Market Street (8 page)

“I’m having dinner with my mother at Boulevard tonight,” she said, filling a jug with cream.

“It’s going to pour.” Aidan looked out the window. He wore a ribbed sweater, thick cords, and his black leather jacket. His hair was damp from an early morning workout, and he had a shaving nick on his chin.

“I’ll be careful. I might be a bit late.” Cassie stirred cream into her coffee.

Aidan scraped the last bite of his egg, grabbed a stack of papers, and kissed the top of her head. “I’m knee-deep in research at the library. I’ll meet you in bed.”

*   *   *

Cassie stood
in front of her closet, wondering what to wear. She debated between a Burberry dress bought years ago for Fenton’s Christmas party, and a brown turtleneck and mid-length skirt. She thought the Burberry was dated; her mother could discern its vintage in a minute. She pulled the turtleneck over her head and brushed her hair so it fell in thick waves to her shoulders.

Cassie looked at the Fenton’s box on her dressing table. She opened the box and put the pendant against her throat, turning in front of the mirror. She placed the pendant back in the box, and chose a Tiffany heart necklace. She rubbed on some lip gloss and walked downstairs.

Cassie arrived at the restaurant late. The Bay Bridge traffic moved like a snail and parking near Boulevard was impossible. She finally gave up and handed her keys to the valet. She saw her mother through the window, dressed in all white like a snow queen. Diana wore a cashmere cardigan over a quilted skirt and white boots with steel tips. A silk scarf was knotted around her neck, and she tapped her cigarette holder against the bar.

Diana waved at Cassie. “There you are, darling, we were beginning to worry.” Cassie handed her London Fog to the maître d’ and straightened her skirt. The man standing opposite her mother was about thirty-five, with wavy brown hair and green eyes. He wore a blue button-down shirt, pleated slacks, and a wool blazer. He shook Cassie’s hand and made room for her at the bar.

“This is James Parrish. He’s been filling me in on his preliminary work on the food emporium.” Diana beamed.

“Your mother tells me you’re involved with Alice Waters’s projects. She’s one of my gurus.” James smiled. He had a smattering of freckles on his cheeks and a dimple on his chin. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and shifted from foot to foot.

“Let’s get our table.” Diana swooped up her martini glass. “I can’t hear a thing over this din, and I don’t want to miss a word.”

They sat at a window booth and Cassie sipped white wine. The gold-trimmed menu written in spidery cursive was intimidating.

“The lamb comes in a reduction sauce. And the clay pots of whipped potatoes and garlic butter are one-of-a-kind.” James leaned across the table and pointed to Cassie’s menu.

“How do you know their menu so well?” Cassie asked.

“San Francisco is an amazing town for a foodie. I could eat out every night: Bix, The Waterfront, One Market. People here are passionate about dining. That’s why I think the food emporium will be a success.” James leaned back against the booth.

“You have to hear James’s ideas for the design. Did you know he works for the top interior design firm in Chicago?” Diana ran her fingers down the menu, stopping on poached salmon with cut green beans.

“My mother grew up in San Francisco, so I’ve always had a soft spot for the city. She used to sing Tony Bennett songs while she cooked dinner.” James broke a breadstick in half and dipped it in olive oil.

“We’re very lucky to steal James away from Chicago for a few months.” Diana stirred her drink with her olive.

James blushed and Cassie frowned and shook her head. “Mother, I’m not sure I can commit to running the venture full-time.”

Diana stopped stirring and stabbed the olive with a toothpick.

“Cassie, you have to! James’s designs are in
Gourmet Magazine, Architectural Digest, Restaurant Monthly
. Every page shouts boy genius! He’s going to rocket Fenton’s into the twenty-first century.”

“Mother, you’re talking about James as if he’s not here.” Cassie kept her eyes on her wineglass.

“Cassie is married to an ethics professor,” Diana said dryly. “He doesn’t believe in commerce and he doesn’t like Cassie to leave the house. He wants her waiting at home with a casserole on the stove and slippers by the fireplace.”

“I’m right here, Mother,” Cassie said. She was beginning to regret that she came. It was raining even harder outside; the wind blew umbrellas into the street. She wished she were lying in bed with Aidan, gray down comforter pulled up to her chin.

Diana finished her martini and signaled the waiter for another. “James, show Cassie your sketches.”

James moved aside the bread plates and put four storyboards on the table. They were more detailed versions of his earlier sketches: shoppers carrying red Fenton’s bags of fruits and vegetables, glossy red stools at small round tables, crystal vases holding long red roses.

“Red will be the predominant color: red ceramic bowls of cherries, plums, apples. Giant sketches of tomatoes and red peppers in red lacquer frames. The floors are quite beautiful, they just need a bit of polish, and the ceiling is the perfect height for hanging pots and pans.” James talked with his hands, making sweeping gestures over the artwork.

“Brilliant.” Diana sipped her second martini. “Neiman’s will be green with envy, Gump’s will be furious they didn’t think of it first. We’ll be the talk of San Francisco.”

“It’s beautiful.” Cassie nodded.

James sat back against the booth and smiled like a schoolboy. “I’m glad you like it,” he said to Cassie.

*   *   *

The lamb
arrived on a white porcelain plate. Each slice melted in Cassie’s mouth. Scooping the potatoes from the earthen pot and eating them with a forkful of lamb, Cassie felt two steps closer to heaven.

Her mother switched from martinis to a Chateau St. Jean Pinot Noir and regaled James with a history of Fenton’s.

“My father was stationed in Italy during World War II and fell in love with fashion. No one cut a dress, made a shoe, created a bag like an Italian. After the war, he convinced his father to loan him money to open a department store on Union Square.” Diana sniffed the rim of her wineglass.

“Fenton’s was an immediate success. Women were tired of wartime fashion: drab dresses designed to wear in a factory, coats made to keep warm without an ounce of sex appeal. My father filled the racks with ball gowns, silk scarves, and stiletto heels. I went to work with him every Saturday since I was five years old. He let me use the cash register and ring up the customers.” Diana paused and ate a bite of salmon.

“I married Gray, Cassie’s father, and the three of us ran the store together. Then my father died of cancer and it was just Gray and I. One afternoon Gray dropped dead on the squash court. That’s when I started bringing Cassie to work. I wanted her to feel the pulse of Fenton’s, because one day the store would be hers.” Diana put down her fork and looked at Cassie.

“I don’t have your eye for fashion,” Cassie mumbled.

“Maybe not, but you have an innate love of fruits and vegetables.” Diana drank her wine. “Cassie was born with a gardening shovel in her hand.”

“My mother said her earliest memory is of shopping at Fenton’s at Christmas,” James interjected. “She was sure Santa Claus and the elves lived on the top floor because the merchandise was stunning.”

“We’re fortunate to have instilled that kind of loyalty,” Diana replied thoughtfully. “The food emporium will win over a new generation. Food is the new fashion.”

Cassie ate the last slice of lamb. She put her napkin on her plate and glanced at James’s storyboards leaning against the table.

“Wouldn’t it be cool to showcase a local grower each week? I know a Japanese family in Stockton with an asparagus farm. They deliver asparagus to the Berkeley Co-op in bundles tied with bamboo,” Cassie said quickly.

“And we could package samples in red boxes. Not the kind of boxes that get soggy and fall apart the minute you put them in your bag, but more like Tupperware containers made especially for Fenton’s.” Cassie stopped to catch her breath.

“I think those are brilliant ideas.” Diana smiled at Cassie. “Let’s order dessert.”

James suggested the poached pear in apricot brandy liquor. He placed his storyboards on the table and they pored over them again: adding a bench where customers could rest, putting in a circular display in the center of the floor. Cassie felt her cheeks flush from the warm pear, the brandy, the excitement of seeing the emporium come to life. When she looked outside and saw taxis honking, she realized she had forgotten it was raining.

“I should go. It’s going to take hours to get home.” Cassie pushed her plate away.

“James, these sketches are perfect. You can start ordering materials.” Diana took her gold American Express card from her wallet.

“Mother, I need to talk to Aidan,” Cassie interrupted.

“Darling, this is going to be brilliant. And you’re a natural. At one dinner you thought of half a dozen things that will thrill customers.”

“Your mother is right.” James nodded. “Your ideas are inspiring.”

Cassie blushed. “Aidan is writing a really important paper, and he needs my support. Isabel is going to stay with us for a month this summer.”

“James”—Diana tapped her American Express card on the table—“tell Cassie about the food hall at Harrods.”

“The architecture is Beaux Arts style, all gold finishes and intricate ironwork. The floors are black-and-white marble, and the most amazing chandeliers hang from the ceiling. The cheese hall has more than three hundred varieties of cheese, and the meat hall serves wild boar and Cornish hens. The candy hall is like Christmas every day with giant jars of jelly beans, caramels, lollipops, and candy canes.” James’s green eyes sparkled.

“Cassie.” Diana handed the waiter her American Express card.

Cassie looked from her mother to James to the storyboards on the table. “I’ll talk to Aidan.” She stood up and asked the maître d’ for her coat.

*   *   *

Driving across
the bridge in the rain, Cassie listened to the wipers cutting across the windshield. Her head swam with images of Harrods: rows of jams and jellies, shelves of spices. She pictured James’s sketches of glass cases full of truffles and fridges stuffed with cheese.

When she pulled into the driveway the house was dark. Aidan’s car was in the garage; the front seat was littered with textbooks, a laptop, and empty coffee cups. Cassie smiled. She’d clear it out for him as a surprise. She’d cook his favorite breakfast: whole-wheat pancakes with fresh orange juice. She’d pack lunch so he didn’t have to stand in line at the campus food court. She crept into the house, hung her London Fog in the closet, and climbed upstairs.

Aidan slept on his stomach, his arms splayed across the bed like a swimmer doing the butterfly. Cassie undressed and climbed in beside him. She draped his arm over her chest, hoping he’d wake so she could tell him about the sculpted mermaids in the Harrods fish hall, about her idea for red Fenton’s airtight containers. He snored softly, his foot twitched, but he didn’t stir. Cassie closed her eyes and pulled the down comforter up to her chin.

5.

Alexis called
the next morning. “How was dinner at Boulevard?”

Cassie stood by the kitchen window, watching her garden become a river of mud. Aidan had left for an early meeting, grabbing a pancake and the turkey sandwich she packed in Maria’s lunch box.

“Rack of lamb, potatoes, and poached pears for dessert.” Cassie sipped the remains of Aidan’s coffee.

“I wasn’t talking about the food. Give me the dish, did your mother turn it on thick?”

Cassie laughed. “You know her too well. Very thick, and James showed me his designs.”

“And?” Cassie pictured Alexis perched on the ostrich-skin stool in her chrome kitchen, sipping a cup of chai tea.

“They were fantastic”—Cassie breathed—“and he described the Harrods food hall. It sounds amazing, Alexis, like a fairy-tale castle filled with food.”

“Are you going to do it?”

“I don’t know.” Cassie sighed. “I need to talk to Aidan.”

“You should, I spent all day in Fenton’s yesterday. I am in love with the new Ella Moss sweaters, and your mother stocks the most fabulous Prada flats. I bought three pairs: orange, cream, and black,” Alexis replied.

“I’ll tell her, she’ll be pleased.” Cassie put the coffee cup in the sink.

“Today I’m doing Neiman’s. It’s raining too hard to do anything but shop. I figured I’d spend one hour per floor. With an hour lunch break, that’s an eight-hour workday,” Alexis said.

“Sounds like a hard job.” Cassie laughed.

“Was he cute?” Alexis changed the subject.

“Was who cute?” Cassie put away berries, syrup, and whipped cream.

“The architect. I told you I want the dish.”

“He looked like Clark Kent.” Cassie put the orange juice in the fridge.

“Oooh, I love the nerdy, bookish type. Does he wear those round, rimless glasses?”

“I can’t remember. Shouldn’t you be focusing on Carter and your couples yoga classes?” Cassie sat at the kitchen table. The rain was falling sideways against the glass. The flowers in the window box were plastered against the soil.

“Carter is in Luxembourg, researching a new telecommunications company.” Alexis sighed. “Tonight we’re going to try Skype sex. I bought a black lace teddy.”

“I don’t need the visual.” Cassie grimaced.

“Come with me to Neiman’s today, you can’t play in the garden in the rain.”

“I’m going to make pizza for Aidan,” Cassie said, suddenly deciding she’d go to the co-op and buy fresh ingredients for mozzarella pizza.

“Do the food emporium, Cassie. Your talents are wasted on Aidan.”

“You sound like my mother.” Cassie grabbed a pen and scribbled down a shopping list.

*   *   *

Cassie folded
her raincoat over the shopping cart and consulted her list. Heirloom tomatoes, round and firm and just a little bit sweet, were the key to delicious pizza. She put oregano and fresh basil in the cart, and added anchovies and a ball of mozzarella cheese.