Ellen Crosby - The Sauvignon Secret

Quinn set his coffee mug on the table. “There might be a way to find out what you want to know about Fargo without talking to him.”

“Sure. Ask Brooke Hennessey. She bought the place from him,” I said. “Though if I make her nervous once she realizes why I want to know, she might decide not to let me take a look around.”

“I wasn’t thinking of Brooke.”

I waited, but he didn’t elaborate. Finally I said, “Quinn?”

He worried his lower lip and stared out the window. “I know someone who would know anything that’s out there about this Fargo guy. Good, bad, indifferent. Especially the bad stuff.”

I wondered if whoever this was belonged to the old history Quinn never wanted to talk about.

“This guy sounds scarier than tracking down Fargo.” I tried to make a joke. “Care to tell me who it is?”

“I need to make a call first,” he said. “And if he’s okay with it, I’ll take you for a drive tomorrow. Show you more sights.”

“Okay.” He was talking in a deadpan voice that unsettled me. “Sure. But do you mind telling me what this is all about? I feel like I’m a couple of chapters behind, all of a sudden.”

He lifted his head, a rueful expression in his eyes. “I should have guessed you’d be the one to make me face all my old ghosts, Lucie. Asking me to see Brooke again after all these years … that was such a kick in the teeth when you said her name the other day on the phone.”

What was he talking about? “All what old ghosts? Who are we going to see tomorrow?”

He drummed his fingers on the edge of the table and resumed staring outside. When he spoke, I had to lean close to catch what he said.

“Allen Cantor.”

The winemaker who had destroyed Brooke’s father’s business and brought Quinn down with him.

“I thought he was in jail,” I said.

He worked the muscle in his jaw that always meant he was upset.

“He was.” His voice was grim. “He got out.”

By the time we left Scoma’s, the lunchtime crowd had thinned to a few remaining tables of diners, mostly couples lingering over coffee as we had done. It looked like the staff was beginning to set up for dinner.

Outside on the pier, the breeze had picked up and the sun had sunk lower in the sky. The light held an end-of-day tinge and our shadows were long and soft.

“What time is it?” I asked.

Quinn glanced at his watch. “Going on quarter to five.”

“I should get back to the hotel, to Pépé.”

“My car’s in the lot down the road,” he said. “I could drive you. Or you could catch the five o’clock ferry, if you want. It’d probably be faster, with all the weekend traffic heading into San Francisco.”

“I wouldn’t mind taking the ferry,” I said. “Save you a trip into town through traffic, and then driving back here again.”

“Yeah, you’ll enjoy that, especially at this hour. There’s some fog, but you might get a view of the Golden Gate again.”

“Then that settles it,” I said. “Walk me to the pier?”

“Sure.”

He took my hand and we threaded our way single-file through the slow-moving crowds that clogged the sidewalk and lingered in front of the art galleries and pretty shops that lined Bridgeway. When we got to the ferry landing, Quinn handed me a ticket.

“I bought two round-trip tickets this morning. Kind of figured you’d want to take the boat back to San Francisco.”

My mouth dropped open. “How’d you know … you had this all planned out, didn’t you?”

“Who, me?” He leaned over and kissed my cheek. “You don’t want to miss your boat. It’s leaving soon.”

“There are so many ways I could respond to that.”

He grinned and brushed his finger across my lips. “I’ll call you about tomorrow after I talk to Allen.”

“You sure about doing this, Quinn?”

“Yup.” But his voice had tightened. “Off you go. Enjoy the view. Keep my jacket, you’ll need it.”

“Thanks.”

I stayed on deck and watched him as the ferry pulled away from the pier. The wind gusted and nipped at his clothes, but he just stood there with his hands in his pockets and waited until the boat had left the harbor. I watched until he was so small I could barely tell when he turned and started up Bridgeway to his car.

The Golden Gate glowed vivid orange against the soft dark folds of the Marin Headlands and the sky looked like it was on fire. I found a sheltered spot on the deck where I watched the bridge drift in and out of view through wisps of mist—a tower or a section of the suspension cables or part of the deck—until finally the thickening fog swallowed all of it up for good. The breeze, now sharp as needles, was cold so I went into the cabin and watched the looming San Francisco skyline grow larger.

If Allen Cantor agreed to talk to us tomorrow, I might learn more about Teddy Fargo and who he really was or was not. The more I thought about it, the more I felt sure the answers I needed were here in California.

They just weren’t to the questions Charles had asked.

When I got back to the hotel, Pépé was in his room, ready to take me to the Top of the Mark, with its 360-degree glass-walled view of the city, for a martini, or two, as he’d promised. A waiter led us to a window table overlooking the Bay with a view of the TransAmerica building. On the other side of the room, Pépé told me, you could see the Golden Gate and the Pacific.

The city lights made hard-edged boundaries between the land and water, burnishing the coastline so it gleamed like polished copper before fading into blackness farther up the Bay. Pépé handed me the one-hundred-martini menu and told me stories about how the Top of the Mark had been a popular hangout for soldiers and sailors shipping off to the Pacific Theater during World War II, pointing out the widows’ corner overlooking the Golden Gate on the other side of the room, where wives and girlfriends had watched as ships sailed under the bridge until their loved ones disappeared from sight. We finally chose our drinks and decided to order hors d’oeuvres. Then we sat there, mostly without talking, drinking our martinis and listening to the pianist play songs that Pépé remembered from the war years.

When he swung into “In the Mood,” Pépé asked how my day went with Quinn.

“Fine,” I said. “We had lunch in Sausalito.”

“And you also went to the Buena Vista?”

“Yes. For Irish coffee. In fact, I’ve had so much alcohol today, my liver is probably starting to pickle.” I yawned.

“Your head is dropping into your glass, ma belle ,” he said. “We should go.”

At the elevator he said to me, “I know you came to California to humor Charles’s request about black roses, but I wonder if you would have done it if Quinn weren’t here as well.”

“You mean I’m using Charles’s errand as an excuse for seeing Quinn?” I said.

“Aren’t you?”

“I’m also supposed to be buying wine for Mick.”

“Also engineered by Charles,” he said. “But that’s beside the point.”

“Okay,” I said. “I suppose I am.”

“I thought so,” he said, sounding satisfied as the elevator door slid open and we stepped inside.

He kissed me good night at the adjoining door to our rooms, and for a while I heard him moving about in his own room as I got ready for bed. Then the light went out on his side of the door and I lay down and closed my eyes.

Only once in my life have I lived in a city—Washington, D.C., years ago—so I’d forgotten that there is always light and motion and noise, no matter what the hour. After a while, I threw off the duvet and got out of bed, opening the curtains to the enormous picture window and letting in a flood of glittering, spangling light. In Atoka the view out my bedroom window is of moon-washed mountains, the dark lacy outline of the forest, my rose garden, and the stars; the only sounds come from nature—the serenade of the cicadas and tree frogs with an occasional hooting owl or the cry of a fox.