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15

K at came home from the hospital before dawn, collapsed onto her couch, and fell asleep. Hours later she woke up ravenous, found some rigatoni, boiled it and added canned sauce, then wolfed down several bites standing at the counter like a pathetic, lonely person.

On the plus side, nobody was around to shame her into a normal breakfast.

Her phone rang. She checked the clock. “Kat here,” she said. “It’s seven-thirty in the morning and you better be calling with good news or else, Raoul.”

“Hiya, it’s me.”

“You’re up at the crack, Zak. I’m not sure I approve.”

“So are you. Or were you sleeping?”

“Well. No.”

“I work out before work. Did we have a date last night? Or was that just magical thinking on my part?”

“We did? We did!” She thought guiltily about also making arrangements with Ray. “But my sister had a baby instead.” She told him about her evening.

“Ah, good. Then it’s not my choice of movie. Or that I wore an ugly shirt or have hair growing on my neck.”

She detected a tentative note she found most gratifying.

“I like you, Zak, although now I’ll have to take a closer look at your neck next time we meet.”

“How are your ankles?”

“Totally recovered.”

“Ah, good. You need those to walk, I’m told. You’re beautiful on skates, by the way,” he said. “Graceful.”

“For someone who trips as much as she glides.”

“You’re just-beautiful.”

Oh, so now, at dawn, he was flirting. She heard a horn. “You’re on your way to work?”

“Yeah, and someone cut me off.”

“So you’re gonna show him?”

“Nah.” He paused. “I moved right and let him win.”

“His SUV’s bigger than your SUV?” she guessed.

“Right.”

“I bet Raoul’s gonna load you up with extra tasks because he has a new baby and you don’t.”

He laughed. “No doubt. So, how about tonight?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know? I could come to your place.”

“Probably not. Sorry.” She’d have to reschedule with Ray first.

“So you lied. You did notice the neck hair, didn’t you? You noticed, and now you’ve judged me. You’re thinking, he’s a man who needs a better barber, and that’s not good enough for me.”

“I’m sorry I have to pass on the dinner tonight, Zak. But I swear to God, I am enthusiastic. Soon, okay?”

Her phone getting warm in her hand, she called Jacki at the hospital.

“These places are for sick people, for dying people,” Jacki said. “I want to go home.”

“They’re taking excellent care of you, Jacki,” Kat said, scared at the thought of Jacki coming home with a baby, unable to walk for a couple of weeks.

“Raoul says he can only take a week off. He’s got some gigantic, important, earthshaking business he must attend to after that.”

“My job,” Raoul said faintly in the background.

“He wants to hire someone!” Jacki’s tone was scornful.

Kat said, “Sounds practical to me.”

“I don’t want a stranger in my home.”

Kat took this in, ate another spoonful of rigatoni, and felt a strong desire to hang up. “What are you saying?”

“I have alternatives. Family. You could move in, for example.”

Certainly, she could. She, who had no life to speak of would be absorbed by their vigorously alive family. It was the Buddhist thing to do. Take a leave from work, since Raoul couldn’t. Be good, saintly even. The Buddhists had lots of saints, but they had a hell realm, too.

“When hell freezes, Jacki.”

“Why not?”

“Put Raoul on.”

The phone thunked.

“Yes?”

“I’ll help you find someone,” Kat said.

“Oh, that’s great. I’ll be home all next week, so let’s try to set up some interviews.”

“Jacki’s going to be mad at me, so I’m going. Tell her I have a call on another line.”

“You don’t have another line.”

“Use your creativity, Daddy. You’re going to be needing it. Bye, now.”

She called Ray Jackson.

He didn’t answer his phone. He never answered his phone, and at his office she always got some hard-ass named Denise who wouldn’t leave him a message.

She dressed hurriedly, and drove to her own office.


That morning, still weary from her almost-all-nighter at the hospital, she soldiered through a court appearance that left everyone in the room chilled by the behavior of the disputing parties, a pair of senior-citizen brothers this time, sparring over their deceased parents’ homestead. The handicapped one wanted to continue living there but he wasn’t able to afford to buy out his brother. Unfortunately, you couldn’t fake comps; you couldn’t make a property in Pacific Palisades a property in La Habra, in spite of the similarity between buildings.

Hearing Kat’s figures, the currently resident brother emitted an actual sob, which earned him a frown from the judge and only made the situation worse. The hale brother, stoic up to now, jumped up suddenly. His attorney tugged at his arm while he stood, shaking, shouting, “Get over it. Get on with it!”

Kat sighed as she packed up her briefcase during the afternoon break and slunk out the courtroom doors. It wasn’t always like this. She loved her job. She enjoyed every new property. When first her father, and later his partner, had hired her, she had stuck to filing. Then, she helped compile lists of the houses, which included photographs. At her desk, sticking pictures onto pages that went into binders, she dreamed she lived in these homes. In one life, she drove the V10 truck in the driveway, had a view of the ocean from a top-floor Manhattan Beach condo, and enjoyed a Viking cooktop. In another life, she occupied a shabby thirties bungalow in downtown L.A. next door to screaming neighbors who beat up on each other.

She opened the back door of the Echo, tossing her case into the back seat. She didn’t want to see it again, think about that poor old man whose life had just descended like a kid on an amusement ride, from the airy heights to the brutal lows. He had lived in that house for forty years.

He could move out of the Los Angeles area and buy a house in the Midwest for one-fourth of the money he could make on his half of that unhappy house in Pacific Palisades. Or he could move thirty miles to the Inland Empire, the tentacle of the city that stretched into the superheated San Gabriel Valley, once considered almost uninhabitable with its broiling sun and lack of water, now getting hotter, value-wise, by the day.

Many people commuted from there to L.A. proper every morning. They still came, as they had for sixty years, for the weather, the jobs, the ocean. They stayed because, like addicts, they took sick pleasure in the highs and lows, took pride in the daily stresses. They felt muscular and fit, meeting the challenges of rush hour. Maybe they cut five minutes off their commute by finding a handy side street. Maybe they lived in crowded conditions, but the sun shone and they might make it to the beach one fine summer Saturday.

They all lived as if L.A. was still the paradise it must have been once before they all lived there.

She slammed the door, automatically turned up the fan and hit the a/c button, then hit the freeways, such a lovely name for places where nobody moved, everyone felt trapped, and, rich or poor, you heard traces of the same beautiful, evil siren’s song.


At the office, Ray could not avoid Martin who, wearing a starched shirt and fancy tie as if dressed for executive combat, stood sentry behind Suzanne, awaiting Ray’s arrival.

“Any mail?” Ray asked Suzanne.

“Overnight.” She looked a little flushed.

“Good. Antoniou.” He held an envelope up to the light.

“Did he sign or not?” Martin asked.

Ray, who had hoped to savor the moment privately, found himself frowning. He picked up the letter opener on Suzanne’s desk, the one shaped like a dagger, and ripped it open.

“Ah,” he said, reading the letter inside. “He did.” Astonished, pleased, uncertain how he felt, he tossed the check onto Suzanne’s desk.

“Yahoo!” Suzanne said sourly.

Martin followed him back toward his office. “We have to meet,” Martin said. “You have time right now?”

“In twenty minutes,” Ray said. He had nothing particular planned for those twenty minutes except perhaps to read his mail. He just couldn’t give Martin immediate satisfaction. Every time he saw Martin these days, he kept envisioning that stocky, freckled body squirming upon Leigh’s, saw her hips rising to meet that compact body.

“Look,” Martin said, ignoring him and closing the door. “Let’s be civilized. We have a firm to run. People depend on us. Put it aside for this project, what do you say, Ray?”

“Go away.”

“Come on. Let’s give this occasion its proper due. Here’s our biggest residential project in years for our most potentially notable client. Let’s ride down to the site together before the meeting with Antoniou, okay?”

“Why?”

“Talk about where to put his goddamn columns,” Martin said.

“So you already knew he signed this contract on the basis that I’d redo the design?”

“He mentioned he wasn’t happy. I told him to talk to you again. That you were quite reasonable. I know you’ve been doing some sketching this morning. I’d like to see what you’re coming up with while we’re sitting on the hill. Helps me visualize and wax poetic for the client.”

“Okay. Two o’clock? I’ll meet you there. I have a few things to do before then.”


After lunch, late for reaching Laguna Beach in good time, Ray hit gridlock and frustration. Still, in his car alone he could listen to music, zone out, stay calm. Sitting next to Martin for the nearly two-hour drive would have driven him nuts.

He had been there before so had no trouble finding the site, a steep, forbidding-looking scrub-covered hillside with an earthshaking view of the ocean on Sleepy Hollow Lane, a half-mile up the hill from the beach. He parked on the street, then hiked down, avoiding the ubiquitous poison oak.

Martin sat in the shade of a eucalyptus tree, legs propped on a granite boulder, putting his feet between himself and Ray.

Ray clambered down the dusty hill, then sat on a small rock opposite, not saying a word. He did not want to give his partner easy satisfaction.

“You hate that I’m Antoniou’s man,” Martin said.

Ray shook his head. “You’re personally invested in this project. It’s natural. You’re his buddy. Hope he doesn’t know how little weight you give that word.”

“You want to know more about me and Leigh? Because I have the urge to tell you a few things.”

“Let’s not get distracted.” Ray swept sweat from his forehead with his hand, eyes roaming over the vista, the huge, churning ocean below, the unstable land beneath both of them.

Martin took a deep breath. “You know, I used to admire your relationship. You seemed perfect together.”

“Oh?” Well, what else could he say, with this womanizing jackass asserting such an intensely personal connection. Ray loved Leigh, whatever she had done, and he now loathed his former friend Martin down to dust, down to their most insignificant moments eating suspiciously brown cold-cut sandwiches from crummy neighborhood grocery stores together. They used to confide in each other, he remembered, and the thought made his skin hot, like a bad sunburn.

“You’ve changed a lot,” Martin said.

Ray adjusted himself, moving one leg over the other, pulling his sunglasses over his eyes. In the afternoon, the breeze off the ocean could be redefined as wind. No need to shiver. This wind blew hot, like the deadly Santa Anas that had wiped out much of this town in 1993.

“I’m not saying she didn’t love you,” Martin continued. “But your detachment made her vulnerable, buddy.”

“Shut up, Martin, or I’ll have to kill you.”

“We’ve been friends for a long time.”

“Martin, working with you at all right now is a strain. Now let’s get down to the issues about this project and leave Leigh out of it.”

“I was interviewed by a police detective yesterday. I didn’t say anything that would hurt you. I mean, I don’t know anything about Leigh, really, or your personal affairs. Actually, he was looking at me and asking me questions that I didn’t like at all. As if I might somehow be responsible for Leigh’s disappearance, because we-you know, broke up.”

The words hung heavily in the air, while Ray thought to himself, It can’t be. He examined his partner, sitting in the pressed tan slacks that his wife picked up from the cleaners for him, the three-hundred-dollar sunglasses that Martin insisted were the cheapest way to look like a mover for the clients, by concealing his eyes.

“Maybe they know something I ought to know,” Ray said to Martin.

Who spread his hands and said shakily, “I swear to you, I have not seen her since last Wednesday.”

“You could swear from now until the end of the world and nobody would believe you at this point, Martin.”

“Yeah, well, you’re the one who did it, if anyone did anything.”

“Maybe it was your wife.”

“My wife?”

“I heard,” he lied meanly, “somebody called her about Suzanne. Maybe someone called her about Leigh.”

Martin looked stricken. “No. They wouldn’t dare.”

“But as you say,” Ray said, “we have a home to design. Shall we get back on topic?”

Martin’s face blackened. He walked out to the bluff and his pants whipped in the wind as he took out a cigar and tried to light it. Ray followed him with the plans and set them on a flat rock with a stone to keep them down. “I need to get back,” he said. “Say what you want to say.”

“Have you talked to Antoniou about these ideas you sketched out and threw at me this morning?”

“No.”

“Did you even consider what he wanted before you spent hours spinning these webs?”

“I heard what you both had to say about what he wants. Denise and I came up with these preliminary ideas. About what he needs.”

“There isn’t a fucking white column in sight on those sketches,” Martin said. “I would describe this, Ray, as Tokyo postindustrial crossed with Italian Futuristic. What makes you dream, or suspect, or imagine in your most outrageous fantasy, you might convince this client to build this crazy shit? Because, Ray, he’s an old, conservative Greek dude with strong opinions.”

“He signed. He paid. He’ll love it. I’m the architect.”

Martin’s fingers drummed the rock that held Ray’s plans. A breeze picked them up. His hand came down to hold them in place momentarily, then released them to the wind. They blew away, toward the edge. Ray went after them.

“He signed because I talked him into it, Ray, and we’re giving the man what he wants. Might as well toss that dreamy crap you’ve drawn here because these look to me like plans for someone else’s dream house. Oh, it’ll make a lovely spread in some magazine. I know that means something to you. Unfortunately, your design bears no resemblance whatsoever to a home for a family.”

Ray plunked down a few rocks to weight his plans down, then peered at them, putting his hands in his pockets. The new sketches were changed very little from the old sketches. In his mind, fully realized, sat a fabulous, innovative three-story building that traveled beyond Herzog & de Meuron and Fong & Chan. Featuring a tower encased in steel mesh, it made boxiness sexy, and was a unique home ideally suited to this client and his family. “I wouldn’t expect you to recognize-”

“What? Your genius?” Martin laughed, then shook his head. “We meet, we discuss, then you go do whatever the hell you want.” He pulled out a folder full of cuttings from architectural and travel magazines from a briefcase he had propped behind him. “Antoniou specifically mentioned Santorini, correct? Where his parents had a villa. Where he grew up.”

“You of all people know clients have ideas that are fetal, unformed. They ask for columns. They request turrets. They despise the modern. They rail against all kinds of things in advance, but your job is to believe in your vision for their very special, unusual, inimitable home, so you must convince them to let you build. Then they comprehend your design and love what you’ve done.”

“We’re not talking about stucco walls versus sheetrock or walnut paneling.” Martin pointed at one plan. “We’re talking radical contemporary architecture that someone has to live with for many, many years. Immutable, unless you’ve got millions more to burn through in renovations.”

Ray tried not to show his impatience. “He’s a wealthy man, and not stupid. I promise you, he’ll see the virtue in this design ultimately.” He held up a hand. “Wait. Let’s calm down. Martin, here’s why I agreed to meet you here today. I’m asking you a favor. This is a last-ditch effort on my part to salvage our professional relationship, okay?”

“What favor?”

“I want you to put aside your”-he longed to say cowardice but didn’t want to alienate him further-“doubts about my ability. I want you to be a real partner in every sense of the word and back me up on this project. We can do something great here, or we can give him what he thinks he wants and settle for mediocre.”

“I took one look at that first set, ‘A.’ You call for a ‘Flying Carpet’ roof.”

“It’s a proven design. This one would suggest the one at Lo Scrigno. It softens the-”

“Yeah, I bet that’s a huge hit in Italy, but first of all that’s an art gallery, not someone’s home.”

“Private. Family owned.”

“Nobody lives there. Secondly, it’s the opposite of a simple white structure overlooking the sea. It’s an expensive indulgence.”

“You know what I hate?” Ray said. “I hate artists who analyze their own work. I hate writers who explicate their own poems. I loathe musicians who attempt to describe their music. Martin, listen. Put our differences aside for one second and understand that there’s an ineffable quality to design, and that’s what makes it rise above what’s out there doing the basic job. And you like what I do. We’ve done some good things in the past.”

Martin stared at him as if observing a meteor landing in a field. “When we started out, we were such good friends. I wanted you to be brilliant. I supported your brilliance.”

“We’re still in business,” Ray pointed out. “We’ve had good press.”

“This man’s my friend, too. I want him happy.”

“He will be happy. He’ll adjust. Give him time. Give him the opportunity to look at these designs, and put your own heart behind them.”

“You mean, let him pour another million bucks into a design he hates?”

“Talk him into it, Martin, like you’ve talked people into things they didn’t want to do your whole life!”

“I see now why Leigh ran, if that’s what she did,” Martin said. “Talking to you is like talking to a rock.”

“Damn you, Martin.”

Martin sighed and took one more flip through the plans. “Antoniou wants a family gathering space, curving, welcoming spaces. Light in spirit, but warm and friendly. Rooms to remind him of his past, of a white house hanging over the Mediterranean Sea, with soft seating where his immense family can drink retsina and recall warmer days.”

Ray pointed at the ocean. A wave, suitably dramatic, rushed up the shoreline and flew through the rock-sculpted air. They both watched and listened, waiting for it to quiet. “What about the plush sofas, wall-hangings, curving half-walls? Are you looking at the whole thing? And please. This isn’t the Mediterranean. We’re talking the Pacific Ocean at Laguna,” Ray said. “What’s grand in architecture is how an old story gets told a new way, in a new language. I can promise him a warm home, a showplace, a gathering place for his family.”

“You loved Kahn for a while, Wright, then I. M. Pei. That house in Agoura? You channeled Neutra, building all in glass. Those people ended up having to put mini blinds on all the windows. I mean, come on. They had neighbors twenty feet away on each side.”

“Martin, my ideas have changed over time. I was a young kid, and overstepped sometimes. I finally know what I’m doing. Why can’t you trust me?”

“Why can’t we give Antoniou what he wants? A California dream? A home for his family that recalls his roots?”

Ray thought about that. “ Los Angeles has a shallow past. Most of the people living here, and that includes Achilles Antoniou, have no ownership over the land, the climate, nothing. They don’t know what fits their new neighborhood because there is no neighborhood. Everyone around here arrived five minutes ago. Our job is to give the client a home that’s right for this setting. Something with roots they can’t possibly feel, a place that goes beyond their dead past.”

“Minimalism with fresh horseshit scattered around to gussy it up,” Martin said. He grabbed the plans, rolled them up, and stuck a thick rubber band around them. “Don’t show these to Antoniou.”

“I guess that means you won’t be watching my back, Martin.”

“Get us plans that meet our client’s requirements. And oh, when that happens, run them by me.”

Ray thought, he’s sitting on such unstable ground there, on that rock that shifts when he moves suddenly. He could easily go over the edge, die, topple over in a tragic accident.

He experienced the event in his mind. Martin, beaky nose buried in the plans, hand reaching toward his briefcase, unnerved by something Ray had said or done, rising, stumbling, tumbling.

He imagined Martin falling way the hell down, dashing his head against the boulders in the ocean cove below.

Ray, shocked, would stand, then run for his car up above where he had left his mobile phone.

Well, okay, he had his mobile phone in his pocket, but nobody else knew that. He would climb up the hill, maybe even intentionally step into the poison oak he knew well to avoid. Distraught, he would say after, explaining the inflamed rash on his legs and arms. Too distraught to worry about such an unimportant outcome. Then he had trouble finding his keys. Who wouldn’t under the circumstances, his oldest friend lying still, bloodied, upon the rocks so far below?

Martin spoke, interrupting Ray’s latest homicidal fantasy. “In fact,” Martin said slowly, “given that Antoniou was my client to start with, and I brought him to you, I insist that I see another set of plans based on our discussion today before either one of us speaks to our client again.”

“I always appreciate your input, Martin, you jackass.” Ray stood up and dusted off his pants.

Martin snorted. “Sure. Just so we’re clear that what I say goes.” He stuffed Ray’s plans into his briefcase in a last-ditch effort to show who was in charge and started up the hill.

Ray followed. Martin seemed to know the best route, where the sand didn’t shift too much, and the rocks stayed lodged in the hillside. He kept looking behind him as if he could read Ray’s mind.


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