by Cassie Page
Darling Valley was the town nestled in the hills of Marin County favored by the uber-wealthy to give them a breather from the pressures of Silicon Valley and Wall Street. Some called it the Newport of the twenty-first century. The Wall Street Journal had dubbed it Billionaire Hollow.
Normally, Olivia would never launch two huge projects in one week. Yet, she had no control over the date of the Fredericks’ anniversary, nor the date the Governor was free for the groundbreaking ceremony. Sometimes she doubted she was in charge of anything.
Cody was at the curb leaning against the rust-speckled passenger door of his truck. His big welcoming grin helped smooth out Olivia’s anxiety. Especially when he gave a slight, admiring bow. Today was the first time she’d worn a suit since she’d left LA, the reason for the surprise on Cody’s face when she appeared in actual business attire. She’d chosen Chanel with Prada shoes to keep up with the Jones’s. Her volunteering efforts of the past months had paid off. Several women from the boards of three important charities had agreed to attend. Each of them a retired CEO from Silicon Valley. Each of them wore Chanel and Prada heels to events such as this as if it were the school uniform. Her stilettos, however, were in her tote bag for later. The site was still muddy from an unexpected storm; she’d thrash around in rain boots while she finished up the last minute arrangements.
Cody bent low and waved a pretend feathered hat at her in a Three Muskateer-ish pass and repass. “Greetings, my lady of coolness. Doth giveth thy humble servant the honor of driving thy chariot?”
Cody had just seen his first Shakespeare film. He’d intended to download Denzel’s flick, Training Day, but the actor’s Much Ado About Nothing came up. Now Cody was totally into the weird way the actors spoke.
Olivia gave him the once over. “No, we’ll take my wheels. I’ll drive while you comb your hair and tuck in your shirt. I’ve told you, oh humble servant, the Governor is going to be there with a lot of potential clients. Let’s look like we know what we’re doing. And if you want to spiff up your English, try watching Orlando Bloom movies for a change.”
“My lady doth be picky, picky, picky today,” he said, grinning as he trailed after his boss to her only slightly newer Toyota 4x4 in the driveway.
Olivia couldn’t let him see her laughing. She snapped over her shoulder, “I heard that. Some of the best people are control freaks. It’s the only way anything gets done in this world.”
Cody stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Hmm,” he said loudly. “Methinks I’ve heard that before, milady.”
He snapped his fingers. A light bulb going off. “Oh, yes, only every day since this gig started.”
Olivia ignored him. If they fell into their joking routine she would lose her focus. She had too much to do today, all of it too important. She needed to be in control. Which she was sure she would have been if she had not forgotten to meditate.
Cody looked like a typical twenty-something slacker on the outside, but he was utterly devoted to Olivia. Her general handyman and gofer, he was attending the groundbreaking only because she promised to pay him, a little insurance against empty seats when the politicians gave their speeches. When he tried to round up a few more bodies to reinforce the appearance of public support for the project, his friends at the diner said, “Are you kidding me, bro? Waste my time listening to a bunch of suits?”
Olivia threw her purse and the programs into her truck and waved him towards the garage in the back, shivering a bit. The coastal fog was making for a nippy morning. “Before we go I need you to help me with the shovels the bigwigs will use. They’re in the garage. It took me hours last night to tie pretty bows on each of them.”
The participants had been informed they could take their shovel home as a souvenir. The handles were engraved with “The Bacon-Paatz Classic Car and Fine Art Museum, Darling Valley, California, and the date.
As Olivia had tied on the ribbons, she fantasized seeing one of them show up on the Antiques Road Show when she was an old lady, heirlooms prized by the descendants of the men and women inaugurating this auspicious building. Regardless of what that snooty blogger had said.
Cody jogged ahead of her down the driveway. “I bet you miss Hank. She would have done all that for you.”
“You know it. I can’t believe she left on such short notice.”
Henrietta, Hank for short, came on board as an intern to help Olivia with the grunt work in the office when she landed the museum job. Two weeks ago, discovering she was pregnant with her first child, Hank and her husband had relocated to another state where they could afford to buy a home. Darling Valley was way out of their price range. It was way out of most people’s price range. Cody was bearing the brunt of the drudgery that had piled up until Olivia found a replacement for her.
When the last shovel was stowed in the truck, Cody pointed to the red, white and blue ribbons. “You’re playing the patriotic card?”
“I’ll play any card that helps this go off without a hitch,” Olivia said, hiking up her skirt for the big step up into her truck. “Did I tell you Mr. Cavelli finally agreed last night to sing God Bless America?”
Cavelli was a famous opera singer who had retired to one of Darling Valley’s mansions.
“I’m hoping that’s what people will remember about the site when the heavy duty construction gets underway and dump trucks are going up and down Darling Boulevard. It’s called public relations, Cody. The project is going to disrupt traffic for quite a while. Earth movers, dump trucks, the whole nine yards. We need to keep people on our side.”
Cody’s eyes popped in approval. “How’d you snag the big guy?”
Olivia stage whispered behind her hand. “Don’t tell. But he’s not from Rome as his PR people always claimed. Charles Bacon knew that they both came from the same working class town in New Jersey and that did the trick. Maestro Cavelli made me promise not to blow his cover. Actually, he’s a really gracious man. I have him last on the program to ensure the media sticks around until the end. No one wants to miss that photo op.”
Olivia put her truck in reverse and backed out of her driveway. “Let’s go over the punch list for the Fredericks’ cabana project on Friday. Tent?”
“Check, your ladyship,” answered Cody. “Angela emailed me that she has her biggest tent reserved for us.”
Olivia nodded her approval. “Switch embossed glass door in the master bathroom with the solid door in La Duxieme Cave.”
Cody nodded back. “Check. The bathroom is covered and the wine cellar is visible.”
Before Olivia could go any further, her phone rang. She was not wearing a Bluetooth device, so Cody reached into her purse for it. He showed her the caller, Mrs. Fredericks, the pool house client.
Olivia mouthed yes and Cody connected the call and put it on speaker.
Olivia answered in her brightest voice. “Mrs. Fredericks. How are you this morning?”
Her client was her usual frustrated self, which could only mean more work for Olivia.
“I’m devastated, Olivia,” Mrs. Fredericks said. “You have to come over here right now. I can’t cope with this cabana construction any longer. I’m ready to divorce Richard, sell this monstrosity of a house and join a convent.”
Olivia forced a chuckle into her voice. “I’d rethink selling the house just yet, Mrs. Fredericks. The market is coming back.”
Marguerite Fredericks did not allow her underlings to address her with chummy first names. She kept an aristocratic distance from her caterers, decorators and hairdressers. Olivia resented it, but observed it.
“It’s Richard,” Mrs. Fredericks said with obvious annoyance. “He insists the color is off in the downstairs library.”
Olivia gritted her teeth. Mrs. Fredericks blamed her husband every time she wanted to change a design element.
Patiently, Olivia explained what Marguerite already knew. “You know that the Venetian plaster is more or less permanent. What is his problem with the color? Perhaps I can talk to him.”
Olivia almost choked. “Cerulean Sky? That’s the color Hamish Walsh of Valley Interiors came up with for that house featured in Architectural Digest. Has he been advising you on our project? As you know, it would be very unprofessional for him to step in on a competitor’s job.”
“Of course he’s not advising me, dear. But we know each other. We talk.”
Olivia shook her head in disgust at Cody. She knew what was going on. Mrs. Fredericks was still shopping for designers. Calling in Hamish because of his spread in the latest issue of the prestigious magazine.
Olivia didn’t mind competition, but Hamish was unscrupulous. He’d had his chance to win the project when the job went out for bid, but Olivia had won it fair and square. Now he was trying to sabotage her work. And her client knew exactly what was going on. She had founded her own online fashion website and made a fortune. If anyone knew how treacherous and backstabbing business could be, it was Marguerite Fredericks. Olivia would have to fight for her job. It was too big to let some local rogue smear her hard work. She put on her best conciliatory voice.
“Mrs. Fredericks, why don’t I come over this afternoon? I’m sure I can come up with a solution that pleases both you and your husband. I have the groundbreaking ceremony this morning. I’m so sorry you can’t make it, but I’m free after lunch with the Governor.”
Mrs. Fredericks resisted Olivia’s efforts to get her involved in the museum. Her name could draw donors with deep pockets. Olivia never got a reason, but she assumed an auto museum was too lowbrow for Marguerite. Olivia threw in the name-dropping to remind the woman that while Olivia may be a relative newcomer to Darling Valley, she was no slouch. She had friends in high places, too.
It did the trick and she finished up the call with, “Great. I’ll come by at two this afternoon. Looking forward to it, Mrs. Fredericks.”
Cody cut the call and Olivia bellowed, “THAT SCOUNDREL! Hamish Walsh doesn’t walk, he slithers. Do you know what he did?”
Cody rolled his eyes and settled in to listen to a diatribe about her ladyship’s chief competition.
Like multi-taskers everywhere, Olivia took care of several other calls on the way to the construction site. She dropped the truck keys into her purse and reached for her hard hat resting at Cody’s feet, all the while waving to Scott Pierce standing at the chain link fence. She was happy to see that he had finally covered it with the long banner displaying the logo of the museum and names of the principals on the project. Her ringing phone stopped her again, which this time put a big smile on her face. It was Tuesday, her tea leaf reading BFF in LA who also gave Olivia spot-on advice when she was in a jam.
“Tues! Are you here? At the site I mean? You’re early.” Olivia looked around for her friend’s rental car, most likely a Mercedes she couldn’t really afford. “I don’t see you. Where are you? Cody and I just drove up. We’re parked by the fence. And you’re dressing like a normal person, right? No sartorial shocks?”
Tuesday was known for an outrageous fashion sense that put her ahead of the curve in LA but caused a lot of gossip when she visited conservative Darling Valley.
In a frantic voice, Tuesday cried, “Holy milkshake, Ollie Mollie, clothes are the last of my worries. I’m still down here on the 405 in an airport shuttle. There’s a trailer load of cows overturned on the freeway. I feel like I’m in the middle of a Got Milk commercial.”
Olivia could hear mooing and lowing in the background. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m serious. If I weren’t so mad at missing your celebration, it would be funny. The CHP is trying to round up the cows but those poor babies are freaking out in all this traffic. Everyone’s blasting their horns at them and it’s causing a stampede. The officers are running to their squad cars for dear life. I just heard on the news that we’re waiting for some real cowboys to arrive by helicopter and round them up. Traffic is at a dead stop. I don’t know when I’ll get to the airport. I’ll get the soonest plane out.”
Olivia said, “Cows on the freeway? Is this a joke?”
Tuesday was frantic. “Olivia! I gotta go. Bossie is heading right for me. Yikes. Don’t hit our van! Git along little doggie. Shoo.”
Then the line went dead. “This is a bad omen,” Olivia said to Cody. “It makes two so far this morning.”
1:2
“Watch it, lady.”
Olivia jumped out of the way as two men jockeyed the enormous nine by twelve foot architectural rendering of the finished museum over to the podium. A third guy was directing them, waving his arms like he was guiding a cruise ship into port.
Coming onto the site was always a high for Olivia, but she knew to stay out of the way of the workers. This was true on small remodeling jobs as well as big ones. The museum, however, was special.
Olivia’s official title was project manager, but she was more like a therapist, babysitter, PR grunt, fundraiser and party planner all rolled into one, with NFL referee thrown in for good measure when Scott Pierce and Russ Bower, the contractor and architect, were in the same room.
Charles Bacon had picked Olivia over all the other design firms in town to handle the details of his museum. It was already a feather in her cap that he had passed over bids from LA and San Francisco shops.
She had helped choose the judges for the committee tasked with finding an architect; sent out requests for proposals to top architectural firms around the country; and consulted on the final design award.
Every detail of the groundbreaking ceremony was her doing, from snagging the governor to dig a shovelful of earth to coaching Charles Bacon on toning down his Jersey accent when he approached potential donors. She had even personally selected the assortment of pastries from The Salted Caramel that she knew would most please the attendees. She told Cody she would not stand for any negative press, not even for a stale croissant or coffee gone cold.
Scott Pierce was the general contractor and ruled supreme over the actual construction of the museum, a four-story world-class homage to antique cars, fine art and Charles Bacon’s late wife. Scott was in charge of the heavy lifting. But Olivia, a seasoned architect-designer in her former life in LA, knew her way around digging foundations and selecting rebar so that everyone connected with the project understood she would be Charles Bacon’s eyes and ears for every phase of development, including planning the Ribbon Cutting Ceremony and Donor’s Inaugural Dinner, a little more than a year from now.
Olivia and Charles had become friends sharing Friday night pizzas and movies in her living room in the early days when they both found it hard to crack DV’s social ice. Eventually, those evenings turned into planning sessions, during which Olivia convinced Charles to set up a tuition-free auto restoration trade school on the premises. He would hire maintenance workers and staff from the rolls of disadvantaged youth living in nearby towns.
This made him a job creator for the depressed areas of Marin. Charles sweetened the pot when he decided to assist applicants by offering a stipend to those who needed to obtain a high school diploma or equivalent before they met the entrance requirements. This also made the project eligible for State funds.
Next, the museum evolved to include a small research hub to experiment with energy efficient vehicles. This interested the FTA, the Federal Transportation Authority, who liked the idea of conducting transportation studies on the site. Thus, Olivia had been able to lobby the state and the Feds to provide some of the funding for the antique car museum to house Charles Bacon’s massive collection. Little did they know the twists and turns this would soon cause, but at the moment, they thought they had scored.
Once they had the State and Fed’s approval, Charles had found it much easier to find private backers for his project.
Though Charles and local banks provided the bulk of the financing, he and Olivia
were successful in convincing DV’s many residents with famously deep pockets to lend their support. Much like sports arenas these days, for a sufficiently large donation, their names would be forever immortalized over the café, gift shop, theaters and rooms for various permanent displays.
Charles was fast becoming a local hero. He had tried to remain private and keep the source of his wealth a secret, but it didn’t take long for the press to discover his story.
Initially, Darling Valley’s resistance to new residents made it hard for someone as uncultured as Charles to find acceptance. On first meeting, people assumed he was one of the blue-collar workers living down in the flats near the old quarry and harbor. But after a Vanity Fair spread featured his sudden wealth and good looks--he resembled a young George Clooney--and his neighbors realized how many zeros Charles Bacon had in his bank accounts, they forgave his dems, dose and toity-toids and reluctantly accepted him in the picturesque hills.
The museum was located on a secluded piece of property on the edge of Darling Valley with no sign of life for at least a mile. The area was serene, the road winding past the site climbed into the foothills and when completed, the building would soar out of a grove of late growth redwoods, native oaks and pines. It was a perfect spot in the shadow of the majestic local landmark, Mt. Tamalpais, with a design that enhanced the natural splendor of the location. With help from the Governor, necessary approvals from diverse government agencies allowed the project to move forward with unheard of speed. A meditation center would nestle at the edge of the forest with a plaque dedicating it to Ellie.
They’d had to cut down a number of trees to make room for the several buildings that would comprise the museum and its outbuildings, a feat of diplomacy between Olivia, environmental groups and the Governor’s office worthy of middle east peace negotiations. Her strategy had been to involve the Governor as much as possible as backup when the various permit agencies sat on their hands. Olivia and Charles wanted this project on a fast track. Her plan had worked.