Chapter 5 #2
"The restaurant isn't, at least. Theo's solid, we have amazing staff, the place basically runs itself at this point.
" I watch the hills roll past. "And then your father walked in with an offer that's bigger than anything I could have done on my own.
" I shrug. "I don't know. Maybe I just have an embarrassing need for external validation. "
She snorts. "I know that feeling intimately. We have that in common."
"See? I knew we were soulmates."
"Don't push it." But the corner of her mouth is curving up. "So bigger opportunity and ego. That's the only reason? Plus just a new location?"
"Also I was ready for something different," I admit.
"I've been doing the same thing for ten years in the same small town where I grew up, surrounded by the same people I've known my whole life.
And don't get me wrong, there's a version of that story where I'm perfectly happy forever.
But there's also a version where I wake up at fifty years old and realize I never pushed myself. "
She's quiet for a moment, her eyes on the road, fingers tapping an uneven rhythm against the steering wheel.
"What about you?" I ask, turning the question around. "Have you ever thought about opening your own place someday?"
"No." She says it without hesitation. "My father’s New York City flagship is the plan and it always has been. Why, what made you ask?"
"No reason, really." I look back out the window. "You just seem ambitious, and you're clearly brilliant at this, so I wondered if that was in the cards eventually."
She doesn’t reply to that, and after a minute I crack the window a little wider and the air coming through shifts, cooler now, carrying the faintest note of salt. We must be getting closer to the coast than I realized.
The road crests one more hill and she turns down a gravel drive flanked by white wooden fencing, the kind of fencing that says this land has been worked for a long time.
A wooden sign at the mouth of the drive reads MORRISON JOHNSON FAMILY RANCH in faded black paint, the letters chipped where the sun has gotten at them.
Sheep are grazing in the distance on a green hillside, white dots scattered against the grass like spilled sugar.
"You've got this," I say.
"We'll see," she says, and pulls up in front of the house.
Morrison's house is a low-slung farmhouse with a wraparound porch and a dog asleep under the front steps, one ear flopped over her eyes against the light.
A big red barn sits off to the right, bigger than the house, and the whole operation has that quiet weathered look of a place that's been here for a hundred years and will be here for a hundred more.
Two pickup trucks and a quad are parked in the yard, paint faded on the hoods, and a pair of rubber boots sit on the porch caked with dried mud up to the shins.
The dog lifts her head as we get out of the SUV, looks at us for exactly three seconds, decides we're not interesting, and goes back to sleep.
"Hello?" Isabelle calls out, walking up toward the porch with the kind of purposeful stride she uses in a kitchen. "Mr. Johnson?"
"Round back," a voice calls from somewhere past the barn.
Isabelle glances at me and I gesture for her to lead, which she does, striding around the corner of the house.
I follow a step behind, taking in the place as we walk.
Morrison is behind the house, leaning against a split rail fence watching three border collies work a small flock of sheep in the paddock.
He's late sixties with a weathered face, faded Wranglers, and a canvas work jacket that has seen a lot of weather and probably a few lambing seasons. He doesn't turn when we come around the corner.
"Afternoon," he says, eyes still on the dogs.
"Mr. Johnson," Isabelle says, stopping about six feet back. "Morrison. I'm Isabelle Beaumont. This is my colleague, Alex Midnight."
Morrison turns his head slightly, takes us in with a half-second glance, and turns back to the dogs. "I know who you are."
"I've left you several messages." Isabelle's chef voice has kicked in. "And I understand you're considering another buyer in San Francisco. I'd like to discuss that."
Morrison is quiet for a moment. One of the dogs, the smallest, cuts left and pushes a stray ewe back into the flock with nothing but an eye and a low crouch. Morrison makes a small sound, something between a click and a word, and the dog drops into a down.
"I'll be straight with you," he says. "San Francisco called a few days back and offered more.
I wasn't going to take it, I've got plenty of buyers.
But I've been turning over our phone call last week.
Ma'am, you were rude. Frankly, snobby. Talked to me like I was beneath you, threatened me even.
And I don't appreciate being talked to that way. "
Isabelle's mouth falls open. "I'm sorry, what? I never threatened you. I was direct about what I needed for the residency, but there's a difference between being direct and being rude."
"At the end of the call, you told me you expected every animal to hit your spec, and if they didn't, you threatened to take your business somewhere else and never work with me again.
Out here I build relationships with the people I sell to.
I want to know the chef, I want to hear about the menu, I want to shake a hand.
You made it clear you didn't want any of that. "
Isabelle draws in a breath and I can see the whole thing about to come off the rails, so I decide to step in before she says something we can't walk back.
"Mr. Johnson, do you mind excusing us for just a moment?" I ask, stepping forward with what I hope is a disarming smile.
Isabelle shoots me a look that could strip paint off a truck. Morrison glances between us then grunts and turns his attention back to the dogs like we've already left. I touch Isabelle's elbow and walk her toward the corner of the barn, out of earshot.
"What on earth do you think you're—"
"Hey. We are about to lose this deal, which, in addition to being bad for you, is also bad for me." I keep my voice low. "Now. Did you say all of that to him?"
She crosses her arms tight. "Yes, and maybe I'm a little direct, but I'm from the East Coast. It's not my fault he's a crybaby who can't handle straightforward communication.
If he thinks that was bad, he should hear how my father speaks to suppliers.
" She shakes her head. "I'm going to march back over there and tell him to shove his contract where the sun doesn't shine.
He's probably sexist and doesn't like hearing a woman tell him what she needs. "
"I have no doubt," I say. "But then we lose the protein, and I know you can't afford to do that this close to opening. And this is the best lamb guy in California. We can’t just stop at Wal-Mart on the way home for what you need."
“I wasn’t even being rude though!” She hisses.
"Yeah. Okay. You weren't trying to be rude.
I believe you." I nod. "But East Coast bluntness doesn't always translate out here. These guys do business on relationships and handshakes. So we need to fix it before he sells it to San Francisco. Sometimes you have to make nice with people who rub you the wrong way.”
She glares at me for a long second. "Are you serious?"
"Listen, I really don't like our mushroom suppliers back home.
They're unreliable and they never answer their phone.
But they find the best damn mushrooms in the state, so I smile and work with them on it.
Because the end result is worth swallowing my pride for fifteen minutes.
So let's go back over there and not blow this whole thing, alright, Princess? "
"Stop calling me that, you absolute bastard."
"It's an affectionate term. And at the moment the boot fits." I nudge her gently back toward the fence. "Just give me a few minutes with him, alright? And try not to murder anyone in the meantime."
"No promises."
"That's the spirit."
She mutters something in French that I'm pretty sure is wildly unflattering, and I take that as close enough to a yes. We walk back to the fence together. Morrison hasn't moved, his attention still on the dogs working the flock. I step up beside him, Isabelle behind my shoulder.
"Sorry about that," I say. "We just needed to get on the same page about a few things."
Morrison waves a hand without looking at us. "No trouble."
"We'd appreciate the chance to talk it over a bit more,” I say, “if you've got the time.”
"My mind's made up," Morrison says, his tone flat but not hostile.
I lean my forearms on the fence rail, settling in like I've got all day. "Fair enough. Can't fault a man for knowing what he wants." I watch the dogs work for a moment and nod toward one of them. "That's a hell of a dog, by the way. I couldn't help but notice her while Isabelle and I were talking."
Morrison glances at me sideways, and there's a long pause before he answers. "That's Pip. She's four."
"Bred her yourself?"
"And her mother. Grandmother before that." He shifts against the fence, settling in. "The line goes back to one my father brought down from Oregon in seventy-one. Pip's the best I've had."
"You can tell. I've seen working dogs up in Dark River, mostly for cattle, but I've never seen one work sheep like that. She's doing more with a look than most dogs do with a full run."
"You raise stock?" Morrison shifts against the fence, glancing past me to where Isabelle is now standing a few feet off my shoulder, watching the paddock.
"No, I run a restaurant back in Washington state, a town a few hours west of Seattle. But I buy from a family on the Olympic Peninsula who've been breeding Katahdin crosses for four generations. They've got a couple of Kelpies, but nothing like her."
Morrison grunts. "Katahdin's a good breed for up there. Hardier. We run Dorper crosses here, mostly. They finish well on the grass we've got."