What the Heart Knows: A Milford-Haven Novel - Book One (22 page)

“The best, in my view.” He glanced toward the array of pans that hung from an overhead rack, then continued. “A small flatfish like a dab is made for the skillet. A light dredging in flour, a quick sauté, add the chopped onions and parsley, finish with a squeeze of lemon….” The chef kissed the ends of his fingers.

Zack joined him in a laugh, then said, “I can already taste it! So I guess we’ll see you later.”

“We?”

“My date … my friend, that is. We … we’re just getting to know each other.”

The chef gave a knowing nod and pursed his lips. “Need to make the right impression, eh? No problem. We aim to please.”

“Thanks, man. I’m Zack, by the way.”

“Michael.” The chef shook his outstretched hand. “Michael Owen. Do you want me to go ahead and reserve two orders of the Dabs for you? Sometimes they go pretty quickly. Since it’s the special, it comes with salad, bread, and desert.”

“That’d be great. And do you have a local wine you recommend with the fish?”

Michael thought for a moment. “My choice would be the
Cambria Winery. They have one called Katherine’s Chardonnay that complements a light fish.”

“Perfect, save us a bottle of that too,” Zack confirmed.

“I’ll make sure it’s chilled. Look forward to seeing you this evening. And the young lady.”

Back in his car, Zack checked his Rolex, and then flipped open his cell phone.
Service is nil right here. Better find a spot on top of one of the hills
. He crossed Highway 1, then chose a residential street that twisted and wound its way to a higher altitude. Edging away from the densely populated lane, he headed for an empty lot with a
For Sale
sign and pulled alongside.
Wow, whatever gets built here will have a spectacular view
. He checked his phone again.
Not that much better, but enough, I hope
.

He felt only slightly guilty that he’d disrupted Miranda’s schedule in the last couple of days. Funny, he’d always imagined artists as living spontaneous, free-flowing lives. Yet hers seemed so structured and disciplined.
Maybe we have more in common than I thought
.

His own life in Santa Barbara comprised a structured agenda neatly entered into his personal info system. Mary input his appointments. James picked up his pressed shirts. All this was supposed to leave him free for his “higher purpose.” But what that really meant was concentrating on the bottom line for Calvin Oil, and lately he wasn’t sure how high a purpose that truly
was
.

He’d enjoyed the work in his twenties. Being the youngest member of his Harvard Business School graduating class to
make Vice President was no mean achievement, even if it
was
the family firm. The position required focus and stamina. He had plenty of both.

He also enjoyed Dad. They endured their share of friction, but over the years, they’d forged a bond few men seemed able to create. In fact, they were living the classic dream. Father and son, CEO and VP, united in business and work ethic, competitive in sport, gentlemanly with women—the two most eligible bachelors in Santa Barbara, one for each age bracket. They saw each other at work, kept their distance after hours unless attending the same social function.

Lately, though, Zack had begun to have the constant feeling life was repeating itself. He tried to outrun the sensation by generating a busier schedule: more ambitious quarterly goals; more international partnerships; more meetings; more squash matches; more yacht parties. And more evenings with Cynthia.

Cynthia! I haven’t called her all weekend
. He grinned.
I haven’t called anyone. In fact, I haven’t even checked my messages
.

He glanced at his wrist.
Still a few minutes before I’m supposed to call Miranda
. Dad might need him for something. Pulling out his phone, he reluctantly dialed his own number and discovered he’d received one call.

“Zackery, darling … it’s me.”
There was that throaty voice.
“I miss you so much. Wait till you see what I’m almost wearing for Halloween, When are you coming back from that place up the road? I talked to Mary, but I forget the name. What’s it called? Mill Pond? You must be so-o-o bored. Don’t worry. Cynthia fix.”

He terminated the call. Her message had sent an arc of electricity traveling from one end of his synaptic structure to
the other, but left him feeling spent, as though the sudden charge had drained his battery. The old, familiar malaise washed through him, his system overloading with conflicting data, slowing his response time and choking off his new-found sense of discovery.

He could envision Cynthia placing the call, twisting the phone cord around a long, manicured finger. She’d be reclining against her satin pillows, pouting.
Is it cute and sexy? Or is it manipulative?

That world seemed a dark one from this perspective, appealing to a shadow self which, for today, was banished by the gentle sun of this quaint little town.
I am not bored!
He shifted in his seat.
Am I?
How typical that she couldn’t even remember the name of Milford-Haven, discounting it as some sort of backwater, unworthy of her ambitions and, therefore, of his.

But I like it—a place I found on my own. She doesn’t know about it and I don’t have to tell her. No need to return her call
. Her message had been intrusion enough into his remaining hours of freedom.

Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the slip of paper on which he’d jotted Miranda’s number. He lifted his phone and dialed the number, disappointed when her machine picked up. He listened to the timbre of her voice, intrigued by its clarity and softness, and nearly forgot what to say when he heard the beep.

“Miranda, it’s Zack. Zack Calvin. Uh, if we’re still on for dinner, I thought…that is, if it works with your schedule, how about dinner at seven? If you can’t make it, leave me a message at the Belhaven. If I don’t hear from you, I’ll pick you up at six
forty-five.”

He ended the connection and glanced again at his luminous hands of his Rolex.
A little over two hours until I’ll be getting ready to pick her up. What am I gonna do until then
? We had the feeling time was about to stand still again.

Zelda’s McIntyre’s plans were working out perfectly: Joseph Calvin had agreed to see her late this afternoon. She’d been spending the day making meticulous preparations.

This morning, she’d checked through the large black-leather portfolio she used to show reproductions of the paintings, prints and drawings of her artists. Opening the multi-ringed built-in binder, she pulled out all but the few pages that would show Miranda’s most appropriate pieces.

She’d spent the afternoon at the UCSB library, reading every microfiche that tracked the previous decades of his corporate life: his astounding rise through the ranks of fellow Harvard grads; his rapid-fire corporate acquisitions; the formation of Calvin Oil. She enjoyed doing research, especially since the local library stocked her favorite business resources:
Standard & Poors
, and
Value Line
, with its comprehensive updates.

The
L.A. Times
had done its share of covering the oil business in California. In particular the paper had detailed the 1969 Santa Barbara oil spill—still the second-largest oil spill in the U.S. after the Exxon Valdez—had generated plenty of ink at the time. Though Calvin Oil had not been involved—the blowout had occurred on a Union 76 offshore platform—still, the devastating spill had brought unwelcome attention to all the oil companies doing business in Southern California.

Of more interest to Zelda were two major pieces: the
Wall Street Journal’s
front page column chronicling Joseph and his rise to power; and
The Financial Times’s
corporate profile. She’d found it surprising that the British press had paid such attention to a relatively small U.S. oil firm, until they’d punctuated their coverage with details of the acquisition of West Wales Petroleum. It had not by any means been Joseph’s first foray into the international arena. But it’d been his son Zackery’s.
I bet Joseph watched the development of that deal like a hawk
.

She read some about the son as well: like his father, a Harvard man on a fast-track to success, now Vice President of the family firm.
He’s obviously being groomed to take over the business at some future date, and it sounds like he’s actually earned his title
.

To round out her picture of the Calvins, Zelda had also pored over the social pages of the
Santa Barbara Register
, where both father and son appeared with some regularity. The father was described as a widower who’d lost his wife many years earlier; the son listed as a bachelor. And the press sometimes referred to their home, an estate called
Calma
somewhere up in the Hope Ranch area.

Zelda carefully noted the name—and if possible the face and the wardrobe—of every woman seen on Joseph Calvin’s arm over the past five years. Mostly they were thin, wispy things, she decided, WASPish and pearled, well-heeled and-coifed.
But they weren’t womanly
.

Once or twice there seemed to be someone substantive—a female CEO or Ambassador—but they were always jowly and thick through the middle, vastly intelligent in conversation, she imagined, but probably too serious-minded to flirt.

I may not have their credentials, but I’d say my face and figure are better than anyone I see in the newspapers
.

On her way home, she’d thought about how she and Joseph might look together.
He’s tall compared to me, so I can wear my higher heels. Good. They sculpt the leg, adding drama and sex appeal to any outfit
.

Picturing herself in photos with him in the
Register
, she allowed herself a moment to fantasize. If things went especially well today, and she and this interesting man ever did start to see each other, what kind of clothes would she need to wear?

Back at her apartment, she chose a few items and hung them together where they’d be easy to grab, in case of any future impromptu encounters. Then she laid out her clothes for today, remembering that whatever she wore, it’d have to coordinate with the portfolio.
The Diane von Furstenberg black silk cross-over wrap dress I think. Something classic for our first meeting. This’ll work for cocktails or dinner too, in the event we get that far. But I do need a touch of color
.

Sorting through her scarves, she chose the Hermes “Phoebus”: shimmering gold sun-faces and ribbons on a black field. When tied, it would just look like swirls of gold on black.
The blouse was cut just a little too deep for the usual business meeting.
I have a sense Joseph likes flirtation. I won’t have to wait long to test my theory
.

Zelda’s Charles Jourdan pumps—black, gold-buckled and three inches high—clacked across the marble then sank into the plush carpet as she traversed the geometrically designed upper foyer of Calvin Oil. Outside the CEO’s office, a fashionable, silver-haired secretary stood behind her desk to greet her. “Ms. McIntyre?”

“Yes.”

“If you’ll take a seat, I’ll let Mr. Calvin know you’re here.”

I’m not about to wrinkle my skirt before I meet him
. “Thank you, but I’ll stand.” She moved to the small waiting area across from the secretary’s desk, bent to lean the large leather portfolio against a chair, and pick up a magazine she didn’t intend to read.

Behind her, she overheard the secretary lift her telephone receiver and speak softly. A moment later, the secretary said “You may go in now.”

Zelda dropped the magazine, lifted the portfolio and spun on her heels. With a quick “Thank you,” she headed toward the leaded-glass doors and pushed through.

An attractive man in a charcoal Armani suit stood behind his desk. “Ah, Ms. McIntyre.” He walked around toward her. “How nice to meet you.”

To shake his hand, she shifted the portfolio to her left.
Dashing—there’s no other way to describe him: the hair steel gray, the face clean shaven, the voice smooth and rich, the
handshake firm
. “The pleasure is mine, Mr. Calvin. It’s very good of you to see me, especially on short notice.”