21
O livia and Gleason decided on one black-and-white photograph of Porter with his family, and a color print of their daughter. Both were to be printed on the textured cotton sheets of paper, which hopefully would add to the portrait feel. The previous evening they had debated the choices, then fiddled with shading and color and illumination. That morning they continued the good-natured debate for another hour or so. Neither of them were in any hurry. Now and then Gleason left her alone in the back while he tended to a customer’s needs. The solitary moments granted her a chance to release the occasional shiver of pure joy.
She was late for her meeting with the mayor before both were printed and approved and rolled into separate tubes. Olivia hugged the older man, thanked him profusely, smiled over his grouchy embarrassment, kissed his cheek, and fled. She rushed up the main street, flying really. She loved the feel of cool rain falling on her face. She relished the sensation of being surrounded by a town that had welcomed her back, despite everything. She was moved nearly to tears by the stoic determination she found on so many faces, the California spirit coming out strong as summer sunlight. They would endure, rebuild, move on. Her feet scarcely touched the damp sidewalk, or so it felt.
Not even her certainty over why Bailey had requested this meeting could dampen her mood. The mayor’s note had been waiting when Olivia emerged from her cell that morning. It had simply requested they meet with Berto Acosta, and had given a time.
That had been enough.
Berto Acosta was Miramar’s builder of choice. At least, he was for those who could afford him. And who put up with Berto’s rigid stance on design. He refused to build what he classed as LA-style tin-pot palaces. Berto used the finest materials, constructed to the highest codes, and charged accordingly.
Berto’s wife Emelia was also head of the town council.
The builder had twice made the journey south, meeting with Olivia in LA. This after numerous letters and phone calls, both to Olivia and her mother, asking to buy their home. The reason was simple. Their cottage sat on a three-acre plot of land, with a grand view over the town and the coast beyond. Second in size only to Dillon’s property. Who also refused to give Costa the time of day.
But things were different now. The cottage where she had grown up was no longer habitable. And Olivia needed the money.
Which was why she had begged Dillon to come to her rescue. Because this was one conversation she could not handle by herself.
Soon as Olivia opened the station door, the mayor rounded on her. Bailey possessed a remarkable bark for such a slender waif. “Finally! Hasn’t anybody ever told you it’s a fineable offence, keeping your elected officials pacing the floor?”
Maud did not look up from her computer. “Bailey only got here two minutes ago.”
“Two long minutes! And that’s not important. Everybody should be here and ready to stand and salute when the mayor . . .” Bailey was halted mid-sentence by how Olivia ignored her. “Are you even listening?”
“Porter, could you step over here?” She set her two cardboard tubes on Dillon’s orderly desk, popped the top off one, then hesitated.
The moment deserved some fine words, a mention of how grateful she was for all this group had done for her, whatever. But her mind remained an excited blank. So she simply unfurled the print and held it with both arms extended.
The silence that greeted her portrait was perhaps the nicest response she had ever received. Oh, there had been some lovely moments with stars as well. They started out cautious, cynical, playing the role, fearful of what she might do with their off-stage image. Gradually, with extreme caution, they had come to trust her. Olivia had loved her ability to surprise.
But this was something else entirely.
Porter finally declared, “That’s not me.”
“Oh, it’s you, all right,” Maud said.
“It’s who you don’t like to think the world can see,” Bailey agreed. “But we know it’s there.”
“Hidden deep,” Maud agreed. “Miles down, most of the time.”
“But it’s there.” Bailey smiled at Olivia. “This is amazing.”
Suddenly they were all talking at once. Asking how she managed to get the light just so. And weren’t the women incredible, how mother and daughter were mirror images a generation apart. And wanting her to do them, their families, friends, whatever. Olivia let them gabble on for a time, then said, “There’s one more.”
She anchored the first print on Dillon’s desk, using his closed laptop and a stapler and pen-holder to keep the print flat. Then she opened the second tube and unfurled the print.
Celia shone with a sad luminescence, the joy of youth balanced by the sorrow of coming departure.
The colt’s head formed a perfect counterpoint to the young woman’s beauty. One hand stroked the forelock, but her attention was captured by something beyond the camera’s reach. Her smile was timeless.
The look on Porter’s face said it all.
Olivia said softly, “Merry Christmas.”
* * *
Porter went through the motions of a shift change, assigning duties in a subdued voice, initialing documents Maud held for him, having a quiet word with the mayor. All the while, he kept circling back to Dillon’s desk. Studying the two portraits spread over the surface. Olivia remained by the side wall, feeling isolated even when others spoke to her. There was a timeless quality to the moment. As if she had managed to step outside the flow of hours and chatter and people. And could stand there in this wonderful solitude, filled with an inner glow over a job well done.
Dillon’s response was interesting. He studied the two photographs in silence, holding to a faint smile, nodding to something that remained unspoken. Olivia had the distinct impression her work confirmed a secret he had not shared, at least with her. But as she started to ask what he was thinking, Porter walked up. The chief wore police rain gear, which seemed to double his girth.
“I keep hoping the words are going to come to me,” Porter said. “Find some way to say what I’m thinking.”
“It’s okay. Really.”
He nodded and fumbled with his cap. “This will go a long way to healing our Christmas.”
“I’m glad.” She touched the border of their daughter’s portrait. “If you like, I can go ahead and have these framed.”
“That would be great. You just do what you think works best.” He touched the same point where her own fingers had been. “I’m not going to talk payment. Not now.”
Olivia wished there was a way to make them a gift. A gesture of thanks for all he had done to ease her reentry. If only. In the end, she just nodded.
Dillon waited for the chief to depart, then told her, “Time for round two.”
* * *
As soon as she and Dillon entered the chief’s office, Bailey started before the door was even shut. “I have been placed in an enormously uncomfortable situation.”
“You already said that,” Olivia pointed out.
“When was that?”
“This morning. When you asked for this meeting.”
“Well, it’s true.” She stepped to Porter’s desk, rearranged a couple of items, stepped away. “Berto’s wife is head of the town council and effectively my boss. At least on paper. She is also my biggest advocate. I’ve never needed her help more than now. This is the first time she’s ever asked me for anything.”
Olivia offered Dillon a slow and emphatic nod. He smiled in understanding, and took the lead. “It’s okay.”
“I was addressing Olivia.”
Olivia replied, “Dillon speaks for me today.” The mayor protested, “Olivia . . .”
“That’s how it needs to be.”
Bailey pondered the floor by her feet. “This just keeps getting worse by the minute.”
Dillon drew four chairs into the center of the room. “Bailey, please come sit down.”
“No.”
“We know what Berto wants. This conversation is happening at the right time.” Dillon waited until both women were seated, then continued. “Berto has been after me as well. He can’t make it happen like he wants unless . . .” Dillon spotted the builder through the door’s glass panel. “Here he comes now.”
For such a big man, Berto Acosta carried himself with remarkable grace. His gestures were measured, his voice gentle, his expression sincere. This was a gentleman accustomed to discussing multimillion-dollar homes with people who could afford them. But he was also a builder, with hands large as skillets and a manner that demanded respect.
Soon as Berto was seated, he began almost the identical spiel to what Olivia had heard in LA. Berto sketched out his idea for Olivia’s nearly three-acre property. Four buildings of three stories each, two condos per floor, a total of twenty-four residences framed by sculpted gardens, pool, gym, underground parking. The longer he spoke, the more excited he became. He paused then, and his expression turned somber. “Have you visited your former home?”
Dillon spoke for the first time. “Let’s set that aside for the moment.”
Acosta showed a theatrical surprise, as if he had not noticed Dillon’s presence until that moment. “And who exactly am I addressing?”
Olivia replied, “Dillon speaks for me.”
“Does he.” Berto straightened in his chair. He did not appear the least bit upset. Instead, there was a new light in his dark gaze. A spark of heightened interest. He told Dillon, “Your grandfather was the finest stonemason and bricklayer I ever met.”
“And you were the only builder who could bring him out of retirement,” Dillon said.
“That’s right. I did.”
“Twice,” Dillon added.
Berto smiled. “Can’t say I ever learned to appreciate his wine.”
“Did you drink it?”
“Not unless he was watching me.” He straightened the crease to his trousers. “You were in banking, yes?”
“Close. Securities and investment.”
“Of course. Your grandmother told me.”
“When you pitched your development project to my grandparents.”
Another smile, the motion almost theatrical. “I did indeed.”
“Twice.”
“Actually, it was three times,” Berto replied. “But who’s counting.”
Dillon continued, “Let’s say we agree.”
Berto’s response was to go completely still.
“What if we both say yes,” Dillon repeated. “Now. Today.”
“Both of you?”
“We’re talking hypothetical at this point,” Dillon replied. “But yes. All nine and a half acres.”
“But . . . Your grandfather swore I’d never build on his land.”
“That’s right. He did. But my grandmother thought your plan was a good one. And the last time I came home, she gave me her blessing to do with the land as I saw fit. Once they were both gone. Which they are.”
The builder opened his mouth, but no sound came.
“A combined property totaling nine and a half acres,” Dillon repeated. “Zoned for multiple-family construction because you made it happen.”
The chair squeaked a mild protest as Berto straightened. “You’ve obviously come with something in mind.”
“That’s right. I have.”
Berto was all business. “Why don’t you go ahead and lay it out.”
“Joined together you have the largest elevated plot in the central coast zoned for multiple families. That has to be worth—”
“It is my turn to interrupt,” Berto said. “Your pitch is unnecessary. I know the potential.”
“Extend my grandad’s retainer wall to protect Olivia’s acreage from any future storm,” Dillon went on, calm as ever. “Level the vineyard, and you’re ready to build.”
“I’m waiting.”
Olivia’s sense of distance remained with her still. She was able to view their discussion not as a pending loss, but rather as a fencing match. The two men knew their positions and their steps. They circled and watched and prepared. And despite the fact they were discussing the final demolition of her childhood home, Olivia’s calm was maintained.
The change in Dillon was so sharply focused here, Olivia felt as if she could almost photograph the man’s invisible elements. The Dillon she knew in their early years certainly had the sort of cooly gentle streak she saw on display now. But his view of life was mostly shaped by a constant conflict with the world around him. The younger Dillon had met every day with a latent rage, a burning frustration with the cage that held him. And the young Olivia had known how to release that fury. The memory burned her now, watching Dillon fence with the builder. Her ability to manipulate him into fury had held an almost sexual appeal. At times she had even enjoyed it. Because Dillon had raged for her.
“Two penthouse apartments,” Dillon said. “One for each of us. Which I’m guessing will be more or less the value of that land in its current state.”
Berto offered a thoughtful, “That is certainly worth considering.”
Bailey shifted uncomfortably in her chair. “Maybe I should go.”
“Please stay,” Dillon said. “I need your help.”
“What possible good could I do with your trading land for two condos?”
“I’m not done,” Dillon replied.
“Here we go,” Berto said.
When Dillon was certain Bailey would remain, he told the builder, “Three more things. No hidden agenda. First, we’re broke. Both of us need help covering our living expenses.”
“You’re thinking . . .”
“A twenty thousand dollar signing bonus,” he replied. “Each. Ten thousand dollars more at the start of each six month period, until the condos are finished. Each.”
Berto gave that a longish pause, then replied, “I’m not walking out just yet.”
“Next, we don’t have any place to live. Do you have an empty show-home or condo? Two bedrooms, two offices.”
“Still sitting,” Berto replied. “I assume you’ve saved the worst for last.”
“Definitely not the worst,” Dillon replied, and offered the morning’s first smile. “But maybe the craziest.”
* * *
The longer Olivia’s sense of distance remained in place, the more she was able to separate herself into two components. On the one hand, she listened as Dillon outlined a concept that ignited a genuine sense of excitement in both Bailey and Acosta.
On the other, she was granted an opportunity to view herself. In safety and calm. Despite everything.
She had arrived in Miramar burdened by a sense of defeat. The life she had built for herself was over. She was forced to return empty-handed to the world she had struggled so hard to leave behind. Her sense of shame was just another component of a life gone wrong.
And yet.
For the first time in months, Olivia felt herself utterly freed from all the burdens she had been carrying. Dillon’s remarkable plan, the way these two locals almost shouted their agreement and ideas, all formed components of a new day.
Dillon addressed her directly then. “You’re so quiet.”
“Listening,” she replied. “Thinking.”
Bailey asked, “But you’re okay with this?”
“I am.” Even her voice sounded removed from the room and their growing enthusiasm. “Yes.”
“Are you sure about that?” The man she had once wanted to love forever leaned in close. “Olivia, we don’t want to push you into anything you’re not—”
She halted him with an upraised hand. She told the three of them, “This is a true Christmas gift.”