by J. J. Bella
“Ah, there you are,” said Mr. Gerrard, his doughy, soft body appearing even less attractive next to his guest’s. “Peter, this is Molly Brimley, my part-time babysitter.”
“Hi, Molly, the part-time babysitter,” said Peter, his gaze connecting with Molly’s, who felt as though she might melt like butter under his eyes.
“Hi…” said Molly, her words trailing off, her mouth staying slack.
A moment passed.
“Uh, Molly, let me get you a beer,” said Mr. Gerrard, pulling open the fridge and removing one of the craft beers he was drinking. “Peter and I are just going over some business strategy.”
“Oh, ‘strategy’ is what you’re calling this?” said Peter with a laugh, taking a sip of his beer.
Clint let out a quick bark of a laugh as he ran his hand over his thin, brown hair.
“Oh, go to hell,” he said with a smile, plopping the beer in front of an open seat at the pristine, white kitchen island, presumably suggesting that Molly have a seat there.
Molly pulled the chair out in front of the beer and took a seat. She sipped the beer, the harsh, hoppy taste filling her mouth as her eyes stayed fixed on Peter.
“So, we throw some money at this home-sharing app, what’re you thinking, fifty mil?” said Peter. “Then what, hope that it works out for the best?”
“No,” said Clint. “We watch as we make more money. Where Airbnb fails, this app will fill in the gaps.”
Peter appeared to think it over, but his furrowed brow suggested that he remained unconvinced.
“And the name of this thing, what is it, Sleep Train?”
“Sleep Station,” corrected Clint.
“It’s a bad name.”
“It’s not a bad name, and even if-“
Molly found herself staring at Peter one again, watching as his serious, handsome face would break out into a wide, attractive smile, his teeth as bright and beaming as the sun setting over the Pacific.
She seemed to always find herself witness to these Silicon Valley conversations about apps, startups, pivots, all sorts of subjects that she barely understood, the massive sums of money that always came up the only part of the conversations that she could even somewhat follow. But they always managed to make her feel insignificant.
“OK, enough of this,” said Peter, swiping his hands as though the topic were something in front of him that he were brushing away. “Molly, right? Tell me about yourself.”
Molly felt her face turn red, both Peter and Clint’s eyes on her.
“Uhm, oh, me?” she said, accidentally tapping her beer against the counter of the kitchen island, the glass sending out a shrill ping. “I’m from Salt Lake.”
“Hmm,” said Peter, appearing to think over the tiny scrap of information that she’d just offered. “Beautiful city; I took Winnie there skiing a few years back.”
Molly’s heart sank upon hearing the name of a woman that was likely his girlfriend (though not his wife, as Molly noted right away that his ring finger was bare). She knew that she didn’t have a chance with a man like this, but hearing that he was taken was just another kick from reality.
“There’s a lot more to Molly than that,” said Clint, tossing his empty beer in the recycling and fetching another. “She’s a damn interior design whiz kid.”
Peter’s thick, dark eyebrows raised.
“Oh, really?”
“I mean, kind of,” said Molly. “I don’t really have much experience.”
Molly wasn’t sure why the lie slipped out of her mouth. During her time at Salt Lake U, she worked on redesigning the entire technology department as part of her senior thesis. The school ended up using so many of her ideas that they put her name down as one of the designers, instead of just an assistant. But she always had a hard time selling herself, and she was realizing that this was likely one of the reasons she had such a hard time finding a job.
“Don’t be modest,” said Clint, taking a sip of his beer. “When I found out that Molly had a degree in interior design, I had her take a look at the playroom for the boys -you know, the one on the third floor- and she came up with some killer ideas. I’m still not sure I want to go through the pain in the ass that redoing that room would be, but if I do I’m definitely gonna use some of her suggestions.”
Molly felt her face turn an even deeper shade of red.
“Interesting,” said Peter, holding his beer in front of him as he thought over what Clint had just told him.
Then Clint’s face lit up, as though remembering something he had forgotten.
“Oh yeah! Your money!” he said, fishing in his back pocket for his wallet. “Here…”
He handed her a trio of neat, hundred-dollar bills.
“Two for the rate, and a little extra for the short notice.”
Molly had to stop herself from looking wide-eyed at the bills.
“Thank you, Mr. Gerrard,” she said, slipping the bills into her pocket.
“No, thank you,” he said.
“She does good work?” asked Peter, pointing to Molly with the hand that held the bottle of beer.
“Great work- killer,” said Clint. “I have a regular girl that called in sick today, so Molly’s not my usual, but if Consuela ever had to go back to, ah, wherever she’s from, you bet your ass I’d be bringing on this one full-time.”
“Thanks again, Mr. Gerrard,” said Molly, feeling overwhelmed by the compliments and the attention.
Peter finished his beer with a quick sip.
“Alright, I gotta get going,” he said, setting his beer on the counter. “Molly, you drive here?”
“No, I take the Muni,” she said, referring to the city’s public transportation system.
“Then let me give you a ride,” said Peter.
“Oh, no, it’s no problem; I’m just over in Castro.”
“I insist,” he said. “I’m heading in that direction.”
“In that case, sure; as long as it’s no problem.”
“Not even a little bit,” he said.
“Have a good night,” said Clint, shaking Molly’s hand. “And thanks again. I’ll call you if I need you anytime soon.”
“Shall we?” asked Peter.
“Sure,” said Molly, following him out of the kitchen and through the front doors of the Gerrard home.
Chapter Three
“Just right down this way,” said Peter, leading Molly along the path that led to the small side street that ran along the large lot of Clint’s massive house.
“Right here,” said Peter as they approached a sleek, jet-black Porsche convertible.
Molly didn’t know that much about cars, but she could tell this car was expensive; it looked fresh off of the lot.
“Nice car,” she said, looking the car over with an impressed glance.
“Thanks; just bought it,” he said, pressing the fob and unlocking the doors.
But before Molly could open the passenger door, Peter beat her to it, opening the door and letting her slide in.
“Thanks,” she said, bringing her slim, pale legs into the car once she took a seat.
“Of course,” said Peter before shutting the door.
Molly had a moment to admire the luxurious interior of the Porsche before Peter entered. It was easily one of the nicest cars that she’d ever sat in, and undoubtedly a much nicer way to get around the city than a bus.
After a moment, Peter entered.
“Listen,” he said, using the fob to turn on the engine, the futuristic display of the car lighting. “I’m happy to give you a ride home, but I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind discussing a possible job.”
“A job?” asked Molly.
“Yes. But we don’t have to talk it over in the car. There’s actually a great little Italian place in the Castro if you want to grab a bite to eat.”
“Oh, no,” said Molly. “You don’t have to go to all that trouble.”
“Not a trouble at all,” said Peter. “Think of it as a business
dinner.”
Molly smiled at this; before her move, she imagined all of the meals she’d share with clients, having lunches and dinners at the trendiest restaurants in the city while they went over her designs for their homes.
And on top of everything, it’s not as though she had an active social life in the city; other than the occasional drink with Claude, her social calendar was depressingly open.
“Yeah, sure. That sounds nice,” said Molly, already warming up to the idea.
“Great,” said Peter, pulling the car out of its parking space.
Molly relaxed in her seat as Peter drove through the wide road of Russian Hill, the massive homes of the wealthy who lived in the district both imposing and impressive. Off to the west, the sun was sinking further down, now almost touching the ocean, the sky a brilliant swirl of lavender and orange above it, the stars twinkling in the sky above.
“Nice little payday from the babysitting,” Peter said, his eyes on the road.
“Yeah,” said Molly, thinking about the money in her pocket. “Too bad in San Francisco that means about a tenth of your rent.”
Molly realized immediately that this made her sound ungrateful, but before she could amend her words, Peter let out a quick laugh.
“No kidding,” he said looking at the wealth and opulence that surrounded them. “Can you believe that only a couple of decades ago a working-class family could live in this neighborhood? Now it’s just tech whizzes and kids out of Berkeley who hit the app lottery.”
Molly nodded in agreement, painfully aware of the cost of living in the city.
“Ah, here we are,” said Peter.
Molly looked around, surprised to see that they were already in her neighborhood, realizing that getting around is a lot easier when you have a car.
“Bella Via,” said Peter, parked in front of what appeared to Molly to be a non-descript building; it was actually a place that she had passed many times before, but never thought to check out. “Best Italian in the city, if you ask me.”
He killed the engine and got out, opening the door to Molly’s side a few moments later. She stepped out into the cool night air, the summer so far having been a little less mild than she was anticipating. As such, her legs were chilly beneath the small, black shorts she was wearing.
Peter took the gold, polished handle to the front door and pulled it open, revealing a classy Italian restaurant that was bustling with activity, and with an interior décor that almost caused Molly’s jaw to drop.
The walls were of exposed brick, beautifully restored. The ceilings were ribbed with dark, rich wood, and ornate columns were installed here and there. The lighting was dim and moody, illuminating the dining room floor in a warm, intimate glow.
But as Molly entered and looked upon the well-dressed, obviously wealthy patrons, she began to feel criminally underdressed.
“Mr. Randall,” said a gorgeous young woman in a skin-tight, black cocktail dress, with olive skin and curly black hair, who stood at the hostess stand. “Great to see you again.”
“Thanks, Gia,” he said. “The usual table, please.”
“Of course,” she said with a smile that struck Molly as at once professional and flirtatious. She found herself wondering just how much female attention a gorgeous, wealthy man like Peter received on a daily basis. “Right this way.”
She turned, and Molly caught her giving a sly look to Peter over her shoulder as she led the pair to their table. Molly put these thoughts out of her head as she looked over the interior décor of the restaurant. She placed the style as Tuscan, and it was a true treat for a woman with interests such as hers.
Gia led the pair to a small table topped with a lit candle and a bone-white tablecloth.
“Enjoy,” she said, flashing one last look at Peter before turning her backside to them and walking away with a sultry stroll.
“This place is amazing,” said Molly, still drinking in the décor. “The design is just...fantastic.”
“Yeah?” said Peter. “A good friend of mine actually designed this place. I’ll let him know he has a fan.”
Molly’s heart skipped a beat at the idea of being paid to design a restaurant in the city.
“And that’s quite a tasteful eye you have,” said Peter, getting settled. “The attention of most women I bring here go right to the wine list.”
“I actually got to study Italian design at school,” said Molly, her voice bright with enthusiasm. “I’ve always dreamed of being able to go to Tuscany and see the homes for myself.”
“I’ve never been, myself,” said Peter. “I’m sure they’re wonderful.”
Just at that moment, a waiter clad all in black arrived at the table.
“Good evening, Mr. Randall,” said the young man. “The usual antipasto to start?”
“That would be wonderful,” said Peter. “And…”
He looked over the wine list.
“A bottle of the Ornellaia, as well, please.”
The young man’s eyebrows raised.
“Of course, sir,” he said, before stepping away.
But alone once again, Molly began to feel uncomfortable in what she was wearing, her hands on her bare legs, as though she could cover them up with her palms.
“I have to be honest- I feel really underdressed right now,” she said, looking around once more at the stylish elite around her.
“Don’t worry about it,” said Peter, his eyes not leaving Molly’s. “These nouveau-riche love to dress up for every damn thing. I’ve been coming here for years; you could wear a crop-top and pajama bottoms and it’d be fine.”
“Oh, OK,” said Molly, Peter’s confidence making her feel a bit better.
“Besides, a girl like you can wear whatever she wants and get away with it.”
Molly felt her face go red once again; she wasn’t prepared for a compliment like that. But before she could react, Peter spoke once again.
“So,” said Peter, turning his gaze back to Molly. “Salt Lake City, right?”
“Yeah,” said Molly. “Born and raised.”
“What do your parents do?”
“Um, my dad owns a sporting goods store, and my mom’s a stay-at-home type.”
“Nice,” said Peter.
Just then, the waiter returned with a dark red bottle of wine with a simple, tasteful label of a hand-drawn Italian villa. Wordlessly, he opened the bottle, presented the cork for Peter to sniff, and poured him a small taste, which Peter sampled and determined to be to his satisfaction.
“What brought you to the city?” he asked as the waiter poured Molly and him a glass before stepping away once more.
“Opportunity, I guess,” said Molly. “And it’s a beautiful city; I always imagined living here, ever since I was little. All of my friends that I graduated with that didn’t stay in Salt Lake moved to New York or L.A., but something about San Francisco just called out to me, as stupid as that sounds.”
“Not stupid at all,” said Peter. “The city has that effect on people.”
“And how did you end up here?” asked Molly, feeling confident enough to turn the questioning table.
“Not much of a story; just ended up here for work.”
The waiter returned, clearing away a small space in the middle of the table in which he set a plate of delicious-looking antipasto. He then placed two small, flawless white plates on the table before stepping away.
“And speaking of work,” said Peter, taking a black olive from the plate. “Let’s talk about that job.”
Chapter Four
“Now, before I tell you about it,” said Peter, leaning back in his chair and crossing his legs. “Just keep in mind that I’m well-aware that it’s a very…unusual offer, and that I would completely understand if it isn’t something you’re comfortable with.”
Molly’s curiosity was going into overdrive; she couldn’t imagine what sort of job he was going to offer her. But before Peter could continue, the waiter returned.
“A
re we ready to order?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Peter. “Two house specials.”
The waiter nodded, pleased.
“Very good.”
And off he went again.
Molly took a sip of her wine, letting the rich, delicious drink wash over her palate, the subtle flavors of cocoa and blackberry dancing on her taste buds, giving way to a tart, apple finish. The wine more amazing than she was anticipating, she took another sip.
“Good?” he asked.
“It’s incredible,” said Molly, enjoying her taste of the life of the wealthy.
“It’s one of my favorites. Anyway, the job.”
He looked away for a moment, as if trying to figure out just the right words to explain things.
“I’m in tech, in case my conversation with Carson didn’t tip you off to that. But I’m not on the development side of things.”
“Oh,” Molly, deciding to show off a little of her Silicon Valley knowledge. “You’re a VC?”
“Not quite that either, but good guess. My job is to scout for small-scale apps that lack the funding for large-scale development. I search through apps and software out there, find out which ones represent the most potential, and bring them to the attention of VCs. If I successfully pitch, then the devs get their funding, the VCs get their profit, and I get a finder’s fee.”
“So,” said Molly, taking a piece of prosciutto and rolling it around a square of hard, white cheese. “You’re…like a talent scout?”
