Lethal Vintage by Nadia Gordon

Author:Nadia Gordon [Gordon, Nadia]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 9780811858014
Publisher: Chronicle Books LLC
Published: 2011-07-11T23:32:05+00:00

12

The game was to hold all the little bits of information in her head long enough to execute whatever was supposed to be on the rows of plates in front of her, then forget everything and start over with the next batch. Four salads, one without cheese, one with dressing on the side, a request she despised but was willing to indulge, one vanilla bean crème brûlée, one slice of Mama McCoskey’s pineapple cake, one nectarine tartlet. Two peach-and-prosciutto plates. After that one salmon tartar, thank God; if Bertrand and the waitstaff could only try to move a little more of that, please, thought Sunny. A loud jangle from the back of the room broke her concentration.

The black phone on the back wall of the kitchen was so old it looked as if it was made of Bakelite and probably was. It had two real bells with a tiny metal hammer between them and a rotary dial. Only a handful of people had the number, among them Sunny’s parents, Monty, and Wade. None of them used it unless it was some kind of emergency. She looked at the bowl of salad she had just started dressing. A couple extra minutes in the oil before it hit the table would make the greens too soft, their architecture beginning to sag. But there wasn’t time to finish the plates the way she liked. Just twenty more seconds, that’s all she needed. Again the jangle from the back of the room. She looked around. Rivka was busy with a full grill; besides, it wouldn’t be for her. Bertrand was occupied on the floor. Sunny abandoned the greens.

“Wildside.”

“Is this Ms. Sunny McCoskey?”

“Speaking. Who’s this?”

“Franco Bertinotti.”

“Excuse me?”

“Franco Bertinotti. Don’t tell me you have forgotten already! It’s been only three days since we met.”

Sunny stared past the kitchen at the zinc bar and dining room beyond it. Waiters, both of them, glided between the bar and the tables, depositing a fork here, an espresso there, pausing to hear a request. One of them breezed by the bar, checking to see if his order was up. Bertrand, maître d’ and de facto sommelier, was presenting a bottle to a client with his usual matter-of-fact authority. She wondered why Franco Bertinotti would be calling, and on the bat phone in the middle of lunch rush. “How did you get this number?”

“That is a funny story. I ran into a friend of yours at a business luncheon. A wine tasting for some Italian wines with whom I have a sort of relationship. This guy was called Monterey Lenstrom. You know him? We discovered we had you in common and I suggested to him that it was very important that I reach you urgently. He gave me this number. I hope you don’t mind the intrusion.”

“We’re in the middle of the lunch rush. Can this wait until after three?”

“I will be brief. I was hoping we could get together. To talk a little about this terrible business.”

“I finish at five.”

“I am staying at the new hotel with the little bungalows in the Carneros.

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