slid the revolting blob into his mouth. He chewed it slowly, swallowed and chased it with a sip of wine. “You don’t know what you’re missing.”

  “Sorry. I’ve never liked oysters.”

  “Try one.”

  She didn’t want to seem ungracious, so she picked up the shell, let the offensive mollusk slither onto her tongue and closed her eyes, fully expecting her system to reject it.

  She opened her eyes and chewed. Who knew an oyster could be this good?

  “What did I tell you? We only serve the best.”

  “I’m impressed.” She kind of hated to say it, but it was true. “I wish I could do something like this with the Whiskey Sour.”

  “What’s stopping you?” He seemed genuinely interested in what she had to say. “You told me you have plans to renovate. What do you have in mind?”

  She’d been thinking about fixing the plumbing, installing a new dishwasher, maybe a couple of bar stools, and doing a little advertising to see if that would attract some new customers. Providing she could convince the bank to lend her the money, of course. That was before the mystery woman had come in for lunch last Saturday and started her dreaming about a retro cocktail lounge. Now she was rethinking everything. Or she would be as soon as she got the stupid health inspector off her back and figured out how she’d scrape together the money to pay for a building permit.

  The vintage-car theme wasn’t as appealing as her fifties-themed cocktail lounge with crescent-shaped booths upholstered with turquoise vinyl, but she could frame her granddad’s photos of the cars he had restored over the years. Her friend Rory was really into vintage stuff—she’d have tons of ideas.

  Right. You’re not even sure you can pay this month’s phone bill. She didn’t need a bank loan. She needed a miracle. No way could she afford to close the bar and get by with no income while she spent money that wasn’t hers on renos she couldn’t afford. Still, she wasn’t sure she should tell him exactly what she had in mind, in case he thought that was brilliant, too.

  “Business was dropping off even before my granddad got sick. By the time he died, his savings were pretty well gone.” When she’d taken over, it hadn’t taken long to burn through her own meager funds. “I’d like to re-decorate the bar so it’s more in keeping with the name, but that’ll depend on whether or not the bank will lend me the money.”

  “You own the building, don’t you? That counts for something.”

  “Not as much as you might think. They still expect me to put up some of my own money.” He didn’t need to know she had none, although he’d likely guessed that was the case. He also didn’t need to know that she was struggling to pay off a student loan for a college degree that got her a job she hated, and that she had a credit rating that was…spotty. Much as she hated to admit any similarity between her and her mother, she grudgingly acknowledged that she had inherited her mother’s less-than-stellar ability to manage money.

  Michael studied her thoughtfully over the rim of his wineglass. “You could always sell it.”

  She should have been angry, and she damn well would have been if he hadn’t been so predictable. At least the real reason for this charade was finally out in the open. “Like I told you, it’s not for sale. If that’s what this is all about…” She gestured at the spread on the table. “You’ve wasted your time, and your wine.”

  He looked unfazed. “Not a waste at all. I’m looking for a building and you’re having financial problems. If you change your mind, this could be the best solution for both of us.”

  Okay, now she was mad. How did he dare presume to know what was best for her? “Not everything is about the money, and the Whiskey Sour is not just a building. It’s my home. I love that place. I’ll figure out a way to make it work.” Her earliest memories were of visiting her granddad at the bar. He used to give her little jobs to do—stacking coasters, rolling cutlery in napkins and, as she got older, counting the float before he put it into the till. When she was a teenager and went to live with him for good, it had become her home. Not even Mr. Tall Dark and Filthy Rich had enough money to buy that out from under her.

  No doubt he thought the Whiskey Sour had more potential than the rat hole he’d shown her earlier. Anyone could see that. If he didn’t want the building on Folsom Street, he could keep looking.

  “Relax. It was just a suggestion.”

  He poured a little more wine into her glass, but not his own.

  “Aren’t you having any more?” she asked.

  “Not if you want me to drive you home.” He picked up the salad plate. “More for you?”

  She shook her head. So that was it? He was just going to change the subject and pretend this conversation never happened?

  He helped himself to the last few slices of tomatoes and cheese. “So you gave up a career as a teacher to take over your grandfather’s bar.”

  I
t wasn’t a question, so she didn’t respond.

  “It was that important to you?”

  “It was. Granddad practically raised me, since I was a teenager anyway, and he was the only family I had.” The only family who mattered.

  “Did you live with him?”

  “Yes, since I was fourteen.”

  He looked interested, but not surprised by that. “Where are your parents? Are they…?”

  “Dead? No, my mother lives in Stockton.” Should she tell him about her father? For all she knew, he was dead. Maybe that would shock him. “I’ve never met my father.”

  Michael looked at her, unblinking. He took his time to respond and when he did, it wasn’t the response she expected. “If he wasn’t going to stick around, then maybe that was for the best.”

  She set her fork on her plate. Apparently, nothing took this man by surprise.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “That sounded insensitive, and what I meant was—”

  “Hey, don’t apologize. My granddad used to say the same thing. My mother’s a lousy judge of character.” And Roxanne Bennett’s self-esteem was so low, it couldn’t get any lower. When it came to men, those two characteristics were a disastrous combination.

  “If your father wasn’t around, what made you decide to leave? Did you and your mother not get along?”

  “We were okay when she was between boyfriends, but when she had a man in her life, it was like I was invisible.” It was true, or at least it was the only way Jess could rationalize having a mother who risked her little girl’s safety for a romp in the sack with a string of men she didn’t know.

  Michael’s jaw tightened with disapproval.

  Finally, a chink in that carefully constructed armor? “One of them cornered me once when my mom wasn’t there.” She folded her hands in her lap and stared down at them. “It didn’t end well.”