“It’s not our fault if someone wants to purchase four units and combine them into one. We’ll be adhering to the program’s strict building codes. What more would you ask us to do?”
“Building codes you helped to develop.”
“Is there a problem with that?”
George looks like he might like to strangle someone. I don’t blame him. I wouldn’t mind strangling someone myself. My stomach burbles. Kevin eyes me. Dear god, get me out of this room.
“What about the old adobe on the property?” George asks, his bad eye locked in a continuous twitch.
“What about it?”
“I believe it’s a historical landmark.”
Van Meter offers a thin-lipped smile. “Not anymore. We hired a consultant to confirm that the original structure has been modified so many times it no longer holds any historical value. The Board of Architectural Review agreed with our recommendation.” He snaps his fingers. “Problem solved.”
George’s eyes narrow. “My mother was on the committee that worked to get that designation a half century ago.”
“Luckily your mother is not a member of the board. Even luckier is that our architect is the board’s chair.”
“But that’s a clear conflict of interest.”
“He recused himself at the time of the vote.”
Rich has been quietly eyeing his fingernails like he wants to gnaw them off. Now he straightens his shoulders and tosses George a more-than-irritated look. “I have a meeting with the regulators,” he says. “We need to wrap things up. Arthur, could you fill us in on the financing structure?”
Van Meter nods. “There’s your construction loan, of course. I’m hoping you get that approved sooner than later. As for the equity, I’ve formed a new syndication: Casa Bella Ltd. I already have a lineup of investors who want in on the project. It’ll be quickly oversold. We’re promising them a ten percent return, but it could go much higher than that.”
“Interesting.” Rich gets to his feet and extends his hand. “Thank you for coming, Arthur. This has been very helpful. I’m looking forward to our lunch next week.”
“So am I.”
I can’t wait anymore. I heave my way out of my chair, my stomach rumbling like a truck. I push past Rich, nearly knocking him down. I should be brutally embarrassed, but for whatever reason, I’m not.
Kathi
June 21, 2016
It’s a beautiful summer morning in the Montecito foothills. Eagles swoop. Squirrels chatter. A leaf blower rumbles from the estate next door. It’s half past eleven, yet I’m sipping on only my first cup of coffee of the day. No reason to jump out of bed when the hours stretch before me like a desert road.
I head out onto the terrace and try to take pleasure in the sun sparking diamonds across the azure sea. But a sense of doom swirls around me like the haunting of a ghost. It slows my walk, rounds my shoulders, and colors my soul in shades of gray.
I pinch my wrist hard. Snap out of it! Perk up! Think of all that you’ve had and still have! I must shower. Clean up. Trade in my old sweats for new. Or better yet, slip on a cute top and a new pair of linen slacks.
Then a train rumbles down the coast, blasting its mournful horn. My spirits droop. Why bother? There’s nothing to do. No one to see. No place to go. I pinch my wrist again. Do something! Anything! Get to work on your novel. Yes, that’s it. I’ll write a chapter or two, and by then it will be time for an early drink. I head back inside and grab my computer and plant myself on the couch. Lifting my fingers, I begin to type.
When Robert left his office for lunch, his gaze fell across the teller line and paused at the sight of the new girl. His heart quickened when she introduced herself as Emma. “Emma,” he repeated. “What a beautiful name.” She smiled, and he almost melted at her innocent beauty. I’m going to marry you one day, he thought.
I’m deep into my writing when I’m startled by a knock on the door. And then another. And then the sound of pounding echoes through the house. “Police,” a man yells. “We have a warrant. Open up!”
I slide off the couch and sink onto the floor. Grasping my cell, I dial 911. “Help me,” I whisper. “Someone’s trying to break in. They say they’re the police.”
“Stay calm, ma’am,” a woman replies in an even tone. “Tell me your address.”
The line goes silent for so long I’m sure I’m going to faint. My face is mushed into the carpet. I spy dust bunnies under the couch. Cereal crumbs. Drops of dried coffee. Sprays of white wine gone yellow with age. How long has it been since I let the housekeepers go? Five weeks? Six?
The woman’s voice returns. “It’s legit,” she says. “It is the police. They have a warrant. Go ahead and open your door.”
“A what?”
“They have a warrant. Hello? Ma’am, are you listening to me?”
“Yes. Please help me. I’m scared.”
“Just do what they say, and you won’t get hurt. Start with opening your front door.”
“But why are they here? What do they want?”
“All I can tell you is to open your door. I’m on the phone with them right now. Follow their instructions, and you’ll be fine.”
I push myself up and stagger to the door, my cell trembling in my hand. I want Rich. I want Jack. I want Leo. I want someone, anyone, to save me.
I pocket the cell and ease open the door to a dozen officers dressed in black tactical vests and baseball caps with the word POLICE emblazoned across their chests. A woman hands me a paper and mumbles something about a warrant. Before I can ask a question, someone shoves a video camera in my face.
“Please don’t,” I say, covering my cheeks with my hands. “I’m not even dressed.”
“Sorry, ma’am. It’s all part of the process.” The police push by me, and I pinch my wrist until it hurts. Across the street my neighbors film the embarrassing scene from behind an unmarked police car. I slam the door shut and slump against the wall. Think. Think!
The policewoman looks at me without blinking. “I’m Detective Rubio,” she says, pointing at the badge on her chest. “I’m the lead investigator on this case. Your name is?”
“Kathi,” I reply in a small voice. “Kathi Wright.”
“Katherine Wright?”
“Yes.”
The detective—she must be younger than Jack—holds out her hand. “Let’s go into the kitchen. It’s a better place to wait.”
She leads me to the kitchen. The drawers and cupboards have been thrown open, their contents strewn across the gray marble counters. Six boxes of wine stare at me like an accusation. I want to tell the detective that I save the wine for visitors.
“Is there someone I can call?” she asks, kindly. “A neighbor or a friend?” She has a pretty face with a smattering of freckles and eyes the color of my favorite amber ring. What is she doing here? Why isn’t she a teacher or a nurse? Why not do something nice with her life? Why would she dress in men’s clothes and spend her days searching through private homes?
“There’s no one,” I say. My throat tightens, and I begin to cry.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I know this is difficult. We’ll be in and out of here as quick as we can.”
“But why are you here? What have I done?”
“You’ve been named on the warrant.”
“But I have nothing to do with the SAR thing. I don’t know what Rich did at the bank.”
“I don’t know about the issues at the bank. We’re here to investigate an accusation of financial elder abuse.”
“But I’m just a wife,” I sob. “I know nothing. Nothing at all.”
Detective Rubio seems to believe me, because her voice goes soft. “If you’ve done nothing wrong, then you have nothing to worry about.” The video camera returns and looms above her shoulder. I turn my head away.
“Do you have to film me?” I ask.
“It’s in your best interest and ours. Now, if you could just answer a few questions . . .”
I nod and stare at my cold cup of coffee. Would it be strange if I asked for a few minutes to shower and apply my makeup?
Detective Rubio pulls out a small pad of paper. “Do you know anything about your husband’s former real estate investments?”
I shake my head.
“Please answer yes or no.”
“No. Should I call my lawyer?”
“You’re welcome to do so. But right now we’re only trying to piece together the information. Your cooperation could help confirm your innocence and allow us to quickly move on.”
I picture my snooping neighbors. I have to get this over with as fast as I can. “All right,” I say. “Go ahead. I’ll answer your questions. I have nothing to hide.”
“Okay. Let’s start over. Were you aware that your husband was funneling private money to local real estate investments?”
“No.”
“That he was investing in projects owned by his friends?”
“No.”
“Finding investors to fund the projects?”
“No.”
“That he skimmed some of this money and used it to fund your lifestyle?”
I shake my head hard. “That’s impossible. He was the president of a bank. He made more than enough money to support us.”
Detective Rubio’s features grow stern. “Actually, our initial analysis indicates his salary was not nearly enough to cover your living expenses.”
“That can’t be true,” I say, thinking she’s not so pretty. “We had plenty of money. More than we ever needed.”
Two policemen stagger into the kitchen with boxes piled high with papers. They hand the detective a list, which she quickly scans. “Is that everything?” she asks.
“Yes,” they answer in unison.
She hands me the paper. “Please review this itemization and sign the receipt.”
I scan the list. “You can’t take my computer.”
“We’ll return it soon. I promise.”
“You don’t understand. I’m writing a novel. I haven’t saved it anywhere else.”
“I’m sorry about that. Now, let’s finish up. I have only a few more questions, and then we’ll be on our way.”
“All right,” I say. She’d better hurry. I’m about to get sick.
“Have you destroyed any of your husband’s papers?”
“No.”
“Removed anything from his office?”
“No . . .” I think of Arthur and pinch my wrist.
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“Do you know Mabel McCarthy?”
“Of course. She’s my neighbor.”
“Did she tell you she invested a million dollars with your husband?”
“Yes, but . . .” My voice has grown shrill.
“But what?”
“She’s old, and I didn’t believe her.”
Detective Rubio folds her arms and looks at me in a disbelieving way. “And she spoke with you about this last week?”
“It might’ve been two weeks ago . . .”
“Did she ask you to look for the investment documents?”
“Why yes, but—”
“Did you find them?”
“I . . . I never looked.”
Detective Rubio stares at me until my cheeks grow warm. “All right, then,” she says. “We’ll be in touch.” She turns to leave and then pauses at the door. “By the way, do you know Arthur Van Meter?”
My pulse races. “Eileen Van Meter’s husband? I know of him. Why do you ask?”
She stares at me hard for several moments before stepping outside. Once she’s gone, I slam the door shut on my neighbors’ prying eyes and gossiping mouths. Then my knees buckle, and I collapse in a heap on the floor.
March 3, 1987
With graduation looming, I have a HUGE decision to make. Every day I wake up more stressed and confused. That’s not weird, is it? I mean, Rich is so lucky. He took the banking job in Reno without blinking twice. I love that about him. He’s so self-assured and always knows exactly what he wants. But it’s different for me. If I take the job at Random House, Rich says he won’t wait. He doesn’t believe in long-distance relationships. I can understand, I guess. But if I follow him to Reno, I pass on the career of my dreams.
Oh, what to do? What to choose? Aunt Genny is rooting for New York. She says men will come and go, but the editorial position is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. But she’s old. She doesn’t understand. And she’s a little hard on Rich. It’s ABSOLUTELY not true that he’s controlling. He just loves me so much he wants me to be near him when he embarks on his new career. I doubt I’ll ever find a man who loves me like he does. No wonder I’m stressed out. How can I make such a choice?
Crystal
August 3, 2015
I feel overdressed in the black knit suit my private shopper picked out for work. Pearl necklace and earrings. Hair clipped back. Makeup discreet and fresh. Someone might think me pretty if it wasn’t for the sweat pooling under my armpits.
“It’s so nice to finally meet you,” Dipak’s mother says with a shy smile. “Our son speaks so very highly of you.”
Dipak has dragged me to a family dinner at his favorite restaurant, Playa Verde. I tried to avoid the occasion, but he begged me to come along.
“They don’t think we’re dating, do they?” I asked him earlier in the week.
“Of course not. They just want to meet one of my Santa Barbara friends.”
“And I’m it?”
“Kind of . . .”
The restaurant may be casual, but the dinner feels very formal. Dipak introduced his parents as Mr. and Mrs. Patel, and there were handshakes all the way around.
“Tell us about your family,” his mother says. “Do your parents live nearby?”
“No, they don’t.” I could use a beer, but Dipak warned me his parents frown on alcohol, so I’m sipping an ice tea instead.
“Where do they live?” Dipak’s mom is way tinier than he is. I doubt she’s even five feet tall. She sits perfectly straight, shoulders back, chin up, dark hair piled atop her head. She’s dressed in a red-and-gold sari that makes her look like an exotic queen.
“In Bakersfield,” I reply, hoping that ends the subject.
“We know Bakersfield very well,” Mrs. Patel says cheerily. “It’s not so far from us. Is that where your family comes from?”
“They did.”
“But they don’t live there now?”
I shift uncomfortably in my seat. “I don’t think so. Not anymore.”
“You don’t know?” Mr. Patel’s dark eyes search mine, his face molded in concern.
“Dad . . . ,” Dipak says.
“Let the girl tell her story.”
“I was adopted,” I say. “And it didn’t work out.” I bite into a tortilla chip and yearn for a dozen more.
“Adopted?” Mrs. Patel looks confused. “So your birth parents have passed?”
Dipak squirms in his seat. “Jesus, Mom, that’s enough.”
“Don’t swear at your mother,” Mr. Patel snaps. He turns his attention to me. “So why weren’t you wanted? By your birth parents, I mean.”
“Dad!” Dipak covers his face with his hands. “You can’t ask those kinds of questions in America.”
“It’s okay,” I say, although it’s not. “I wish I knew the answer to that question, but I don’t.”
“So no family?”
“No family.”
The Patels glance at each other. I’ve just failed test number one. Number two if you count my size.
“Sorry, Crystal,” Dipak whispers in my ear.
“It’s okay.”
The waitress arrives with our food. Enchiladas for the Patels, a mixed-green salad for me. I’m not sure why I ordered the diet platter. These people aren’t that dumb.
“What about college?” Mrs. Patel tries. “Did you attend UCLA with Dipak?”
More torture. “I went to Bakersfield College.”
<
br /> “A community college?”
“Be nice, Dad,” Dipak tries. “You never even went to college. And besides, Crystal’s way smarter than me.”
Mr. Patel sets down his fork. “If I had grown up in this great country and had all of your advantages, I would have worked very hard and attended Stanford, Harvard, or MIT.”
Dipak leans close. “My dad thinks UCLA is a second-rate school.”
“It is a public institution,” Mr. Patel says, “is it not?”
“Come on, Dad. It’s one of the best.”
“So you say.”
Dipak shakes his head.
I take a huge bite of salad and feel a sudden sense of doom.
“Crystal?”
I haven’t heard that voice in years, yet I recognize it right away. Marco.
I consider spitting my food into my napkin, but I choke it down and follow up with gulps of ice tea that dribble down my chin onto my neck.
“Heimlich?” Marco jokes.
I look up into Marco’s doe-like eyes, and my past rears dark and ugly. His arms are as muscular as ever, his waist still flat as a wall. I’m shocked to see he’s dressed in Santa Barbara police officer blues. “Hello,” I reply in a surly tone. Now please just go away.
“I’ve been wondering what you were up to. Mind if I join you for a moment?” He doesn’t wait for an answer and pulls up a chair.
The booth suddenly feels small—like I’ve gained twenty pounds while I sat. Dipak and his parents haven’t moved or said a word.
“Pardon me for interrupting,” Marco says. “I’m Officer Marco Castagnola. Crystal and I go way back.” His smile is big and wide, a slash of white in his darkly handsome face. I try dabbing at my mouth with my napkin and hope that lettuce doesn’t hang from my teeth.
Mrs. Patel recovers first. “Very nice to meet you. This is my husband, Mr. Patel. And our son, Dipak. He went to UCLA and is now a bank executive.”
Dipak shifts uncomfortably. “I’m not an executive, Mom. I’m only a—”
“Shush,” Mr. Patel says with a wave of his hand. “Never correct your mother in front of a stranger.”
“Are you from around here?” Marco asks.
“We live in Mojave,” Mr. Patel replies, sounding cautious. “We’ve come to Santa Barbara to visit our son. We’re here to see the Fiesta parade.”
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