Chapter Two

 

 

Prescott Chance stepped out of his office with one thing on his mind. He wanted to get to Petaluma in time for the sunset. An idea was forming around a project but he needed to gauge the light and simply sit for a bit.

He had nothing with him but his car fob and his wallet. He said goodbye to his staff and headed out the back door to his car. He was almost beside it when he realized there was a woman sitting on the hood.

A mass of untidy curls sparked red gold in the sunlight. She had big green eyes and a sprinkle of freckles, a generous mouth and a very determined looking chin.

For a moment neither said anything. He didn’t see the point in stating the obvious. She was sitting on his car. She didn’t look like a homeless person or a particularly crazy one. He assumed she’d tell him her reason. A visual man, Prescott never forgot a face and he knew he’d never seen this one before.

She suddenly broke into a grin that seemed more natural to her than the stern look he’d first encountered. She hopped off his car and extended her hand. “Mr. Chance. I’m Holly Legere. We missed our meeting today and it’s really important that I speak with you. I’m Alistair Rupert’s assistant. I’d really like a few minutes of your time.”

Ah, yes. Alistair Rupert was not the first big shot to think he could have a Prescott Chance design because he wanted one and could afford it, but he was wrong. Sending an unpunctual and untidy intern to beg his cause wasn’t going to help. “I won’t change my mind.”

“I’m not asking you to. He understands that the property you looked at didn’t work for you.” She took a breath. “The thing is, Mr. Rupert wants you to find a piece of property that speaks to you. He’s going to let you choose it.”

“He’d be better to find another architect.” He moved toward the driver’s side which involved going around Holly Legere. But as he tried to skirt around, she stepped in front of him. Her white shirt had come untucked from her skirt and he fought the urge to tell her to tuck it back in.

“Please. I am not one to beg and believe me I wish I didn’t have to, but my job is on the line here.”

He could see that she was telling the truth. The woman looked as though she weren’t getting enough sleep. Her big green eyes glowed with sincerity and faint lines of strain showed on her face.

“I’d like to help you.” Even though that was a platitude, it was true. He didn’t want to see a young woman lose her job in a tough economy, and he didn’t want to be involved in a stranger’s job loss even peripherally. “But I can’t wander around looking for building sites.” He decided to tell her the full truth. “Also, I didn’t like your boss.”

She laughed and then slapped her hand over her mouth as though the mirth had slipped out by accident. “I don’t like him either but he’s absolutely determined.”

Prescott didn’t like arguing so he simply stood there quietly hoping she’d go away.

She didn’t. After studying him for a few moments she said, “I tell you what. I will find five sites that I think you might like. If one of them speaks to you, you’ll build on it. If none of them does I’ll accept defeat.”

“And why would I waste my time going to five building sites for a man I don’t like?”

She leaned closer and he caught a scent of something that reminded him of wildflowers. “Because I’m going to find a site that is so perfect you will be inspired to do your greatest work.”

He lifted a brow. Was that the best she could do? “You have no idea what inspires me.”

“I’ve read everything I could find about you.” She pulled her shoulders up, looking like someone making a resolution. “I can find your perfect site.”

He looked at her, those eyes brimming with sincerity and determination. “You forgot to offer me a large sum of money.”

She saw through his bluff immediately. “Please. Money doesn’t motivate you.”

“Are you sure you know what motivates me?” He hadn’t meant the words as a sexual dare, but when he saw her eyes widen and a slight blush suddenly stain her cheeks he felt an instant awareness crackle between them.

Damn. He didn’t have time for this. And this untidy woman whose cell phone was even now buzzing somewhere about her was not his type. He was just shaken enough by the unwanted attraction that he did a very uncharacteristic thing. He said, “Okay. You got your meeting. Find me a site you think will speak to me and we’ll see.”

“Five sites,” she argued, making him immediately regret his impulse to help her out. “You will look at five sites and if one of them speaks to you you’ll design Rupert’s house.”

In spite of himself he was amused. He’d managed to streamline his life to the point that no one ever argued with him these days. It was almost a novelty to have this woman pushing at him without a staff shielding him from distraction. “Usually, when a person is bargaining, they have something to offer.” Even as the words left his mouth he saw how they could be misconstrued, so he rapidly added, “Why are you doing all this for a man who will never appreciate one of my designs?”

She met his gaze with her own frank look. “Desperation.”

As Holly drove back to the dumpy apartment she shared in The Mission, the traditionally Latino section of San Francisco, she tried to congratulate herself that she’d won the battle and would keep her job. At least for now.

To celebrate, she called her roommate Luis and they agreed to go out to one of their favorite taco places. Luis’s family was from The Mission and he knew all the best and cheapest places to eat.

As they sat over a plate of tacos and a beer in a tiny, family-run place on Mission Street, she told him about her meeting.

She’d met Luis when she’d searched for affordable places to live in the Bay area. The rents were horrendous, the vacancy rate almost negative and so she’d widened her field from a studio to sharing. She’d been hesitant about living with a guy but five minutes in Luis’s company had convinced her. He was funny, hip, loved to cook and his bookshelves were as crowded as hers, though his books were in both Spanish and English.

He’d told her right away that he had a girlfriend, Maria, who was a hairdresser. “Why isn’t she sharing the apartment with you?” she’d asked him.

He shook his head sadly. “Traditional family.”

So, Maria lived with her family a few streets away and they turned a blind eye to the number of nights she didn’t come home. Since Holly liked Maria—who could also cook—the arrangement suited all of them. One day, she knew, those two would get married and she’d have to find another place, but by then she hoped to be on her feet financially.

Besides, Rupert kept her so busy she was barely ever home, and when she was she was squeezed into the desk in her room calculating time zones. She’d started using an Internet app to schedule messages to his many international clients so she could at least snatch a few hours of sleep a night.

The carrot Rupert dangled in front her was that anyone who managed to stay with him for a year or two as his assistant got promoted within his empire. However, when she asked around, it turned out that he’d fired three former assistants, two assistants had quit, one suffered a nervous breakdown and only two had survived to get that promised promotion.

Even though the odds were against her, Holly knew she had the guts and determination to get through a year or two of hell to get her feet firmly on the ladder of corporate success.

She’d worked hard in business school, often chronically short of sleep between her college workload and the various jobs she’s held down in order to make ends meet. She was used to the life.

Short term pain, she told herself several times a day.

It seemed that no sooner did she get a handle on one part of Rupert’s crazy demands than he ramped up another area. This was the first time he’d threatened to fire her and she’d been with him seven months. According to Christophe, the German/American who was one of the two assistants to go on to one of those plum jobs, she was doing exceedingly well. “By the time I’d been there seven months Rupert had threatened to fire me at least four times.”

She wasn’t sure she could cope with that kind of pressure. She’d never been fired from anything in her life. And one self-involved architect was not going to be her stumbling block.

“So you told this guy you’re going to find him five building sites,” Luis commented when she’d finished telling him her slightly unorthodox plan.

“I did, didn’t I?” She’d been so caught up in making sure Prescott Chance agreed to work with her that she’d come up with the crazy plan on the spur of the moment, then kept pushing until the architect agreed.

“Chica, how are you going to find building sites that a famous architect doesn’t know about?”

It was a reasonable question. Unfortunately, she had no answer. She stuck a taco chip in salsa. “He was going to drive away. I had to stop him and that was all I could think of. I’ll figure something out. I’ll have to.”

“He’s like the Frank Gehry of the new millennium,” Luis said, echoing a headline in Architectural Digest that had in fact used almost those exact words. “What’s he like in person?” Luis asked, reaching for another taco.

She tried to articulate her first impressions of Prescott Chance. “Still.” It was the first word that came to mind.

“Still like immobile?”

“Like still waters run deep.” She thought back to when she’d first seen him; how she’d been struck by the thoughtful expression on his face and how, when they’d talked, he’d never fidgeted or talked too much. He moved when necessary, spoke when necessary. “It’s almost like he’s a vampire or something living in society and trying to blend in but you look at him and somehow know he’s different.”

“He’s scary?”

“No. More self-contained I guess. I mean, I read up on him, everything I could find, and he’s famous for being disconnected. He doesn’t do social media, he has no cell phone.”

Luis snorted. “Come on. Everybody has a cell phone.” He gestured to the three phones even now sitting on the table between them. “You can’t do business without one.”

She shook her head. “In the few interviews he’s ever given he says he connects with the landscape and with his vision. He doesn’t want to be distracted.”

Luis looked disbelieving. “He’s posing.”

“I thought so too until I met him. Now I’m not so sure.”

“He lives in San Francisco and doesn’t do social media?” Luis was always complaining about how the city was being ruined by all the programmers who’d taken over the town since Facebook and Google were headquartered there. “It’s like moving to Napa and being a teetotaler.”

“I know. You have to admire it a little bit.”

Since both she and Luis were pretty much married to their smartphones, she felt a pang of envy that anyone could be freed from their phone. Two of those phones on the table were hers. One was basically Alistair Rupert’s 24/7 hotline to her.

She and Luis had a deal when they were out together that he could only pick up for Maria and she could only pick up for Rupert. Which gave them approximately half of their time together without one or both on the phone or texting. She sipped her beer absently. Then grinned. “Do you remember when I took up meditating?”

“How could I ever forget those four minutes?” Luis teased.

“Exactly. I was so twitchy and fidgety and my mind was racing. I can’t stay still for one minute. But Prescott Chance is the kind of man who could be a Zen master. I bet he could sit in silence and stillness for a week and not even notice.”

“You’re right. That is scary.”

“Not as scary as me out of a job. So, think, how do I come up with building sites that will inspire a famously eccentric architect?”

Luis was one of those software designers he claimed were ruining the city. He refused to work for the big companies though. He was involved in a startup that would be lucrative if it ever got off the ground. Right now he was barely scraping by but still, he knew this city. His family had lived here for generations. Luis was connected. “Money’s no object?”

“Please. We’re talking Alistair Rupert. His wife wants a Chance-designed home. He’s the Prada of architects and she wants hers. Naturally, Chance despises most of the people who want his services, which has only made him more desirable.” She grinned suddenly. “Can you imagine being rich enough to have anything you want? And then having an architect say no to you? That’s got to hurt.”

“It’s a problem I wouldn’t mind having,” Luis said glumly, eyeing the last taco.

She waved her hand at him, telling him to go ahead and eat it. “I wouldn't mind either,” she admitted. “And Iona, Rupert’s wife, is even more scary than Rupert. I mean, she did not marry the man for his looks or charm. He’s thirty years older than her, chubby and mean. So imagine putting up with Alistair Rupert to get access to all that money and then have some guy throw it back.”

“I think it’s cool.”

She nodded. “As much as I need him to change his mind, I admire him saying no to Rupert. Nobody says no to Rupert.”

“Does he want waterfront? Acreage in Sonoma? Right in the city? What does Rupert want?”

“Honestly, I don’t think Rupert cares. He’s got offices in five cities and minions like me doing all his leg work. If Mrs. Rupert is happy, then he’s happy. A Prescott Chance house would be a lot cheaper than a third high-profile divorce. And Mrs. Rupert wants a Prescott Chance house.”

“Too bad Mrs. Rupert doesn’t want to live in The Mission. My grandparents are selling,” he said, looking glum.

“Oh, no.” She’d met his grandparents. They’d lived in the Hispanic district for fifty years.

“All their friends are moving out and none of the kids can afford to move back here.” He scowled. “If my startup had taken off by now I might try to buy it, but I can’t afford to live here either. Trouble is, the house is kind of run down and the lot is a weird shape. Like a trapezoid. You need an architect with wacky ideas to get any hope of a good price, and they need the money to retire on.”

She shook her head sadly. “I really can’t see Mrs. Rupert—or Mr. Rupert—in The Mission.”

When Holly walked into PGC Architects the next Monday afternoon, having killed a half hour at a coffee shop because she was so early for her appointment, the sleek young woman, wearing gray this time, did a double take when she saw her.

“Hi,” she said, friendly because she was always friendly. “I’m here to see Prescott.”

The woman looked as though she might be contemplating pushing a secret button that would summon security, so Holly quickly said, “He’s expecting me.”

“Prescott Chance is expecting you?” She did a quick glance at her computer screen where no doubt his schedule was laid out. Mostly blank she imagined.

“Yes. We’re seeing a building lot today.”

As though she couldn't stop herself, the woman leaned forward and said, “I have never known him to change his mind.”

Holly figured one confidence deserved another so she, in her turn, leaned in. “You have never known me when I am terrified to lose my job, which would mean getting kicked out of my rental and defaulting on my student loans.”

She nodded as though she might know all about tight budgets, being young and in the city and all. “I’ve worked here for three years and I have never seen him change his mind. That’s impressive.”

She felt her confidence bounce. “Thanks.”

In the week since Prescott had tried to blow her off she’d spent every spare second she had researching possible sites for Chez Rupert. Not that there were many seconds when she wasn’t running around after Rupert doing everything from coordinating international meetings and interviewing ghost writers for a business book he planned to write, to picking up his dry cleaning if his driver was too busy ferrying Mrs. Rupert. What little ego she’d had as a freshly minted MBA was pretty much squeezed out of her.

She had top real estate agents in four countries on speed dial. Rupert and his wife were willing to consider the United States (either coast, but nothing in the middle), Switzerland, certain parts of the UK where Rupert was originally from, or one of several islands in the Caribbean. However, she’d already nixed the latter, knowing Rupert would never live on an island in the middle of nowhere. He liked the energy of big cities. If he wasn’t in one he’d need to be near it. Dealing with the competing wishes of Mr. and Mrs. Rupert made her wish she’d received a psychology degree instead of business ones.

Also, there was the problem of getting Prescott Chance to look at a site that involved a plane journey. He didn’t want to design the Ruperts a house at all. She couldn’t imagine him flying far to look at a prospective property. However, she was keeping her options open and really hoping something cropped up that was within a day’s driving radius.

This was California, for heaven’s sake. The real estate agents had tried to show her every high-end listing in their portfolios, most of them whisper listings, so called because you wouldn’t find them publicly listed. No sign ever sat out on the front lawn. Only super-qualified buyers even heard about them.

Even at the highest of the high end she’d had to be brutally selective. She’d already toured three prospective properties and knew they wouldn’t work. But the fourth one, she’d liked. It was in Pacific Heights, an older estate with a view of the Golden Gate. The agent called it the jewel in the crown of his exclusive portfolio and she could see why. The building didn’t matter; it was the land that was spectacular. An acre of gorgeous with views to die for. She could imagine what Prescott could achieve. Based on his portfolio, which she knew almost as intimately as he did, she pictured him sitting cross-legged on the lawn, inspired by the beauty of the spot with the few natural challenges of a creek and a gorgeous cluster of redwoods that couldn’t be cut down.

She knew that while Rupert was cheap with his staff and a notorious skinflint in his business dealings, he was extremely generous when spending money on himself and his Russian wife, so Holly didn’t even blink at the price or the additional cost of knocking down the existing mansion to build a new one.

While she was mentally crossing her fingers that she’d found the right site, Prescott Chance walked down the stairs, from what must be his office high above the noisy workers. He strode to where she was standing. It was completely spooky. She hadn’t seen the chic receptionist call or text and yet he’d appeared.

Luis was always regaling her with stories of communication technologies being invented or experimented with. Some of them involved thought communication, which scared more than impressed her.

Anyone trying to get through on her thought frequency would likely get a busy signal.

He didn’t have so much as a pencil in his hand. She had never known anyone to travel so light.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” was all he said to the blond.

“Okay.”

And they walked out into the noise and breeze of a city she’d temporarily forgotten existed. “Was that some kind of mind communication you used in there?” she asked.

“Pardon?”

“I never saw the receptionist alert you in any way that I was there and then you appeared like magic.”

He looked at her like she might be a few face cards short of a full deck. “I saw you arrive through the window in my office.”

So much for high tech. “Oh.” Then she reminded herself that he’d changed his mind because of her, something he reportedly hadn’t done in at least three years, so she grabbed back her feeling of confidence, knowing she’d need it to deal with Prescott Chance. “Would you like me to drive?” She really hoped he’d say no because although she’d remembered to fill up with gas, and she’d even plugged in a couple of dollars to the vacuum at the gas station, nothing was ever going to make her twelve-year-old car look newer. Or nicer.

He glanced at her in surprise. “Are we traveling together?” He didn’t seem like he was insulted by the notion, more surprised.

“Well, I guess we could meet there, but I was going to give you the background on the property on the way.”

“I’ll drive,” he said, and clicked the fancy fob that opened the doors and started the engine or battery or whatever made this thing run.

The real estate agent was already there when they arrived at the property. A friendly guy in his forties, he held a personalized folder and strode toward Prescott with a broad smile on his face and his free hand outstretched. “Well, Prescott Chance, it is a real honor to meet you. I’m Frank Norbert.”

Prescott shook his hand briefly and waved away the folder, which the agent then handed to her. Normally, of course, he’d be selling to the end buyer, but Holly had already explained that Prescott was the one who would determine what the Ruperts purchased. It might be unorthodox but she figured for the size of commission that must be involved here, Frank Norbert would put up with a little unorthodox. He hastened after Prescott, who had already walked through the open gate.

She followed behind, watching Prescott, hoping he loved the property as much as she had. Please let him make one part of her job a tiny bit easier.

No possible way to tell what he was thinking from his expression. Frank Norbert was extolling the various features of the property, most of which were evident. The morning fog had burned off and the sun was shining for which she was grateful. As she walked behind the two men, she heard Frank point out the green lawn that glowed with health, a water feature that babbled, the old stone walls, the trees, the mature landscaping, the view. Frank didn’t bother even mentioning the house. Instead he focused on height restrictions, building envelopes and something about a soil drainage test. He was in the middle of telling Prescott about the neighborhood when the architect interrupted him.

“Holly?”

“Yes?”

He’d never used her name before. She wasn’t certain he knew it so it was startling to hear him call her Holly. “Could I see you for a moment?”

“Yes, sure.” She sent a quick smile to Frank and followed Prescott as he strode to the edge of the stone patio. She looked at him with her eyebrows raised. He looked as calm as ever, but he cut his eyes to where Frank stood a few feet away checking his cell phone.

“Make him stop talking.”

“Make him stop talking?” He was an agent trying to sell a property.

“I need to feel a site and let it communicate with me, and I cannot do it with a salesman babbling in my ear.”

“I completely understand,” she said, reminding herself that she was in the presence of an artist famous for being temperamental.

She walked back to where Frank stood. Smiled. “He needs a few moments alone to feel the earth.”

He nodded, looking impressed. “Right, I read he’s descended from a line of Cherokee warriors and that he’s some kind of shaman.”

She’d read that too. But having worked seven months for Alistair Rupert, she knew all about how famous men manipulated their images. “Maybe we could sit out front and discuss price and timing and so on. Mrs. Rupert’s very anxious to get started, so as soon as Prescott approves a property they’ll want to move fast.”

“Of course, anything I can do to help. Anything at all. It would be my pleasure.”

She walked him around to the front of the house, hopefully out of earshot so Prescott could commune with the earth spirits of Pacific Heights or talk to its aura or whatever he needed to do.

She just hoped that they gave him the thumbs-up.

Within ten minutes, Prescott returned. She glanced up, a question in her eyes, but he’d been there such a short time that her stomach was already dropping when he shook his head. “No.”

“No?” Frank strode forward ready to launch into a sales pitch, overcome objections, whatever you did to turn around a sale, but Prescott simply got in his car and shut the door, leaving the bewildered agent standing there looking foolish.

“Well,” Frank said, looking at her as though she might have some clue as to why Prescott Chance behaved so oddly but she didn’t. All she knew was that she wasn’t hanging around here explaining Prescott’s brusque behavior, or he might leave without her.

“I’ll be in touch,” she said, shaking hands briefly and then dashing to the passenger side of the Tesla.

She’d barely settled when the car reversed.

“Well,” she said, “what did that poor man ever do to you?”

“Nothing.” He seemed surprised she would ask.

“But you were so rude to him.”

“No, I wasn’t. I dislike small talk. I didn’t ask him to come, and I don’t have time to waste telling him why I’m not going to design a house on that lot.”

“Why won’t you?” she almost wailed. “I thought that spot would be perfect. You could imagine looking up and seeing a Prescott Chance on the crown of that fantastic property. It would be a real showplace.”

“If you look at a building and think about the architect, then the architect has failed,” he said simply.

“But how do you know? When it’s right? Come on, throw me a bone here. I’ve got four chances left. Why waste everybody’s time? Wouldn’t it be easier for all of us if you gave me a few clues so I could find the right spot sooner rather than later?”

He seemed to give the matter deep thought. Then he said, “When I find the right place for me to design, it’s like the structure’s already there. It was always there waiting to be uncovered. And when I’m finished and I’ve got the design absolutely right and the builders don’t screw it up, then, at the end you look at that building and realize it was inevitable.”

“Well,” she said brightly. “That should help.”

“Architecture should speak of its time and place but yearn for timelessness,” he added.

“Frank Gehry said that. I saw it quoted on your firm’s website.”

“That’s what I believe. It’s an organic thing, that the design should be part of the landscape and not draw attention to itself.”

“Kind of like good fashion sense,” she said.

He turned to look at her in surprise and she felt like explaining that she understood good fashion sense, she simply didn’t have it.

Unlike him. He seemed always to look as sleek as a panther, in dark neutrals, black and gray and navy, but the cut of every piece of his clothing was exquisite. She suspected he had all his clothes hand made by designers in Italy.

Challenge, she reminded herself. He’d admitted he thrived on challenge.

So, it seemed, did she. And now she had to find another perfect site while Rupert grew increasingly testy and her job grew increasingly tenuous.