Chapter 14
After getting off the phone with his mother, he decided to deliver the news about the photo to Gina in person.
It was a flimsy excuse to go over to her cabin, but he managed to convince himself that a phone conversation wouldn’t cut it.
Even if it was getting late. He walked over, telling himself he needed the exercise.
The truth was he didn’t want Cash to see his Range Rover in Gina’s driveway.
She answered the door in a pair of denim shorts and a tank top, no bra. It was all he could do not to pick her up and carry her to the bedroom.
“What’s up?” She swung her arm across the threshold of the cabin, inviting him to come in. The TV was playing in the background and Sawyer wondered if she was watching the FoodFlicks Network.
He peeked around the corner. Not FoodFlicks, a Law & Order rerun.
“I talked to my friend about the photograph of you and Danny on the beach. He says he’s ninety-nine percent sure it’s a fake.”
“I didn’t need him to tell me that. I know it’s a fake because I’ve never been on a beach with Danny Clay in my life.”
“We’ve established that. This is so you can go to the press with proof.” Except there was no proof without an expert’s written assertion that the picture was phony. “The problem is we need the original photo to establish it’s a fake. You wouldn’t happen to know where the photo originated?”
Gina shook her head. He followed her into the living room where she turned off the TV.
“I first saw the photograph on TMZ’s website.
It was after I got frantic calls from both my agent and manager.
Neither of them knows where it came from and they just assumed that someone shot the picture and sold it to the tabloids.
The problem with that theory is there was no photo to take because we were never there.
Not together, anyway. Which leaves me with only one conclusion: Someone with a computer and some skill with Photoshop cooked it up. ”
Yep, that was apparent. But who? The only way to discover the culprit was to trace the photo to its originator.
“We need to find out how TMZ got its hands on the picture or if TMZ was even the first publication to print it,” Sawyer said.
“Well, you’re the newsman—how do we do that?”
Sawyer might be a newsman, but he didn’t truck with Harvey Levin or any of the other reporters at TMZ.
And even if he did, the likelihood of them giving up their source was next to nil.
He sure the hell wouldn’t do it. “Let me see what I can do.” He’d have to reach out to friends who might have a connection with someone high up at TMZ.
But if his mother couldn’t find the original photo, he doubted he’d have any better luck.
“Thank you.” She brushed his arm with her hand. “I appreciate all you’ve done.” She sat on the sofa and tucked her legs under her butt.
“You’re welcome.” Sawyer purposely took one of the leather chairs. He didn’t want her to think he’d come here for sex, because he hadn’t.
They sat for a while, saying nothing, comfortable in each other’s presence. The cabin had lost its musty odor, which had been replaced by a combination of Gina’s fragrance—something floral but not overbearing—and fresh bread.
It smelled like a home.
“You want ice cream?” She unfolded her legs and perched at the edge of the sofa. “I’m playing around with that machine I bought and a couple of new flavors.”
Hell yeah, he wanted ice cream. He got up and wandered into the kitchen. There were ingredients, mixing bowls, and assorted other cooking utensils spread across the counter. It was evident that Gina DeRose was used to people cleaning up after her.
She opened the freezer, pulled out a plastic tub, and dished him up enough ice cream to feed an entire bunkhouse of cowboys.
She caught him sniffing the bowl. “It’s blackberry. The ones you saw me picking the other day.”
He remembered. When he and Angie were kids, they used to pick and gorge on the berries until they stained their hands and face blue.
Sawyer dipped his spoon in the bowl and took a lick. It was creamy. Something between frozen custard and gelato. “Good,” he said as he filled his mouth with another bite.
She served herself half a bowl. When she saw him comparing portions, she said, “This is my second helping of the night. Besides”—she eyed him up and down—“you have more places to put it.”
He laughed because he was at least a foot taller than her. “I guess the machine’s working out.”
She nodded and licked the back of her spoon. “One good thing that’s come out of this whole disaster is this.” She pointed at her bowl.
“Ice cream?” he asked, puzzled.
“Cooking. I didn’t realize how much I’d missed it. Ironic to star in a cooking show, yet never cook.”
“Why’s that?”
She gave a half shrug and hopped up on the counter. “Not enough time and I have a team who does it for me.”
“It’s too bad because you’re really good at it.” He took another big bite, waited until he swallowed, and said, “This is award-winning.”
“Nah, it’s basic.”
“You mean it’s not some strange, unappetizing flavor like beet or bacon or peanut butter curry. Because I hate that shit. It’s for poseurs.”
She laughed. “It’s plain blackberry ice cream, using your garden-variety French vanilla base. Anyone can make it.”
He took one of the barstools and straddled it backwards. “Why do you always do that? Why do you always have to belittle what you do?”
“I’m just honest.”
He jabbed his spoon in the air. “I used to think it was false modesty, because someone who’s gotten to where you are couldn’t possibly think so little of her qualifications. Now…I don’t know what to think. Is it that you don’t really enjoy cooking, so you tell yourself you’re not good at it?”
She put her bowl down and gave the question some consideration. “I love cooking more than just about anything else in the world. Growing up, the kitchen was the only place where I truly felt that I shined. But I was a kid. I wasn’t being held up against the greatest chefs of our time.”
“We already discussed how I think you measure up to every one of them,” he said. “But never mind that. If you love to cook and people enjoy your food, isn’t that enough?”
“Not according to my mother.” She tried to laugh it off like it was a joke. But he could see right through her.
“You need to get over it, Gina. Your mother’s obsession with perfection was her problem, not yours.”
She hopped down, put the tub back in the freezer, and took the rest of her ice cream to the living room. A signal that discussing her mommy issues was over, which was fine with him. No one would ever mistake Sawyer for a shrink.
“Let me ask you something,” he said and resumed his spot in the chair. “If someone wanted to open a butcher shop and sell their own beef, what would be the best marketing strategy?”
She raised her brows. “Someone? Would that someone happen to be you and your cousins?”
“Yeah.” He finished the last of his ice cream and seriously considered going back for seconds.
“A butcher shop on the ranch as part of the whole agrimall thing you guys are working on?” When he nodded, she said, “It’s ambitious, but smart. Really, really smart.”
“We were talking about your idea to get Jimmy Ray and Laney to open a sarsaparilla stand and I said there won’t be enough foot traffic without an anchor to make it worth their while. But a butcher shop that sells Dalton beef could be that anchor.”
“You’re not big enough.” She did that sexy leg-tuck thing on the sofa again and Sawyer had trouble staying on topic, even though he was pretty sure she’d just insulted him.
“Not yet,” he said. “But we could be. We’ve got everything going for us that appeals to a gourmet market. We’re family owned and operated—fourth generation. We’ve got a great story. And we’ve got quality beef.”
“But no one knows you exist. In order for people to travel to buy your steaks, they have to think they’re getting something special. Something they can’t buy in the supermarket or at a big box store.”
Sawyer didn’t disagree. “How do we develop that image? How do we get the word out?”
“Restaurants. There’s no better product placement.
When someone goes to Chez Panisse and reads on the menu that the beef comes from Dry Creek Ranch, suddenly you’ve got cachet.
Suddenly, people are driving from the Bay Area to Dry Creek to buy a roast, especially if they can’t get Dry Creek Ranch beef at Safeway or Whole Foods. ”
How many times had he gone to a trendy restaurant and seen the appellation or name of the farm from which a particular ingredient came from highlighted on the menu?
Niman Ranch pork or Capay Valley chard or Straus butter.
How many times in restaurants had he mocked the gratuitous name-dropping, then in the supermarket faced a mile-long row of brands and chose the one he’d seen on a menu, assuming it must be the best?
“How do we get our beef in restaurants?”
“Me.” She leaned back and threaded her hands behind her head.
“I might be a pariah in TV land, but I still have some friends in the restaurant industry. I could make a few calls. And if I ever get my show back I could do some serious product placement, like dedicating a whole episode to beef braciole, using Dry Creek Ranch meat.”
“You would do that for us?”
“For Aubrey and Charlie, sure.” A teasing smile played on her lips. “But I still think you need something besides a butcher shop that will attract visitors. A store like Dean and DeLuca would be a sure thing.”
The likelihood of a national store like that coming to Dry Creek Ranch was a pipe dream.
But he knew what she meant. Something with enough name recognition to attract large crowds.
Yet, it couldn’t be something shoppers could find in any city shopping mall, otherwise they wouldn’t make the trek to the Sierra foothills.
“You have any contacts with Dean and DeLuca?” he asked, half-jokingly.