Market Street by Anita Hughes Read Free Book Online Page A

Aidan got down on one knee and took her hand. “Cassie Fenton, will you marry me?”
    “Yes,” she murmured.
    Aidan stood up and kissed her softly on the mouth. “I hear there’s a little bistro serving egg white omelets with a fine Rutherford sauvignon blanc.” He drew her into the kitchen. “I think it’s time to celebrate.”
    *   *   *
    “Aidan needs me,” Cassie replied. “Working at Fenton’s is all-consuming. You should know.”
    “If that’s a dig that I didn’t give you enough attention as a child, I’m not listening. You had a wonderful childhood: we had front-row seats at the ballet; we ate at all the new restaurants; and you had your pick of clothes from top designers.”
    “I didn’t get to wear them. I was stuck in the Convent uniform every day,” Cassie mumbled.
    “You loved the Convent, you cried at graduation. You and Alexis are still thick as thieves.”
    “Mother, I’m not arguing. I’m just don’t have time to give Fenton’s that kind of attention.”
    “You don’t want to give it your time, but I have an idea I think you will find more interesting than pulling weeds and folding Aidan’s T-shirts.” Diana tapped her cigarette holder on the glass.
    Cassie sighed. “I’m listening.”
    “I went to the opening of a fabulous new restaurant last week, Le Petit Fou. It’s right up your alley: organic everything. I had watercress salad with the dearest little yellow tomatoes. The entrée was organic lamb’s shank on a bed of wild rice with truffles that melted like butter. If I closed my eyes I thought I was eating caviar, not mushrooms.” Diana walked over to the coffee table and examined a vase of purple irises. “The restaurant was divinely decorated: sea green walls and an orange mosaic floor. The tables were covered with some sort of ‘green’ tablecloths, made from recycled dollar bills. Can you imagine? We were eating on money.” Diana pulled an iris out of the vase.
    “Sounds delicious, but what does that have to do with Fenton’s?”
    “I sat at a table with the young architect who designed the space. His name is James Parrish. Lovely man from Chicago, terribly young. I suppose everyone seems young these days.”
    “Mother, I’m getting hungry from all this talk about food.”
    “Wait till I finish. You always were impatient,” Diana huffed. “James works for an architecture firm in Chicago that specializes in interior design for restaurants. His mother is from San Francisco, and she flies out regularly to shop at Fenton’s. He said she has a whole closet of Fenton’s boxes. We started talking about Europe. James spent last summer in England and he raved about Harrods. Then he said the most fascinating thing. He said wouldn’t it be brilliant to have a food emporium on the ground floor of Fenton’s, like Harrods, but have everything organic and locally grown.” Diana paused to let the idea sink in.
    “I said not the ground floor of course, Fenton’s isn’t a supermarket, but the basement has been a dead zone for years. A whole floor dedicated to stationery when no one writes letters anymore.”
    “A food emporium,” Cassie repeated.
    “Fresh fish caught in the bay, oysters, crab when it’s in season. Counters of vegetables you only find in the farmers market, those cheeses they make in Sonoma that smell so bad they taste good. Wines from Napa Valley, Ghirardelli chocolates, sourdough bread, sauces made by Michael Mina and Thomas Keller. Everything locally produced. And maybe a long counter with stools so you could sample bread and cheese, cut fruit, sliced vegetables. Not a true café because we’d keep the one on the fourth floor. It would have more the feel of a food bazaar, with the salespeople wearing aprons and white caps.”
    Cassie closed her eyes and saw large baskets of vegetables, glass cases filled with goat cheese and baguettes, stands brimming with chocolate-covered strawberries.
    “The design of course is key. It has to be