Renée Linden.
Jo had researched her further in the half hour she’d had between shooing Muriel and much of the contents of the basket out of her office, and this lunch. She’d worked with Renée before and knew what a powerhouse the woman was on the Seattle scene.
What Jo hadn’t known was that Renée had been behind the revitalization of Pioneer Square in the ‘90s. A formerly dangerous district, that lay in the original heart of old-town Seattle, had been turned into a tourist Mecca of edgy theaters, fine galleries, exceptional dining, and bars that featured hot bands instead of Saturday night brawls. She’d also been on the board for the creation of Westlake Center, which drew tourists and shoppers into the heart of the business district.
A key player, and donor, to both the new Symphony Hall and the complete renovation to the Marion Oliver McCaw Opera Hall only a few years later. The list kept going until Jo had closed the bio abruptly and turned to stare blankly at the Arctic map until it was time for the meeting. Jo still couldn’t puzzle out the meeting’s purpose.
They split an order of Escargots à la Bourguignonne over a glass of Vouvray from Château Moncontour and Renée remained elusive. The woman spoke only on light topics.
Jo followed right along with the informal prelude. This was a business lunch and that was at the center of Jo’s skill set, barely a step down from the courtroom.
Renée told of coming to Seattle after re-meeting her husband, now the President of Boeing’s business jet division, at a tenth-year college reunion at Oberlin.
“I never would have dated the man in college. He was fantastically brilliant, which I found to be quite daunting.”
Jo declined to mention just how humbled she felt in Renée’s presence. Her circum vitae was enough to set even the most aggressive overachiever on her heels. Jo regretted looking up the details. It was leaving her a little tongue-tied, which hadn’t happened to her in years. Often no knowledge at all was a better strategic position than too little.
“But by that time we were in our thirties. I found he had, if not mellowed, grown deeper and richer with time. He really is like a good wine, though a red rather than this white. This is far too light on the tastebuds. I’m the Vouvray to his Burgundy.”
“You are at least a Beaujolais or a Bordeaux.” Jo spoke before she could stop herself. That this amazing woman would think herself as of so little consequence. Why, that would leave Jo as what, grape juice?
“I had hoped that would get a rise out of you.”
Jo blinked. She took another of the decadently buttery escargots to buy herself a moment.
Renée declined to explain, but the tone of the lunch shifted as if she’d passed some test.
“You did a wonderful job on those leases for us. You understood the fine balance we must strike between making money from our more successful lessees yet nurturing our start-ups and struggling entrepreneurs. And be equally fair to all two-hundred plus of our tenants. That really captured our attention.”
“Our?” Jo hadn’t missed the word choice and rather suspected that Renée was not using the majestic plural.
Renée merely smiled and selected the second-to-last escargot.
Jo return the smile and finished the dish.
Well, that meant that this was indeed a business luncheon. One most likely sanctioned by the board of the PDA, the Preservation and Development Authority responsible for running the Pike Place Market.
When they’d wanted help with the leases, there had been an interview in her own office followed by several meetings in Renée’s office. Then Jo had done the job and presented the significant changes before the full board. She’d quite enjoyed the project in retrospect. There had been many interesting facets to consider.
Now, two months later, the basket and the luncheon.
After a brief debate, she decided to forego the Smoked Salmon and Dungeness Crab Salad in favor of the Bouillabaisse.
They were clearly courting her for something. Her hand froze halfway to her glass of wine as the waiter cleared the escargot plate. They wanted her on the board. It was a terrible, double-edged sword.
All PDA board positions were volunteer. It was for the wealthy semi-retirees who cared heart and soul about Seattle, not for a working woman gearing up for a multi-year litigation on the Alaskan North Slope. Yet serving on the PDA board also carried immense prestige. The position opened every door among the true movers-and-shakers of Seattle. Those connections would make her career.
Was she willing to trade what little free time she had, plus probably a fair bit more, for the opportunity? Not as if that particular question mattered. She clearly didn’t know what to do with free time on the rare occasions she did have it. She’d been naïve enough to think that being on a date with Yuri Andreevich was going to be a constructive, or at least pleasant, use of her non-working hours.
Jo Thompson knew she wasn’t exactly “owning the jury” when it came to her personal life.
“Mama!” Angelo had to blink to be sure. But there stood Maria Amelia Avico Parrano at his open kitchen door as if it were the most natural thing in the world. She’d only been to his restaurant twice, once at last year’s opening and again last week for Russell’s wedding reception.
He rushed over and gave her a hug.
“You don’t need to be so gentle!” She hugged him back as fiercely.
He laughed and squeezed her harder until she’d have laughed if he’d left her enough air.
He finally let her go and just looked at her. “You look wonderful.” And she did. She’d always been a beautiful woman. He and Russell used to wonder that some man hadn’t hounded her into marriage after Angelo’s father died while Angelo was still in the womb.
Her black, curling, shoulder-length hair had started to gray, and she’d let it. Her figure was generous, but looked amazing on a woman barely five-foot-four.
“It’s retired life. It agrees with me.”
“Una pensionata?!” His thoughts blanked.
If Graziella hadn’t put a hand on his back at that moment, he’d have fallen to the floor.
“Hi, Mrs. Parrano, so glad to have you back in town.” Graziella made sure Angelo would remain on his feet, before taking his mother’s hands and kissing both cheeks.
“Bella bambina,” she patted Graziella’s cheek as if she were a twelve-year old girl and not a twenty-eight-year-old master of the front of house at one of Seattle’s finest restaurants. Graziella hurried back to her job without appearing to hurry, one of the traits that had made her Angelo’s first hire even before he opened the restaurant. The customers always got the impression she was spending ample time with them, even when it was only a moment.
“Retired?” The word choked on its way out.
“Is an old woman allowed to come in?”
That finally got a laugh out of Angelo’s constricted throat. He gathered up the suitcase she’d set in the doorway and led her to the side prep table, not presently in use.
“Are you hungry, Mama?”
“Good boy,” she patted his cheek. “Just a little pasta and red sauce to get that airplane food out of my tongue.” Her accent slid about him like home. Thirty years since she’d come to America to cook for Russell’s parents, the Morgans, and she still frequently mangled idioms, which just added to her charm.
He hurried to the line, glad for a moment to collect himself. A quick glance at the order tickets and then down the line showed that they were running smoothly once again, as if last night’s debacle had never occurred.
He made two bowls of pasta, sliced a little Biroldo sausage into the sauce, grated some Asiago on top, and carried them back to the table to join her.
“Retired, Mama?”
“Yes.” Then, just to make him crazy he was sure, she forked and twirled up some of the linguini and took her time to chew and swallow. She nodded.
“It is good. A little paprika would bring it to life, but it is good.”
“But…” Angelo bit his ton
gue. Paprika wasn’t Italian. It was Hungarian or sometimes smoked for Spanish cuisine, but not Italian. However, he had never won a seasoning argument with Maria Amelia, and he wouldn’t now, so he left it be.
“Retired. Yes. My Julia and John, they have retired and are going to travel for a while. They will probably sell the big house unless Russell wants it. They say they will travel until they find where they want to live.”
Angelo couldn’t imagine the Morgans selling the sprawling mansion from which four generations of the family had run a global shipping empire.
“Wait, they fired you?” Angelo felt it bind in his gut. They may have helped raise him, and Russell might be Angelo’s best friend, but they couldn’t fire his mother. She’d been their cook for over thirty years. She’d—
“I quit.”
Angelo dropped back on his stool and did his best not to look shocked.
“You…” He couldn’t even finish the sentence.
“Angelo, sweetheart.” She patted his cheek with almost a slap. “You know like I know, there is the point where three becomes the crowd. They were horrified when I give my notice but they were also relieved. It was perfetto solution. To make up for relief, they give me part of company, enough that I can do what I want for many, many years. I also make good savings.”
Angelo had to look away for a moment and inspect the line. He could see the smooth flow, the pattern of two dozen lunches moving simultaneously through different stages in the kitchen. Manuel had it well under control.
And he could see Julia and John Morgan making sure his mother was taken care of no matter how long she lived. He’d bet they personally drove their cook to the airport for this visit with her son. He brushed at his eyes. They had taken in a single, pregnant Italian country girl with little English, sent her son to college, and treated her like family. He would find some way to repay them. He couldn’t imagine how, but he would. He turned back.
“That’s good, Mama. That’s good.” He took a deep breath to regain his composure. “So, now that you can afford to do anything, what are your plans?”
She merely smiled as they each twirled up a forkful of pasta. He bit down on his, agreeing that perhaps his mother was right about the paprika, the sweet, not the hot. Just enough to accent the Biroldo—
“I’m going to live with you,” her eyes twinkled as she paused. Then her smile turned ever so slightly wicked. “And help you cook in your ristorante.”
Chapter 4
Jo had blown off the rest of the afternoon, what was left of it after a three-hour lunch, and gone to the Eastlake Gym.
When Renée Linden did a full-on opening argument, Jo had found herself at some loss to offer a clean and cogent rebuttal. And she still didn’t know what her plan or intent was, making it all the more confusing. If there were a pending lawsuit on which the Market needed her assistance, why hadn’t she simply laid out the bones of the case. Not that Jo would have time to tackle it, but she’d be glad to give them a little advice and hook them up with someone sharp enough to take down whoever was messing with them.
Jo shoved the pin in ten pounds heavier than normal and began working her triceps on the machine. This wasn’t her normal workout time. She and Cassidy typically came in with the other early corporates. Hard workouts to get fired up for a guilt-free day because your workout was already under your belt. Perrin never joined them. A true night owl, if she ever went to the gym it would be at midnight.
The afternoon crowd was an odd mix. A lot of mothers getting in a quick half-hour while the kid was at ballet or wherever. There were also a fair number of guys who looked bruiser strong. Like construction workers off work at three who hadn’t gotten enough exercise hefting steel girders and giant laminate beams all day.
Jo decided to just keep her head down and do her workout. And hope that she could somehow make sense of what happened at lunch.
“We’re retiring,” Renée had explained over the entremets of strawberry sorbet with a dark chocolate flake. “Nathaniel and I are going cruising for a while, then we thought we’d winter over in New Zealand. This is our home, but we decided it was time to travel for some reason other than business.”
Renée Linden retiring. That would send shockwaves rippling through the Seattle social firmament. Jo still couldn’t make sense of that, even by the time she’d worked through biceps and moved on to abs and obliques.
And Nathaniel Linden leaving Boeing management. He was the President of the custom business-jet division, had practically created it. You want your own personal 737 outfitted for entertaining? He was the man. A six-bedroom 747, with an in-flight movie theater that could seat your family and friends each in their own lounge chair before a ten-foot screen with full-surround sound and a garage in the cargo bay to transport your Maserati? He’d make it happen. It was a small, but exceptionally lucrative division.
That had been enough of a shock for Jo, and she’d wager that neither Pike Place Market nor Boeing were the least bit happy about their pending departures.
Jo counted out ten more reps trying not to think, but that wasn’t helping.
Her litigator instincts would bet safe money there was still more up the woman’s sleeve. She was notorious for never stopping once she’d set her sights on something.
But Jo couldn’t quite identify what she’d been after.
That’s when Jo’s brain had shut down, plain and simple. It was as fatal a mistake in court as it was at a power lunch, but she couldn’t get around it. Researching the woman for a year would not have brought her to that lunch prepared for what was fielded at her with Renée’s pleasant conversation and a one-two punch of kindness and gentility.
Without actually saying it out loud, Renée had made it clear that they didn’t want Jo on the PDA board, which simplified that decision for her. It had been such a relief that she’d ordered the most decadent Soufflé au Grand Marnier she’d ever eaten.
No. The board had its twelve members. But, Renée let slip ever so casually, that she hadn’t yet told the board that she’d be resigning as the Executive Director of the Pike Place Market. Because Jo was the first to know other than her husband, she must keep it to herself until she announced it next week.
Jo let the kick bar for working her quads drop back into position with an ear-ringing clang. Half the people in the weight room turned to see if there’d been an accident. She tried to lift it again so that everything appeared to be normal, but couldn’t gather enough neurons sending the message to her legs to do so.
Renée had simply wanted “to let Jo be the first to know. As a professional courtesy.” Jo had been so dazzled by the lunch and the conversation that she didn’t even see it coming until this moment sitting at the exercise machine, her foot hooked behind a bar that was impossible for her to lift.
Renée wasn’t merely retiring, she had already chosen her replacement. And, without once stating it in as many words, she’d informed Jo that she was Renée’s first and only pick to replace her. She’d simply used the basket and the luncheon to plant the idea in Jo’s mind, and then allowed it to have time to build and age like the Royal Oporto Tawny Port they had with the final cheese and pear course.
Jo blew out a breath as if at the end of a brutal workout and not just her third set of reps. The anointed chosen successor to the great Renée Linden and she’d never seen it coming. Never had a chance to react and refuse or, Jo now identified the heart of Renée’s finesse, say anything she might regret later such as laughing hysterically in the woman’s face. At least not until she’d had time to think about it.
The woman would have made one heck of an attorney and Jo would hate to argue a case against her in court. She wouldn’t stand a chance.
Angelo had tried exhausting himself on the step machine, but though his legs burned, his mind was still churning. He went for the elliptical next and set the program to maximum cardio with heavy resistance. The gym was high above Eastlake Avenue, high enough to look over the buildings across the str
eet and allow its patrons to enjoy views of Lake Union and steep Queen Anne Hill if they tired of the television screens while they worked out. High enough that maybe he could get some perspective on what had just happened to his life.
His mama had come to live with him. That was wonderful. Mostly. He had the room. With the success of the restaurant, he’d moved out of the tiny one bedroom and into a two bedroom with a good kitchen right in the heart of Pioneer Square. He’d thought he’d experiment there, but he never did, he always ended up just going to the restaurant at odd hours to test new dishes there. No matter. He could afford it now.
And the last time he’d had a girl up to his apartment… He looked out the window at Lake Union. A cluster of sailboats were skittering across the surface of the lake that made the north boundary of downtown Seattle. He had to think back a ways to remember. Well, okay, so his mother wouldn’t be cramping his style there either.
But in his kitchen? No one was as good as his mama in the kitchen. It didn’t matter if they actually were, they still weren’t. Paprika in the Biroldo sausage? Sacrilegio! Then he’d tried it after she left to go to the apartment and take a nap after the flight. It was exactly right, blast it. She’d be fussing with each of his dishes until he didn’t recognize them any more. And worse, they’d probably be better.
At least she’d never know what happened last night. Just last night? He cast his eyes skyward in prayer that she’d never hear how he’d had a total meltdown less than twenty-four hours before.
Sweat poured off him as the elliptical sent him on another hill climb.
Of course, he knew why he’d made such a mess. Too bad there wasn’t a thing he could do about it. It was too late. Jo Thompson would take that meal as a personal affront and never speak to him again. He certainly would in her position. He truly hadn’t intended to ruin her date with awful food.
Man, he hated working out in the afternoon. He should be worrying about dinner prep, instead he was worrying about his mama. When he worked out in the mornings after he’d done the shopping for the restaurant and before lunch prep began, he used to run into Cassidy and Jo on occasion. Casual waves, polite greetings. But the heat that had coursed through his body each time he saw Jo had become too uncomfortable and he’d shifted his workouts to between lunch and dinner service.
The Complete Where Dreams Page 33
