Where she got two more calls.
The first was from Cynthia Blaine in Seattle, asking if she could stay with Amanda in a couple of weeks when she came to Portland to deliver some new work to The Fairchild Gallery. Amanda was happy to return her old friend’s hospitality.
That was followed by a call from one of the tenants in a commercial building she owned.
“Amanda, Drake Vos. I’d like to talk to you about the lease for the restaurant. Are you available for lunch today?”
“Sure. What time?”
“How about right now? I’m parked outside your studio.”
She walked from the office past the glory holes to find Drake Vos on the sidewalk outside the overhead door, leaning against the front fender of his black Lexus. At forty-eight he was almost old enough to be her father, but somehow she never thought of him that way. Maybe it had something to do with his tall, dark, and yummy good looks or perhaps the warmth in his eyes when he looked at her. He’d been hired by Tom Webster to run his restaurant in the building Amanda owned when Webster opened his club. After Webster’s death, Drake had been a godsend keeping the restaurant running in the face of terrible publicity and had been doing a great job building the business back up.
She laughed at the “gotcha” look on his face, shut down the phone, and motioned him into the building.
Opening the trunk of his car, he extracted two large carry-bags. “If Mohammed won’t come to the mountain … ” He kissed her on the cheek. “ … we bring the mountain to you.”
“I know. I should have come in to see you but I’ve been slammed with work. Thanks for making the effort to come here.”
She led him back to her part of the studio where he swung the larger of the two bags onto an empty worktable.
Waving him off, she indicated the office. “No, not that table. There’ll be glass all over it. Go on into the office.” She followed him and quickly cleared the top of the desk.
Vos pulled a tablecloth out of one bag, snapped it open, and let it settle onto the desktop. “I thought you’d enjoy what our chef’s been experimenting with for now and the fall.”
He pulled out two sets of flatware, dishes and wine glasses, a Thermos, and two square plastic containers. From the Thermos he poured a delicious smelling light-brown soup with wisps of foam on top. “Chef Jon calls this wild mushroom cappuccino,” he explained as he handed a cup to her. “It’ll be on the menu this fall when the mushrooms are available at a better price.”
Amanda took a taste. “Oh, Drake, that’s to die for.”
Next he plated a spinach and sautéed scallop salad, which he explained was on the menu now. He added crisp rolls and placed the plates on the desk before positioning a folding chair across the desk from her. Last he brought out a bottle of pinot gris from the bag, removed the cork, and began to pour the wine.
“I don’t drink at lunch,” she protested as she put her hand over the top of her wine glass.
He pushed her fingers away with the neck of the bottle and poured a small amount for her. “Make an exception. This is a fabulous wine, nice body, tastes of apples and pears. You’ll love it.” He picked up his glass and toasted her. “Here’s to our relationship.”
“Mmm, it is good,” she said after she sipped. She took a forkful of the salad. “So, you want to talk about the lease?”