Chapter 6
SOPHIE
As Nicholas drove, I gazed out the passenger window and gathered my courage.
Fundraising events still scared me a little, and Hope Ranch didn’t feel like Santa Barbara: the streets were too lush, too private, too dimly lit.
I’d only lived in town for a few years, but I’d learned to expect Spanish architecture and dry lawns pebbled with succulents. Also, streetlights.
On the other side of the ornate HOPE RANCH sign, mansions started appearing with well-watered gardens and expansive lawns. There was an actual lagoon—currently covered in algae, sure, but I’d thought lagoons only appeared in horror movies.
“Like Swamp Thing,” I said aloud.
“Except we’re in Hope Ranch,” Nicholas told me, “so he’d be Hope Thing. He rises from the muck, black eyes gleaming, and is quite optimistic about all this.”
I laughed. “His catchphrase is ‘Everything is fine.’ Which is true if you never leave this neighborhood. Oooh, look at that house. Maybe we should move here instead of into your cottage.”
“What would Mrs. B do without us?”
“What would we do without her?” I asked.
“Right? Look at her, making connections for you in a public gym.”
“Me? She found Ocean a girlfriend in a locker room! We should’ve brought her along. She loves a party—and any chance to spend time with you.”
“I’m trying,” he said.
“You’re doing great.”
“I just can’t stand the idea that she thinks she owes me anything. The idea of taking advantage of her because I’m her husband’s son…”
“You know that ‘debt’ doesn’t exist in Mrs. B’s vocabulary. And you love spending time with her, too.”
“Yeah, she’s just so … her.”
“She’s the her-est,” I agreed. “Okay, Charity Lane is coming up.”
He took a left onto a narrow road, then pulled into a drive that snaked through olive trees and ended at a mansion that faced the bluffs overlooking the Pacific.
I’d searched the address on a real estate website, and the description mentioned a saltwater pool, bocce court, sunken rose garden, and a calf-high hedge maze surrounding a fountain.
In addition to the expansive main residence, there was a guesthouse, pool cabana, a music studio, and a dining pavilion—whatever that was.
A dozen high-end cars were parked beside the four-car garage.
Nicholas pulled his Honda next to a white Mercedes as I checked myself in the mirror.
I’d started cutting my own bangs using a YouTube tutorial …
then made Nicholas fix them. I’d never seen him so nervous, but he managed to minimize the damage.
At least they’d finally grown long enough to touch my eyebrows.
I’d pulled the rest of my hair in a low ponytail.
Forget the cool-girl no-makeup trend, I needed loads of black mascara and burgundy lipstick.
“You are gorgeous,” Nicholas told me. “All you have to do is introduce yourself and hand out your cards.”
“Oh, god! I forgot my new business cards! They’re—”
“In the back seat,” he said.
“Aw. You remembered.”
“We’re a good team.” He looked at the mansion. “I just hope they’re expecting us.”
“I hope they’re expecting just us,” I told him. “I love Mrs. B, but for all we know she promised the DeYoungs I’d give a ukulele recital.”
Nicholas reached into the back for my cards. “Ukulele?”
“I strummed the one Mrs. B keeps on her shelf, and now she thinks I’m a savant.”
I stepped from the car and took a slow, steadying breath of salt air and jasmine.
My outlook on life had changed a lot in the last six months, but I was still nervous about showing up at a Hope Ranch party I’d barely been invited to.
So I grabbed Nicholas’s arm for moral support.
He felt solid, in his navy suit and matching shirt, with his silver rings and bracelet keeping him from looking uptight.
CJ had been vague about the dress code, so I’d scanned a copy of Santa Barbara Magazine for photos of wealthy parties.
Brightly colored dresses seemed to be the consensus, so I’d worn the red floral midi-dress I’d thrifted, along with my best pair of heels.
At least Nicholas and I were dressed for the same event.
Floodlights illuminated the drive and the nearest wing of the house, which was a sprawling two-story building that reminded me a little of a Frank Lloyd Wright, sort of blocky and layered, teetering on the line between stunning and ugly.
CJ opened the door when Nicholas knocked. She was a tall woman with a beautiful head of wavy auburn hair and absolutely on-point makeup that made her look younger than me, even though she was probably five or so years older.
“Sophie!” She gave me a hug. “I almost didn’t recognize you outside of the parking lot.”
She meant the lot at the YMCA, where we exchanged polite greetings when I dropped off Mrs. B. And I was so nervous that I said, “Ha! If I had a nickel for every time I heard that.”
CJ’s smile widened. “And this must be Nicholas?”
“Thanks so much for, uh…” He gave one of his self-deprecating looks. “Squeezing us in.”
“Oh, of course. Although, I don’t know what Mrs. B told you?”
“Just to come.” My nerves jangled again. “I hope it’s all right. She didn’t put you in an awkward position, did she? She said the DeYoungs were hosting an event for World of Goods and I should mingle?”
“Oh, no, that’s perfect.” She looked relieved. “I was afraid you were expecting something bigger. It’s only an informal get-together—not a proper networking event.”
“That’s perfect. As long as we’re actually invited. I know it’s tough to say no to Mrs. B.”
“It’s tough to want to say no to her.” CJ brushed a lock of auburn hair off her face. “She’s so lovely. She just shines. Don’t worry, Frank is the same. Well, he’s slowing down, but he’s got the same big heart. And the New Vic is great, so—good causes all around!”
I felt myself wrinkle my nose. “I mean, I love the theatre, but it’s not World of Goods.”
“What do they do?” Nicholas asked.
“Deliver emergency supplies to disaster zones,” I told him. “Mostly medical goods. They save thousands of lives every year. They’re amazing.”
“Frank’s been a big supporter for many years. Although recently…” CJ hesitated. “Well, he’s a friend of Jane Sheffield’s, I don’t know if you know her?”
“I don’t think so,” I said, an instant before I remembered she was my friend Angela’s mentor.
“She’s in charge of development for World of Goods.” She gave me a sidelong smile. “She’s here tonight. You can’t miss her.”
When we stepped inside, I gaped at the foyer.
A wide staircase swept upward to the second floor, drawing my eye toward the arched ceiling that lofted high overhead.
Across the glazed concrete floor in an oversized fireplace, a stack of logs burned merrily, warming the room too much for early September.
Mission-style furniture provided accents here and there, along with an oval table with an enormous vase holding sunflowers, wild grasses, and eucalyptus.
Everything looked a little too old-school, but also extremely grand.
CJ ushered us along a corridor toward the murmur of conversation and I said, “I’ve been meaning to thank you for helping Mrs. B at the Y.”
“Well, I owe her now, for introducing me to Ocean.”
“Ocean’s the best,” Nicholas said. “She’s so … there.”
I shot him a look, as his usual eloquence abandoned him. “Yeah, in addition to being kind, loving, beautiful, brilliant, funny, and strong, she is in fact often present.”
“Like I said.”
CJ laughed. “Did Mrs. B mention she challenged Bettina to an arm wrestle?”
“Oh, god, who’s Bettina? Is she the one she calls her ‘frenemy’?”
“She doesn’t say ‘frenemy,’” Nicholas told me.
“She does! I’ve heard her.”
“She says ‘funemy,’ and she has no idea what it means. She called me her ‘fun-in-law’ once.”
I snort-laughed. “So Bettina is her funemy?”
“And also the water aerobics instructor,” CJ said.
“She challenged the teacher to an arm wrestle?”
“Oh, god, I can’t wait to tell Ocean,” Nicholas said.
“Don’t do that,” I said. “She’ll make Mrs. B write ‘I will not arm wrestle the teacher’ a hundred times.”
At the end of the hall, a great room stretched in front of us.
Sofas faced each other in the center of the room, while geometrical chairs and clunky side tables formed conversation nooks illuminated by track lighting.
Everything looked expensive and about fifty years out of date.
Still, even now, the room had the swanky-cool vibe of a bygone era, like there was a hint of cigarettes and martini lunches lingering in the air.
In the lawn beyond a wall of windows, floodlights illuminated the sweep of a fountain, a sculptural tree, the silhouette of a gazebo. During the day, the windows must’ve framed the even-more-extraordinary view of the ocean and Channel Islands.
There were fewer people than I expected.
About twenty guests sipped wine, nibbled hors d’oeuvres, and chatted.
One caterer circulated with trays while another stood behind a white-clothed buffet table.
Most of the guests appeared to be in their seventies, and all of them were burnished with the unmistakable gloss of wealth, which was good news in terms of networking for fundraising opportunities.
CJ ushered us through the murmur of conversation toward an elderly gentleman sitting in a nook with a few others.
Frank DeYoung looked old even for this crowd, with a fringe of hair like a monk’s tonsure and a Band-Aid on the side of his neck.
He wore a black velour tracksuit and thick glasses that didn’t conceal his warm brown eyes and white eyebrows.
The woman beside him looked closer to sixty than mid-eighties.
She had short, tousled bleached hair and a lot of wrinkles, like she’d spent her youth on the beach, which was a real Santa Barbara type.
She wore a pink sequined top over stretchy black pants, but the friendliness of her outfit didn’t match her peevish mouth.
Frank raised his empty glass to CJ and greeted her with, “Stiff nut.”
Not the greeting I’d expected, and I guess my surprise showed on my face.
“His favorite drink,” CJ explained to me. “Amaretto and Maker’s Mark. Frank, this is Sophie and her boyfriend, Nicholas. She works with the New Vic.”
“And I am Karina DeYoung,” the pink-bedecked woman said, “since CJ didn’t introduce me. I suppose you’re another World of Goods superfan?”
I nodded. “Yes, of course, very much so.”
“Of course,” she repeated, sipping her white wine. “Though if you work in the arts, you must wish that some of that funding trickled your direction?”
“Trickled? Hm…” I pretended to ponder. “Not exactly, no. As long as I’m wishing, I’ll wish for a whole monsoon.”
When Karina laughed, I saw the beauty in her. “Yes, wealth should be enjoyed. You’ll go far with that attitude. Now! Why don’t you grab a glass of wine. If you prefer red, I recommend the Andremily Mourvèdre.”
I didn’t know what either of those words meant, but I said, “I’ll try that, thank you.”
CJ put her hand on Frank’s shoulder. “Another stiff nut?”
“You know he’s had enough,” Karina told her.
That sounded like our cue to retreat, so I pulled Nicholas toward the buffet. I asked the caterer for two glasses of “Andromeda Moorsomething,” and she didn’t bat an eye before uncorking a new bottle and pouring us glasses.