by Stacy Finz
Chapter 6
Griffin Parks stood at the seventh hole of the Sierra Heights Golf Course, taking in the view. The subdivision of elegant mountain homes resembled a freakin’ ghost town. All that was missing was the tumbleweed.
But his financial adviser said he needed to invest, create a diverse portfolio, or some crap like that. Financial adviser. Wasn’t that a hoot?
Five months ago, Griffin hadn’t had a pot to piss in, just an ancient Airstream trailer that he towed from town to town with a similarly ancient Ford pickup truck. Home sweet home.
Now he drove a Ducati Superleggera. There were only five hundred of the motorcycles in the world. He also had a Range Rover parked at his condo in Malibu. As it turned out, he hated LA. Too much smog, congestion, and people. So maybe he’d flip the condo for a profit.
If he didn’t want to, he never had to work again. That scared the hell out of him, because it would be easy to do. Just kick it on a beach somewhere. Hell yeah. But it seemed chickenshit to roll up like that. What kind of man retires at twenty-six?
His dream, actually, had always been to build custom bikes. Like his Ducati, only better. Thanks to his long-lost daddy, the Ramsey band of the Wigluk Nation, and Indian gaming, he had plenty of loot to do it.
He walked back up to the pro shop, which was shuttered tighter than a bank on Sunday. Golf? He’d never played once in his life, and something told him without the miniature windmills and fake castles he wouldn’t like it.
Griff circled the pool. On a hot day like this it should be filled with people swimming. But the water had turned a disgusting green. There were probably things floating in there that Griffin didn’t want to know about. The clubhouse reminded him of one of those ski lodges in Aspen that he’d seen on the Lifestyle Network.
Morris, his financial planner, said the builders went broke, failed to pay their subs, and the development fell into bankruptcy. No homes could be sold until the liens were lifted.
Too bad, because it was a pretty righteous place. In the snow, he bet it would look like a Christmas card. Icicle lights hanging off the eves of the big houses, families decorating their trees, kids snowmobiling.
The developers wanted to unload the place on someone who could clear their debts. That way they could get the hell out of Dodge without completely losing their shirts. Morris thought Griff could get the subdivision for a song. A song by Morris’s standards was anything under a hundred mil.
The trick would be selling the eighty homes. Nugget was a three-hour drive from Sacramento, four from the Bay Area, and eight from Los Angeles. Commerce in Nugget was limited to the railroad, ranching, and tourism. The bulk of the jobs were in Reno. But that was fifty miles away.
So these were mighty pricey vacation homes for a place that didn’t have a lot of cachet.
But Griff had loved the little town the first time he’d seen it. He and his mother had come for a weekend one winter when they were living in Reno. At fourteen all he’d wanted to do was see the snow. One of his mother’s fellow dealers at the Eldorado lent them his cabin. The trip had been magical; away from the crappy motel they’d been living in, where the stench of diesel from the neighboring truck stop permanently filled the air. Here, it was the smell of pine and everything wholesome.
For the next four years his mother had dragged him from the seedy slums of Bakersfield to the even seedier slums of Tinseltown. But he’d never forgotten Nugget, vowing to come back the first chance he got. It had taken more than a decade, but here he was.
Griffin hiked back to the parking lot, deciding that he’d wander the subdivision streets for a while. Carole, the real estate agent, had offered to open a few of the houses. But for now, he just wanted to get a lay of the land.
An International Harvester Scout that hadn’t been there before sat in a space next to his Ducati. You didn’t see many of those around anymore. The four-wheel-drives were like the world’s first SUVs.
Someone was flooding the engine from the sound of it. The motor kept hiccupping to a near start, then sputtering out.
“Stop!” He jogged up to the truck’s open window, where a woman continued to crank the engine and floor the gas. “If you don’t give it a rest, you’ll never get the truck started.”
Three things he noticed about the woman right off the bat. She was beautiful, she was crying, and she was definitely jailbait.
“Hey, hey,” he said. “It’s okay. I’ll get it going for you. These old gals are just a bit temperamental.”
Through tears she was eyeballing the chain tat that wrapped around his bicep, and looking a little leery. “That’s okay, I’ll call my brother,” she said.
“Okay. Suit yourself, but I’m a really good mechanic. People in LA pay me big bucks to get under their hoods.” Yeah, like that didn’t make him sound like a perv.
But she smiled, and man, the woman knocked his socks off. That face belonged to an angel. Big brown eyes with thick curly lashes, smooth olive skin, and a little dimple in her left cheek.
It took him a while to find his voice, but when he finally did, he said, “You sent too much fuel into the engine.”
“I know,” she said. “I’ve done it before. The car’s a beast. If you don’t give it enough gas it won’t start. If you give it too much it stalls.”
He nodded. “Let’s give it fifteen minutes before trying again. When was the last time you got a tune-up?”
She shrugged, wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, and hopped out of the Scout. In a pair of white cutoffs, a tank top, and flip-flops, she dressed like 90 percent of the girls in LA. Yet there he stood, drooling.
“It was my father’s car. He was sick for a long time, so probably not in a while. I’ll tell my brother to bring it into the shop.”
“Are there a lot of mechanics around here?”
“I only know of one, at the Nugget Gas and Go. But the gas station’s for sale. The guy who owns it is really old. Half the time he keeps it closed because his rheumatoid arthritis is bothering him.”
“Oh yeah?” That caught his attention. “Where’s the Gas and Go?”
“Downtown Nugget, near the market.”
Intrigued, he made a note to swing by the station later and take a look. “Why you hanging out in the Sierra Heights parking lot?”
Again she gave him that sad half shrug. “This is where I learned to drive. I guess I was feeling nostalgic.”
He grinned. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you seem a little young to be feeling”—with his fingers he made air quotes—“nostalgic.”
“Yesterday was my father’s funeral. I was just remembering how he and my little brother were in the backseat, cheering me on, while my sister-in-law taught me how to drive.” A single tear rolled down her cheek and it took all of Griff’s self-control not to wipe it away.
Jailbait, dude.
“That sucks about your dad.”
“Yeah.” She sniffled. “So what are you doing here? The place is closed.”
“Uh, I’m staying in town, saw the fancy entrance while riding my bike, got curious, and decided to take a look around.” It wasn’t that far from the truth. But he didn’t need everyone in Nugget knowing that Money Bags was in town. “What’s the deal here, anyway?”
She looked around the subdivision. “The developers went broke and they can’t sell any of the homes until they pay their subcontractors. Everyone is really angry about it, because it’s just sitting here empty.”
“Seems a shame,” he said. “I’m Griffin Parks, by the way. What’s your name?”
“Lina. Lina Shepard.”
And how old are you, Miss Gorgeous Lina Shepard? “I take it you live around here.”
“My family’s home is up the road. But I’m moving to San Francisco in the fall to attend USF. You staying in town for a while?”
Maybe forever. “I’m not sure yet. I’m on vacation.”
“And you’re from Los Angeles?”
“Yep. But when I was a kid I used
to live in Reno. A long time ago, my mom and I stayed here for a weekend in a little cabin in the woods. I wanted to come back, see if the town was the way I remembered it.”
“Is it?” Lina asked.
“Not this.” He scanned the subdivision. “But, yeah, everything else is pretty much the same.”
She furtively checked out his chain tattoo again. This time, more out of curiosity than caution. “So you’re a professional mechanic, huh?”
“Best in the land,” he said, and grinned. “We can probably try your truck now.”
“Okay.” She scooted back into the driver’s seat and stuck her key into the ignition.
“Easy now,” he warned. “Just take the gas pedal down halfway.”
The engine spat and stumbled, but it finally started.
“Yay!” Lina beamed, and it went straight to his gut. Who said there was no such thing as love at first sight? “Thank you.”
“I didn’t do anything. But don’t forget to get a tune-up,” he told her.
“I won’t.” She rested her elbows on the door as she hung halfway out the window. “Maybe I’ll see you around town.”
“Maybe.” He smiled. But Griffin had already done the math. If Lina was just starting college, she couldn’t be more than eighteen.
That meant he’d be avoiding her like the plague. “Drive carefully,” he called, and waved.
Someone kept leaving jugs of fresh milk and baskets of warm eggs at Emily’s front door.
She suspected that Cody made the clandestine deliveries. Although the farm-fresh offerings were much appreciated, and came in handy, especially when it saved Emily a trip to town, she didn’t feel right about accepting them.
Not without paying.
So before the kids got home from camp, she trudged over to the big house, climbed the porch stairs, and knocked on the door. Clay answered, pulling a shirt over his wet hair. No boots. His feet were bare. The man, Emily decided, should sell the ranch and take up modeling. He could make a fortune.
“You got a minute?” she asked, and he ushered her inside.
Emily loved the interior of the old house on sight. Probably built in the late eighteen hundreds, it was big, sunny, and dreamy—just like its owner. A middle-aged woman ran a vacuum cleaner over the oak floors in the great room. Another woman sprayed lemon Pledge on an antique bookcase and dusted. From the home’s shipshape appearance, she got the sense that the cleaning ladies were here a lot.
Clay motioned for her to follow him to the other side of the house, into the kitchen, where it was quiet. The room was dated but filled with possibilities. If Emily had her druthers, the vintage Wedgewood double oven, a showstopper, would stay. As would the farm sink and the original mullion-glass cabinets. But the chipped tile countertops, the old refrigerator and dishwasher, and the icky linoleum floors—gone. The best part was its size. Huge. With a separate butler’s pantry and larder.
She was surprised that Clay’s late wife hadn’t remodeled the room. She’d done such a lovely job with the barn.
A long farm table ran the length of the south wall, which had a bank of windows. The light and view of the Sierra dazzled her. What a great place to have breakfast.
Clay pulled out a stool for her at the center island. “Want some coffee? A soda?”
“Coffee sounds good.” She spotted a nearly full pot and an Italian coffeemaker she happened to know retailed for about three thousand bucks. It seemed a bit incongruous with the outdated appliances. “Nice machine you have there.”
“You want it? It’s yours.”
She was a little taken aback by the hostility she heard in his voice. Over a coffeemaker, no less? “You don’t like it?”
“That would be an understatement. It takes a PhD to work, the coffee’s lukewarm, and the thing is pretentious.” She couldn’t argue with him on that.
“You could probably sell it on eBay,” Emily said.
“Yup.” He poured her a cup and pushed over a server with cream and sugar. “Jen bought it. She liked sizzle and I just like steak. Some of our best fights were over that coffeemaker.”
Emily wasn’t sure if he’d said that fondly or with malice. “Well, you have a lovely kitchen.”
Clay looked around the room, eyeing it with affection. “She wanted to change it. We fought over that too. How about you and your ex, you fight over coffeemakers?”
She and Drew had had their fair share of arguments. Nothing unhealthy. Just silly squabbles over inanities like in-laws and forgetting to take the garbage out. But after their daughter disappeared, they’d hardly talked, let alone quarreled. The only fight she had left in her was for Hope.
“Oh, you know, we had our moments,” she said.
He looked dubious and was on the verge of asking her more about Drew. She could almost see his lips forming a question. But a warning must’ve flickered on her face, because he stopped himself and changed the subject. “That was nice of you to help out yesterday at the Shepards’. Your lasagna was fantastic, by the way. Best dish there.”
“Thanks.” People always made a big deal over her cooking. The lasagna was so simple she could make it in her sleep, but for some reason his compliment inordinately pleased her. “Speaking of food, someone has been leaving me fresh eggs and milk. I have a sneaking suspicion that it’s coming from your cow and your chickens.”
“No kidding,” he said, and chuckled.
“It’s not you, right?”
“Not me—Scout’s honor.” He held up three fingers. “And I suspect we can rule out Justin.”
“Definitely not Justin.” She laughed. “Which leaves Cody. The day he and I spent together, we baked cookies. He went to the chicken coop to get fresh eggs because I was out. I made a big fuss about how great they were. But you need to tell him to stop. If I tell him, it’ll hurt his feelings.”
“Why? You don’t need milk and eggs?”
“It’s not that,” she said. “It’s just . . . that’s got to add up . . . cost-wise.”
He laughed. “Emily, I don’t sell eggs. I’m in the cattle business. The milk, the eggs, the fruit, the nuts, those are for anyone on the ranch. And if my son wants to give a lady a gift, far be it from me to tell him he can’t.”
“Are you sure?” She really did love cooking with fresh staples.
“Emily, help yourself to whatever we have here.”
How ’bout you? Oh jeez, where had that come from?
“The barn working out for you okay?” he asked.
“It’s great.” Other than naughty thoughts about her landlord, she hadn’t felt this tranquil in a long time. Maybe this place, with its serenity and beauty, would help her heal.
“Justin hasn’t been over to the Hot Spot, bothering you?” Clay asked.
“Not at all.” Emily deliberated on whether to pry, and found she couldn’t help herself. “You said that Cody was seeing a therapist for his anxiety. I was just wondering if maybe Justin was seeing someone too? A grief counselor?”
Clay pulled a face. “I’m afraid he’s a little like his old man—not much good with talking about his feelings. But we’re working on that. I’m taking him camping this weekend. Just the two of us. Cody’s gonna stay with his buddy Sam, who could use a friend right now. How about you, have any plans?”
She let out a half laugh. “Just a hot date with a cookbook deadline.”
And her first crime victims support group meeting.
When Griffin got back to the Lumber Baron he considered calling Morris about Sierra Heights, but wanted to mull it over for a bit. What the hell did he know about mini mansions and golf courses? But something that pretty girl, Lina, had said had given him an idea and he wanted to check it out first.
He’d pulled into town last night when it had been too dark to look around the hotel, so he wandered the common areas of the inn, admiring the architecture and furnishings. His room was fantastic. Not overly large, but it had a four-poster bed with the best mattress he’d ever slept on and a spa tub
. The awesome views of the surrounding mountains were what he most remembered from his trip here as a kid.
Since coming into his windfall, he’d stayed at several five-star hotels. This place was by far the classiest. Not too glitzy. Understated is how he would describe it. The sophisticated Lumber Baron didn’t exactly match the downtown’s working-class vibe, though.
Funny, he remembered Nugget as being a bit more upscale. Then again, he’d been living in a shit hole at the time, so by comparison the town probably seemed like Disneyland. But that burger joint, the Bun Boy, was still here and still had the best soft-serve ice cream he’d ever had.
So it was all good.
The best part of Nugget: no traffic jams, no drive-by shootings, and no assholes. At least not from what he had encountered so far. Yeah, a guy could get used to the natural beauty and solitude of a place like this.
He checked his phone for messages, and sure enough, Morris wanted to know what he thought of the development. The old guy was the best thing that had ever happened to Griff. A year ago, Griffin had fixed his Bentley, and when the time came, Morris had fixed Griff’s life.
Everyone at Julio’s European Auto Repair knew that Morris Segal was the money man to the stars. Supposedly, Harrison Ford didn’t make a financial move without Morris’s blessing.
When he came into the shop, where he regularly brought his and his wife’s cars, Morris wore tailored suits from Italy and shoes that cost more than Griff made in a year.
But he treated the mechanics with respect, knew everyone by name, and doled out free financial advice to anyone who asked. It was penny-ante stuff, like How much should I be socking away in my 401k each paycheck? Morris, however, weighed the questions with the same importance he would a billion-dollar deal.
That’s why, when Griffin learned about his trust, he went to Morris. Most people would probably call Griff a whiner, but becoming a zillionaire could twist a guy up. Suddenly, everyone wanted a piece of you, and finding balance in a world where you can have anything you want took enormous maturity. Morris had that in spades.