Chapter 12
My cottage is incredible. I feel reborn. Having my own space is exhilarating. Waking up to the smell of sea breezes and salt air is life-changing.
I splurge on all the romantic, rattan, bamboo, and wicker furniture that I wanted, which surprisingly was not that much.
A little bit of rattan goes a long way, especially in this cozy space.
A pretty rattan bed and my sleek contemporary ladder bookshelves for my literature and cactus collection, plus a small bamboo table with mixed-and-matched wicker chairs are what I’m working with at the moment.
Any day now, my small couch and reading chair should be arriving, but I’m not rushing the process.
I love how it’s coming together. Earthy textures.
Russet shades of blush pink and burnt orange paired with soft creams and all the macramé plant hangers for my succulents and cacti that I want.
It’s chic. It’s romantic. It’s bohemian. And it’s mine.
I have plans to kit out my courtyard. I dream of taking naps outside, having the ocean lull me to sleep.
The plants are so pretty. I want to enjoy them.
A conversation set, maybe with a fire pit.
A canopy bed nestled somewhere in the corner.
And eventually I’ll upgrade my bistro table to a gorgeous outdoor dining set.
Not to mention a teak bench for the outdoor shower.
Compared to how suffocated my life was before in a massive house, this place feels like more than a breath of fresh air.
It’s an oxygen chamber. It’s life. It’s everything.
And today, with my furniture and most of my boxes unpacked, my new bedding perfectly steamed, my wardrobe hanging in the closet, my books almost all on the shelves, I feel…
elated. Free. It’s time to celebrate. It’s time to sip a smoothie outside and dip my toes into the Pacific. It’s time—
The teeth-jarring screech of a tile saw grinds all my aspirations to a deafening halt.
Yes, I now know what a tile saw is. And a jig saw. And a hammer drill. They pick the absolute loudest machines for construction work.
Knowing that Mike Benedick is on the other end of the privacy fence has been less than incredible, but the construction is what will kill me. I swear, if I hear one more nail gun, I’m going to scream.
Up till now, I’ve let my irritation over the renovation mask the other stuff that I could be feeling. Truth be told, there’s been more than enough for me to literally unpack before I dig into how I feel about Mike being my landlord and…
My eyes dart to the leather-bound sonnets on my bed. I fell asleep last night reading them.
I haven’t had time to dig around at the county assessor’s, but there’s got to be someone older, wiser, and not Mike who actually owns this place and the books.
Because in no world is Mike the insightful, sexy, sincere annotator of an impressive personal library of literature.
There is no way that my bookish crush is the man who called me a cactus, ran me into a pool, and cosplays as Badpun.
Mike is a property manager turned general contractor for someone somewhere, and I might as well hold on to the sonnets until I know for certain who they belong to.
My phone pings.
It’s a text from Mike. Forgot to put it in the contract, but Windansea has a really rough reef break. Not a great beach for body surfing, swimming, or boogie boarding. Also not a great beach for learning to surf or novice surfing. I’m not liable for any injuries if you get hurt out there.
I let out a guttural groan and hear a low chuckle from the other side of the fence. Great. He’s sitting on his side of the fence, just an arm’s reach away. As tempting as it is to throw my smoothie over the fence, I abstain.
“What about walking?” I shout. “Is it safe to walk along the beach? Dip my toes in the water?”
“Only if you do the stingray shuffle,” Mike calls. “Do they know about the stingray shuffle in Del Mar?”
I want to scream. Instead, I head back inside my cottage, shove the sonnets in the top drawer of my nightstand, change into my swimsuit, and throw on a linen cover-up.
Before I can head to the ocean, my phone starts barking.
Adam set the FroggoDoggo notifications to bark at me, and I haven’t changed them back.
“A new client,” I say to no one, “and a cat owner!”
The address isn’t far. I’m happy to change my plans.
While I saved quite a bit of money living at home the last two years, life in La Jolla is expensive.
I haven’t crunched the numbers yet, but it doesn’t take an accountant to know that I’ll need some more clients—and lots of them—if I want to make my exit from the legal profession permanent.
It’s why I changed my profile on the app last night to include pet sitting services in addition to dog walking. And why not? I’m an equal opportunity pet lover.
I grab my sun hat, strap on some sandals, and head to a split level on Avenida Cresta.
La Jolla is a beautiful town nestled in the much larger city of San Diego.
It’s chic yet quirky and decidedly its own place.
There are multiple beaches—each with something unique to offer.
There’s a charming downtown with amazing food, local retailers, and a stunning art deco library.
This is the type of walkable cityscape that everyone dreams about when they are stuck in a dark little cubicle and fantasize about a seaside community.
Part of La Jolla’s quirkiness is on full display as I walk over to my new client.
There is no rhyme or reason when it comes to the architecture here.
Charming cottages are nestled next to million-dollar mansions.
It is head-spinning. I walk past haciendas next to ultramodern glass and concrete homes.
Thatched roofs next to tile roofs next to wooden shingle roofs.
There is no cohesion. It’s like my mother’s closet.
Lots of gorgeous pieces, but all of them at odds with one another.
The only thing tying any of them together is place and money.
Same deal with La Jolla. These homes share a ZIP code, and I can afford none of them.
So how did Mike come by property here? It doesn’t add up.
Avenida Cresta is not a beachfront street, but it’s still close enough to the ocean to boast some incredible views. I walk through a courtyard and smell jasmine and honeysuckle. I maneuver around a pair of seahorse sculptures and ring the bell.
“Who are you?” a disembodied voice asks from the doorbell speaker.
“Beatrice McKinney. I understand you need a cat sitter for”—I squint at my phone—“Princess Kitty 2000?”
The door swings open, and a woman my mother’s age with immaculate, long, blond waves and half-moon eyeglasses squints at me. “Let me see your hands. Hold them out straight.”
I’m about to slide my phone into my pocket when the woman starts tutting.
“With your phone.”
I give this woman in the muumuu, beads, and half-moon glasses a raised eyebrow. “You want to explain? Or introduce yourself at the very least?”
“I fired Mitzy’s last sitter because her hands weren’t steady enough. Poor video quality drives down views like nothing else.”
I stretch out my arms with my phone in hand.
The woman looks me up and down. “How long did you practice law?”
“Two years.”
“I thought so. Worked out the jitters in the courtroom. Nice steady hands. Very important for content creation. I’m Cheryl.
” The woman holds out her hand, fingers down, wrist up, like I’m supposed to kiss it or something.
As if. I gave it an awkward shake. “Come in. Come in.” Cheryl stands aside, and I stifle a gasp as I enter the pink marble foyer. “Did you bring your résumé?”
“No, but I’m happy to send it digitally.”
“No matter, I looked you up on LinkedIn. Very impressive. Just the sort of mind Mitzy needs. She’s getting so bored with the usual suspects.”
“Is she now? Well, I’d love to meet her. FroggoDoggo said you need a weekly sitter?”
“Oh, yes. I have a Buti yoga class over at Fit Gym 24. But some of the best lighting happens in the morning, and Mitzy has grown so accustomed to our coffee chats.”
I’m blinking more than I should. It’s a courtroom tell that I’ve tried hard to ditch, but when clients or opposing counsel were being particularly ridiculous, I had to release the you’ve-got-to-be-kidding-mes somehow. “What does Mitzy like to talk about?”
“Everything. Come this way. I think she must be sunning herself by the pool.”
I almost choke when I see the indoor pool with the inflatable swan. Cheryl pauses the music that’s playing out of a rock-shaped speaker. “Mitzy?”
“Here, kitty, kitty,” I call.
Cheryl holds up a hand, this time palm out. “Don’t do that. Don’t pander to her baser instincts. Ah, here she is.”
A large white cat with sparse light gray stripes rises and stretches from a chaise near the pool.
“Your Royal Highness.” I sweep into a curtsy. It’s the sort of sarcastic behavior that would get me in the doghouse in Del Mar, but Cheryl is beaming.
“This is Mitzy.”
The cat sniffs my leg before rubbing her cheek against it. “I thought her name was Princess Kitty 2000?”
“No, dear, that’s her social media handle. I’m so used to telling everyone on our strolls that, yes, this is the at-Princess Kitty 2000, that I’ve started including it in all our correspondence.”
I blink twice. “Of course.”
“What the public doesn’t know is that Mitzy is going through…” Cheryl’s lips quiver as she pulls me aside and whispers, “Mitzy is going through some health challenges.”
“Oh.” I stare at the cat who is sitting placidly, the tip of her tail twitching. “I’m so sorry.”
“Yes, well, keeping up with her followers is doing her a world of good. Keeps her mind off all the unknowns, but I know it’s wearing her out.” She smiles at the cat and looks the way Julie did when Eaton was a newborn. Lost, dazed, completely smitten.