Ricardo
Chapter Eight
The Halstead Club looks exactly like what it is: expensive.
It is beautiful. The grounds are immaculate, the long drive lined with old trees that have been ruthlessly trimmed without appearing touched at all. The clubhouse sits at the end of the drive in pale stone and dark slate.
No sign announces the name.
The club does not need one.
You only need to know it's here if you've been invited.
An attendant opens Julia's door and offers a hand. She accepts the assistance with a polite nod, one foot stepping onto the stone drive with enough composure that no one would know she spent part of this ride making my ability to think much more difficult than it should have been.
I step out as well.
The attendant’s posture changes when he sees me.
Subtle, but there.
Recognition. Deference. A quick calculation of guest, member, access, consequence.
“Mr. Conti,” he says.
“Henry.”
His attention sharpens at the use of his name. Men like Henry pride themselves on being remembered. In places like this, remembering staff is either genuine courtesy or a useful weapon. I prefer when it is both.
“Welcome back, sir.”
“I am here to see Alistair Valecourt.”
“Yes, sir. Mr. Valecourt is on the terrace. Shall I let him know?”
“No. We will find him.”
“Of course.”
Henry’s gaze moves briefly to Julia. Not rudely. Assessing, perhaps, but careful.
“My guest,” I say.
“Of course, Mr. Conti.”
Julia says nothing as we pass inside, but I feel her glance at me.
The entry hall smells of waxed wood, leather, cut flowers, and old money. The ceilings are high, the floors polished stone, the walls hung with oil portraits of men who all look as if they disapprove of joy on principle.
Somewhere deeper in the clubhouse, silverware strikes china. Someone laughs softly. Beyond a row of tall windows, the course stretches out in late-afternoon green.
Julia walks beside me without slowing, her bag held neatly against her side. Her black dress is simple enough for the office and elegant enough for this room. Her hair is smooth over one shoulder, her makeup fresh, her expression composed.
But I notice the slight tension in her fingers.
She is not intimidated.
She has been in buildings like these before. She has been around people like these before.
No, she is not intimidated. She is alert.
A corridor opens ahead, paneled in dark wood and lined with framed photographs of tournaments, charity luncheons, men shaking hands over silver cups.
Julia’s gaze moves over them once.
“Do any of the women here get portraits,” she asks quietly, “or are they only trophies?”
I look at the nearest photograph. Six men in blazers. One woman at the edge, holding a ribbon for someone else to cut.
“She is the chairman’s wife,” I say.
“Of course she is.”
“She raised the money for the event.”
Julia’s mouth tightens. “And he held the scissors for someone else to cut the ribbon.”
“Yes.”
She gives the photograph one last look, then continues walking. “My mother chaired three hospital galas, two scholarship funds, and a capital campaign for a children’s wing. My father gave one speech at the ribbon cutting, and people congratulated him for years.”
There is no surprise in her voice.
We pass another row of photographs. Golf trophies. Sailing weekends. A charity auction where the women stand in evening gowns near the back of the frame, smiling like Stepford wives.
“Did she mind?” I ask.
“My mother?” Julia’s fingers shift on her bag. “No. She believed being indispensable behind the scenes was its own kind of power.”
“And you?”
“I believed her for a long time.”
She says it in an even tone, but I hear the edge beneath it.
At the end of the corridor, glass doors open onto the terrace.
Sunlight pours through them, bright over the stone floor.
Beyond the doors, members sit beneath striped umbrellas with cocktails, salads, newspapers, and the ease of people who have never had to wonder whether they would make rent while lounging around at 11:00 on a weekday morning.
And they would be appalled at the implication that they were lazy for it.
Julia slows for half a step while looking for the man in question.
I follow her gaze across the terrace to the table near the west steps.
Alistair Valecourt sits with one ankle crossed over his knee and a glass of something amber at his elbow.
Early sixties, silver hair. Pink face from the sun or too much alcohol.
The posture of a man who’s had multiple drinks and nowhere else to be.
He sees me first.
Then he sees Julia beside me.
His smile appears slowly.
It's not a warm smile.
I already dislike the next ten minutes.
He rises as we approach.
“Ricardo,” Valecourt says, extending a hand. “I wondered what would drag you out here in the middle of a workday.”
I take his hand. His grip is damp from the glass.
“Business.”
“So I assumed.” His gaze moves to Julia. “And you brought someone to carry the papers.”
Julia inclines her head.
“Julia O’Brien,” she says. “I work in Mr. Conti’s office.”
Valecourt’s gaze lingers for a moment longer than courtesy permits.
“Of course.”
She opens her bag, removes the file, and lays it neatly on the table. “This is the consent for the licensing transfer. Your office confirmed you were available to review and execute it today.”
“Of course,” he says. “You can just leave those with me, sweetheart. Why don't you take a seat? What's your poison?”
Julia’s smile does not move.
“Thank you, but I’m working.”
Valecourt’s smile widens as if she has said something charming.
“Everyone here is working in one way or another.”
Julia rests her fingertips on the edge of the file. “Then I’ll be brief. The signature page is marked.”
Valecourt blinks once, then laughs as if she has made a joke for his benefit.
He sits back down and picks up his drink, not bothering to look at the paperwork. “I think this can wait a few minutes, don't you?”
“Your office confirmed you were comfortable signing today,” Julia says.
“Are you in a hurry, Julia?” he asks.
I don't like the way he says her name.
“I have time to review the document before you sign,” she says pleasantly.
Valecourt’s eyes lower to the file, then return to her face with indulgent amusement. “Efficient one, aren’t you?”
Julia’s smile remains pleasant. “When the situation requires it.”
I manage to keep a straight face at that one.
Valecourt settles deeper into his chair instead of reaching for the file.
“And what situation is that?”
“One where Mr. Conti needs an executed consent returned today, and your counsel has already reviewed it and confirmed you were prepared to sign.”
“My office is very generous with my time.”
Julia’s expression stays smooth. “Then I’ll try not to abuse it.”
He takes another slow sip of his drink.
“That doesn’t mean I surrender my afternoon every time someone sends a pretty girl with a file and a pen.”
My amusement flees.
“Careful, Alistair.”
The quiet in my voice carries more than volume would.
Valecourt’s gaze flicks to mine.
His smile changes. “No offense meant.”
“Then you will have no trouble correcting yourself.”
Julia’s head turns slightly toward me, but she says nothing.
Valecourt looks between us, reassessing too late. His fingers tighten around his glass, then relax. “Ms…?”
“O’Brien,” Julia says. “Julia O’Brien.”
Recognition enters his face. “Judge O’Brien’s daughter.”
The file remains steady in her hand. “Mario Conti’s executive office.”
“Ms. O’Brien,” he says, with a nod that I can tell costs him. “My apologies.”
Julia inclines her head once. “Thank you.”
No excess. No gratitude for the bare minimum. No performance.
She removes the document, places it on the table in front of him, and lays a pen beside the signature tab.
“The signed consent authorizes the revised ownership allocation tied to the redevelopment parcel. Your counsel’s notes are included behind the execution copy.
You keep the duplicate. We return the original. ”
Valecourt looks at the document, then at me.
I simply wait.
He picks up the pen.
“Mario is impatient these days,” he says.
Julia does not move until the ink is fully on the page. Then she takes the document, checks the signature, checks the date, places the duplicate copy in front of him, and returns the original to her folder.
“Thank you, Mr. Valecourt.”
He leans back, trying to recover some ground. “Tell Mario I expect he’ll be satisfied.”
“I will relay your message,” she says.
I look at Valecourt. “Enjoy your lunch.”
His smile is thin. “Always.”
Julia turns first. I walk beside her, not behind, as we leave the terrace and reenter the clubhouse.
For several steps, neither of us speaks.
I can feel the tension in her. It is different now. She is angry. More than angry. She handled him perfectly, efficiently, with more restraint than I did.
I suspect she didn't even need me there. She could have sliced him in two if she wanted to.
I don't say anything until we reach the main hall, where the air cools, and the sound of the terrace fades behind us.
Then I say, “Job well done.”
Her eyes cut to mine.
Yes, very angry.
“I had it handled.”
I stop near the entrance to the dining room and turn fully toward her. “You did. That does not mean I will stand beside you and listen to a man speak to you that way.”
A hostess appears at the dining room entrance before the pause can become more dangerous than it already is.
“Mr. Conti,” she says warmly. “Will you be dining with us?”
I keep my eyes on Julia for one second longer, then turn. “Yes. A private table.”
“Of course.”
Julia looks at me. “We don’t need—”
“We do.”
Her brow lifts. “Do we?”
“Yes.”
“Is this another thing you know without consulting me?”
“I am consulting you now.”
“You already asked for the table.”
“I am consulting you efficiently.”
The hostess is back, not even a moment later, and gestures us toward the dining room. “This way, please.”
With no choice, Julia turns to follow.