"Brigitte, hello." I sit in the seat the hostess pulls out for me, across from Brigitte. "What's the occasion?" I gesture to the empty dining room.
"It's good to indulge occasionally, non? I like the chef here, I like the ambiance, and now, I'll also enjoy the company."
As she's talked a waiter has filled my glass with sparkling wine. Brigitte lifts her glass and I follow.
"La fortune soutir aux audacieux."
"I'll drink to that, I think."
Brigitte laughs. "Fortune smiles upon the audacious."
"Ah . . . I will drink to that." I feign a sip of the wine and then set the glass back on the table. I don't drink, which proves problematic when working for vintners. "Is Gerard joining us?"
"He is. But first, I thought we'd chat privately—one businesswoman to another. I value your thoughts and I'd like to apprise you of a delicate matter. Oui?"
I nod. Schmoozing. That's the occasion. The private dining room, expensive wine, and gourmet lunch. I'm here to be schmoozed. Go for it, lady. While I admire Brigitte, I don't trust her. "Of course. I'm accustomed to delicate matters. I'm happy to offer whatever insights I can."
She assesses me from across the table. I watch her eyes as she takes in what I'm wearing, a designer knit suit and white silk blouse, the diamond studs at my ears, and the understated Cartier watch on my wrist. She's running a tally of some sort in her head, I'd guess. Not financial, but rather, she's sizing me up, wondering if I can be trusted to receive whatever she's going to dole out.
"I have been CEO of Domaine de la Bouvier for more than thirty years. I took over after my husband's death. In that time, I moved the operation of the company from France to the United States, I've purchased land, bored caves, restructured—"
I stifle a yawn. I've done my homework. I know what she's done. As she drones on about her accomplishments, I jump one step ahead of her and try to anticipate where this is headed.
"—and, as you know, our holdings in Eperny and now the Napa Valley are, shall we just say, vast."
I reach for my water glass. "Your accomplishments are admirable." Is she tooting her own horn?
"Yes. The point being, they are my accomplishments."
Ah, now we're getting to it. I nod. "Meaning?"
"Meaning, like the empire you're building, I built this company on my own and I have no intention of turning it over to anyone else. Not anytime soon, anyway." She lifts her wine glass again and tilts it toward me in a mock toast. She takes a sip and sets it back on the table.
I measure my words. "There is no place in business for familial sentimentality." She looks at me and I know I've gained another point.
"My philosophy exactly. However—"
"—Gerard doesn't agree."
She smiles, but there is no warmth in her steel eyes. "No, he doesn't. But I expected you would. Do we have an understanding?"
"We do. I'm also clear on who hired me. I work for you, Mrs. Bouvier."
"Please, it's Brigitte."
This time, I pick up my wine glass and toast her. "To Domaine de la Bouvier, may it continue to prosper under your leadership." I lift the glass to my lips and pretend to take another sip. The smell of the wine makes my stomach roil as pictures of my father flash in my mind. I set the glass back down and reach for the plate of warm rolls. I peel back the white linen napkin covering the bread and offer a roll to Brigitte.
When she shakes her head, I take a roll and reach for the small crock of salted butter. Focused on buttering the roll, I take the moment to let my stomach settle and to process the information she's shared and how it will fit with the recommendations I'm here to make.
"Ah, darling, here you are." I look up and see Brigitte looking beyond me. I turn to see Gerard approaching. I reach for the napkin on my lap, wipe my hands, and then offer my hand to Gerard, who first shakes it, then bends to kiss it."
"You Frenchmen are quite the charmers," I say.
"We try. Good afternoon, Andee, Mother. May I join you?"
"Of course, darling, we've been waiting for you."
I notice him glance at his watch and see a flash of confusion cross his face.
"We were early," I say.
Gerard seats himself and the waiter, right behind him, fills his glass with wine. "One of ours, I assume?"
"Of course, Mr. Bouvier."
Gerard lifts his glass. "To business and the pleasure of lunching with beautiful women."
You've got to be kidding me. I lift my glass, but this time I don't even pretend to sip. Gerard, on the other hand, makes a show of twirling his glass, and sniffing the bouquet of the wine before tasting it. "Perfect." He takes another swallow of the wine before he speaks.
"So Andee, Mother tells me you have some additional recommendations for us. I look forward to hearing them." He takes another drink of his wine before setting the glass back down.
I lean forward and jump in. "With the current economic slump, many of the smaller wineries are struggling, as you know. Now's the time to add to your holdings and further diversify." I reach into my briefcase and pull out a file folder. I open the file and hand both Brigitte and Gerard copies of my recommendations.
"Azul?" Brigitte takes off her glasses and looks at me. "Bill and Jason have never entertained our offers. Do you know something we don't? Are they in trouble?"
"Maybe you haven't made the right offer." She watches me, searching my face for information, but I give nothing away.
Gerard jumps in. "Andee, you're aware of my friendship with Jason, not to mention our family ties. I think I'd know if they were ready to sell."
I shrug. "It's about timing and the right offer."
Brigitte purses her lips. "What do you have in mind?"
"I've worked the figures. Though, as I'm sure you know, it's about more than money. Azul holds deep sentimental value for the family. Keeping the name, the label, would be paramount."
"Of course." Gerard studies me. "That's never been an issue with us."
I reach into the file and hand each of them another packet of papers. The initial suggested proposals for each winery.
They look through the proposals. After a few minutes, Brigitte sets the packet down. "Andee, you realize, of course, that to acquire these companies will spread Domaine de la Bouvier thin. We aren't immune to the downturn in the economy."
My adrenaline surges as I propose my plan. "I realize that. But now, I believe, is the time for Domaine de la Bouvier to go public. Doing so will increase your capital reserves and make the acquisitions possible."
Brigitte leans back in her chair. She wears a smug smile. "I like it. Though there will be added expenses in the process."
I nod. "Of course."
Gerard reaches for his glass and drains it. He turns, pulls the bottle out of the ice bucket, and tops off Brigitte's glass. "Andee?"
"No, thank you. I'm working."
He fills his glass and places the bottle back in the bucket. "Let's put this aside for a moment. There's other business I want to discuss before we launch into these types of decisions. Andee, as you know, I will be taking over Domaine de la Bouvier at some point. It seems we should begin that shift sooner rather than later. Especially if we're considering going public and acquiring additional assets. Before that happens, we need to establish new leadership, alert the press, etc. This type of restructuring would be the natural outflow of new leadership."
I look at Brigitte. Her silence tells me all I need to know. I'm to take the fall here.
"I disagree." I see Gerard's chin lift as he braces for a battle. "Investors want stability. A shift in leadership before going public wouldn't be wise. The strength of Domaine de la Bouvier, beyond its holdings, is that it's a known entity. Both you and Brigitte are known in the community, here and in France. Your roles are es
tablished. Your product has proven itself. And with new leadership comes new possibilities. While a business needs to grow and flex with the times, during an economic crunch, your best bet is to remain steady."
Before Gerard has a chance to respond, Brigitte speaks up. "I'd like a meeting with Bill and Jason. If they're ready to sell, it's time to talk details."
I expect Gerard to interrupt. To reclaim the conversation. Instead, he signals for the waiter. "We're ready for lunch." His tone is tight. He picks up his glass, which the waiter refills, and leans back in his chair. Apparently, he's removed himself from the conversation.
The man is so weak it's disgusting. I turn my attention back to Brigitte. "As I said, timing is important for the Azul deal. I'd advise you to wait to meet. I'll let you know when the time is right."
"You would know, wouldn't you?" Gerard throws back another swallow of wine.
His implication is clear—that I have inside information. I'm walking a fine line here, I know. I feel the rush of potential, the thrill of an impending deal. A substantial deal.
As lunch is served, I breathe in satisfaction. Life continues to unfold just as I've planned.
IT'S ALMOST 10:00 P.M. when I return home from the studio where I prerecorded several segments of my radio program. Wired and restless, I kick off my heels, feed Sam, and then go through the pile of mail Cassidy left on my desk. Included in the pile is the current issue of Urbanity. I take it to the sofa, stretch out, and I thumb through the magazine and read restaurant reviews, and skim articles addressing the arts, city issues, and a feature on the ecosystem of Golden Gate Park. Whatever. Nothing holds my attention for long, until I come to the Buzz page where five columns list five reviews each written by an individual reviewer: film, book, blog, album, and exhibit. The critiques are short enough to hold my meandering mind captive for the fifteen seconds it takes to scan each one.
The film is foreign—no thanks, I don't do subtitles.
The book, a memoir on ADHD, doesn't interest me, though, tonight, maybe I should consider reading it.
The exhibit is pretty mainstream for Urbanity—The Van Gogh, Gaugin, Cezanne and Beyond exhibit at the DeYoung. Been there, done that.
The album is retro '70s psychedelic folk. Really?
I land on the blog review.
"Illuminate me!" is the cry of this blogger. On a spiritual journey to enlightenment, the city is a-Buzz wondering which local is penning, or keying rather, the anonymous blog www.iluminar.me. Known only as [email protected], the author chronicles her life of privilege—the angst (give us a break), the abuse (really? Do tell), and the spiritual (ho-hum). Here's what we know: She's infected (AIDS?), she's desperate (poor baby), and she's gearing up, we're guessing, for a revolt (yee-haw!). If you can get past the "christianese," this is a blog to watch. Join in the citywide fun and guess the blogger's identity. Will she reveal herself? Go to www.urbanitysf.com/blogger for contest details.
"I hope she has advertisers, cause this chick's blog is going to get some hits this week. Way to make your blog pay off, babe, whoever you are." I look again at the URL and go sit at my desk and key in the address. The blog header is a picture of the Golden Gate Bridge shrouded in fog, and below the picture is the title: Iluminar.
Spanish for illuminate.
The blog is nondescript otherwise. I scroll down. No advertisers. The reviewer referenced her life of privilege—maybe this blogger thinks she doesn't need the money? Stupid. What a waste. No links. No bio. Nothing. Just entry after entry and icons linking to her social networking pages, which I check. They're also set up under the pseudonym. I check the comments on a few entries. Yep, she has followers. Lot's of them, it looks like. The comments read like an ongoing conversation with [email protected] responding to and reengaging her readers.
"This thing is a moneymaker and she's clueless."
Sam hisses in response.
I hit the archives, find her first entry, and begin reading. The entries are journal-like. Raw. Vulnerable. And yeah, they sort of read like a soap opera. But she writes well. Maybe it's her vulnerability, so rare in this city, that draws the reader in.
Draws me in.
I read several more entries. "Christianese? Geez, no kidding." I expect to see judgment in her responses to those who challenge her beliefs, but there is none. She doesn't touch on any of the issues either—she's not using the blog as a platform for the usual fundamentalist stuff. Nor is she defensive about what she believes. Her responses to readers' questions and challenges are straightforward, compassionate even.
"She's hitting a nerve. A felt need of some sort." I think about the blog I write and the many followers who comment and submit questions. In this economy, the advice I offer fills a need. But, I don't receive as many comments as this chick. And why, excuse me, is Urbanity featuring her when they could feature a blog like mine? After all, I'm one of their own now. "C'mon, people. Give your own writers a leg up."
I close the window and type in the address for Urbanity and find the contest information mentioned in the review. For the best guess, they're giving away an all-expenses paid weekend at Auberge du Soliel in Rutherford with spa credits, a bottle of wine, and dinner for two at the resort's famed restaurant. There's $1,000 additional cash prize if the blogger comes forward if she is identified.
I shake my head. "That's a chunk of change you're offering. Ridiculous."
I stare at the screen and think again of the entries I've just read. I can't stand it that, whoever this woman is, she's letting a prime financial opportunity slip through her fingers. So what if she's rich? I don't care if she's Oprah rich, J. K. Rowling rich, or the Queen of flippin' England rich. Why let an opportunity to make money pass you by? Especially one this easy. Urbanity's set her up. Why miss the opportunity?
I mouse over the history tag and click back to the blog site. I leave a comment for [email protected]:
Let me illuminate you. You're missing a nice financial opportunity with your blog. E-mail me for details at [email protected].
My e-mail address—my name—speaks for itself. I'm known for my financial advice. I'm not scamming her. Though I'd love to be the one to out her. I'm not, as a contributor to Urbanity, eligible for the contest, but why not see if I can lure her anyway? "We love a good game of cat and mouse, don't we, Sam?" I turn in my chair and see Sam, curled up in his bed on my office floor, snoring. "Such disdain, Sam."
I close the window on the blog, then get up from my desk, stretch my arms wide, twist my torso, and then bend and reach for my toes. I stand straight again and wander back to the living room. Rain pelts the windows and the lights below are streaked across the cityscape. I listen to the sound of the rain hitting the windows and then reach for the remote on the coffee table and close the blinds against the annoyance.
"Enough of this. Time to get back to work, Andee." I go to the kitchen, take a small black ceramic cup from one of the glass-front cabinets, and fill it with fresh espresso from the built-in espresso maker above the granite countertop. I take it black and fully caffeinated, even at this hour of the night. I head back to the office, turn the flat screen to the usual: CNN. The voice of the anchor drones, but it is better than silence.
I need to make up for the time I lost this afternoon and evening.
I sit back at my computer and open the file containing my work in progress. I read through the draft of the chapter I finished earlier today. It's good. The language is fresh. The advice, stellar, of course. I open my outline file and read my notes for the next chapter, but I find my mind wandering back to the blog entries I read. Who cares. Let it go, Andee. Focus.
I read through my notes again and type and delete at least three beginning sentences of my next chapter. Frustrated, I rewrite the first sentence for a fourth time. It will have to do for now. I pound out a few paragraphs, but all the while the blog plays on my
mind. I save my document and return to the blog. I need to put it to rest—to figure out what's bugging me.
I reread the first entries. Then I skip to the most recent entry—one I haven't read yet. It isn't so much the words she writes, but the conviction with which she writes them. Have I ever felt that sort of conviction about anything? I smile. Yes, money! But as I try to laugh it off, a gnawing emptiness nags.
"She's just a Jesus freak, Andee." I close the blog, get up, and walk back to the kitchen, where I dump the now-cold espresso down the drain of the sink. I refill the cup with fresh espresso and drink it as I walk back to my desk. Gnawing emptiness? Get over it. I look around my office and out to the living area. I have everything I've ever dreamt of and more.
I sit back at my desk and determine to put all thoughts of blogs and emptiness, good grief, aside. Instead, I'll do what I do best.
Work.
His light pursues you, slowly unfolding more and more as you walk more deeply into it.
JEANNE GUYON
CHAPTER NINE
Jenna
I DECIDE TO walk the blocks home after my meeting with Matthew. The sun is shining against an azure sky, and the walk will give me time to think through the feelings unearthed during my conversation with Matthew. And time to process what I've put off thinking about: my appointment yesterday with Dr. Kim.
His words come back to me. "There are still signs of infection." He glanced at my chart and then looked back at me. "We need to administer another round of intravenous antibiotics—just as we did in the hospital after the last surgery. Only this time we'll arrange for a home health-care provider to insert a port as soon as possible. We'll hit the infection hard. Once the infection clears, we'll look ahead to reconstruction. Understood?"
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