Chapter Three

 

 

The second place she showed Prescott was a gated estate overlooking the ocean in Marin County.

Their neighbor to one side was an aging movie star, which would make Iona Rupert happy. Their next closest neighbor was a bank president. If there were ever a neighborhood barbecue, Rupert would have somebody to talk to.

The property had belonged to a quirky artist in the thirties then been renovated by more recent owners who, to Holly’s eyes, didn’t have much taste. The mansion wasn’t officially listed when she received the call. Working for the super rich really did have advantages.

She thought Prescott would like the site which was stepped so he could design something layered if he wanted to.

With the ocean at its foot and a secluded garden at its head she thought the place begged for a genius architect. And since the star of the show here was always going to be the ocean and the sunsets, she felt confident he’d never feel like his design was competing with nature. No architect was that good.

This time, she warned the agent in advance what Prescott was like and tactfully suggested she give him the space and quiet he needed to commune with the plot of land. This agent was a stunning woman in her thirties who exuded confidence and wore accessories in a way that Holly could never get right. On her, that scarf would blow away, and if she tried to wear a gold bracelet it would probably catch on things.

Forewarned and forearmed, the agent stayed in the background, but Holly could see she was checking Prescott out. He was so gorgeous you couldn’t help it. He caught her looking at him and Holly got the sense that he was used to women checking him out.

She’d have to remember that. She wasn’t the only woman who found him disturbingly attractive if you liked the remote, difficult type.

This time he stayed twenty minutes and again she got the heart-sinking shake of the head.

Damn. However, she noticed that with the hot female real estate agent, he took her card, let her shake his hand a little longer than business protocol dictated.

“I’m sorry, Holly,” he said, and she felt like he meant it. Probably he was reacting to the dark circles under her eyes from lack of sleep.

Okay, she’d struck out twice with ocean views. The third property was hidden away in the hills. No house had ever been built on it, which she thought might help him envision his own creation among the towering trees and the rocky slopes. There were acres and acres of land. He wanted a challenge? This unique property would be a blank canvas.

He spent so long walking the property, stopping every now and then to inspect the ground or to sit on a rock and stare out at the mountains around him that she began to feel hopeful.

“I’m sorry, Holly,” he said, again sounding like he actually was when he turned her down the third time. “I want to help you, but I can’t feel it.”

“Couldn’t you fake it? Couldn’t you, for once, maybe see what it feels like to create something that isn’t from a vision? That you actually have to work at designing?” She was so frustrated she knew she was being rude, but she couldn’t seem to stop herself. Maybe he’d only looked at three properties but she’d looked at dozens in person, scanned thousands online.

Rupert, who used to snarl at her when he came into the office in the morning, now ignored her, which she sensed was worse.

“I don’t work that way.” And there it was. The simple egotism of the genius.

Over a homemade batch of margaritas and a pizza later that night she wailed to Luis and Maria about her problems.

“The economy’s picking up, you know, you should start looking for another job,” Luis said. “Get hold of some headhunters.” Which was Luis speak for look out, chica, your ass is grass.

Maria let them talk and nibbled pizza, her big brown eyes following the conversation even though she said little.

Finally, when there was a pause because both Luis and Holly had shoved too much pizza in their mouths at the same moment, she said. “You should see where he grew up.”

Holly turned to stare at Maria. Still chewing, she motioned her to go on.

Maria shrugged as though they were missing something completely obvious to her. “Family. That’s a person’s biggest influence. You said he grew up in Oregon. Maybe try to find something that would appeal to that part of him. The big trees and the rain.”

Holly was nodding, feeling like smacking herself in the head for being so dense. She wiped her hands rapidly on the paper towel they were using instead of napkins and then grabbed her laptop. She had Prescott Chance’s entire portfolio on her computer as well as every bit of background information she’d been able to unearth. She scanned through them for about the millionth time then nodded. “He grew up in a place called Hidden Falls, Oregon. I wonder if any of his family still lives there. Parents maybe.”

Luis said, “Why? Are you planning on dropping in on his mom for tea?”

She nodded, realizing that Prescott might quote even more famous architects than himself when she asked him specifically what he liked, but his mother, if she knew mothers, would have concrete answers. “That is exactly what I’m going to do. Who knows a person better than their mother?”

“Are you crazy?” Luis asked.

“No,” Maria said. “It’s a good plan.”

At least, she was desperate enough that she hoped so.

Holly was one who no sooner made a decision than she was on the move. While she sipped the last half of her margarita, she texted Rupert’s personal secretary to tell her that she was looking at properties farther up the coast tomorrow so she wouldn’t be in the office. With her phones and laptop she pretty much had a mobile setup anyway.

With Bluetooth she could make calls as she drove, which she explained to Luis as she dug under the couch cushions in search of her missing sunglasses.

“Why don’t you fly? You’d be there in no time.”

“Because I am going to look at properties on my way up the coast.” The nice thing about shopping for the very highest of the top end of the market was that real estate agents were always available.

Within two hours of her decision she had confirmed that Prescott’s parents still lived in the same house where he’d grown up. And she had several properties lined up to see.

She focused on land that had never been built on and specified that there could be no historical native burial sites. Prescott was very vocal about respecting native traditional lands.

Because it was a Friday, she could take her time driving back, look at some more land.

Daphne Chance opened the door and blinked in surprise at the young woman standing there. She was a stranger with red-blonde hair that insisted on curling into messy ringlets exactly like Daphne’s own.

“Daphne Chance?” the young woman said.

“Yes?”

“My name is Holly Legere. I am so sorry to bother you but I am wondering if I could talk to you about your son, Prescott.”

Her mother’s instinct was one of alarm. “Is he all right?”

“Yes,” the young woman hastily assured her. “I didn’t put that right.” She took a quick breath and blew it out. “I’m tired and stressed and kind of nervous. I was hoping you could give me some information about your son. It’s kind of a last-ditch attempt. I’m sorry to burst in on you like this. I tried to call, but there was no answer. You don’t seem to have any kind of answering service.”

Daphne stifled a smile. She couldn’t count the times that some lovestruck young girl had phoned her or snuck by for a visit when Prescott was out to ask for advice. But it had been years since she’d had such a visit. As she’d done when the kids were in high school, she opened the door wide and said, “Come in. We had an answering machine but it broke. My husband is trying to fix it. In the meantime, we do without.”

The girl heaved a sigh of relief. Had she really thought she’d turn her away? She’d do what she’d always done. Listen to this nice young woman and then gently suggest that Daphne couldn’t make her son fall in love with her any more than she’d been able to make him fall for any of the others through the years. Some days she wondered if he’d ever get out of his own head long enough to fall in love with any woman.

However it quickly became apparent that it wasn’t love driving this woman but economics. “I need to find a building site that speaks to Prescott Chance or I will lose my job.”

“Good heavens. How drastic.” She didn’t know what else to say.

The woman stood fidgeting in her hallway. “My boss is Alistair Rupert.”

“Oh.” That pretty much explained everything. Alistair Rupert was hated by unions since he relished busting them, he was hated by environmentalists, by most politicians and by a string of girlfriends and ex-wives. Journalists loved him because between the business scandals and messy divorces he was always making news. He was an East Londoner and proud of it, and his colorful expressions were usually good for a sound bite.

She couldn’t imagine working for the man. “I’m not sure how I can help, but would you like some tea?”

“I really would. I drove all the way from San Francisco hoping you could help me.”

“I’ll get some cookies to go with that tea,” she said, earning her an impish grin.

As Daphne led the way into the kitchen to put on tea, Holly said, “This is where Prescott grew up?”

“Yep. Pretty humble origins, huh?”

“No. That wasn’t what I meant. It’s just so—” She glanced around the place and Daphne was able to finish her sentence for her.

“Chaotic. I know. I’ve got eleven kids and a husband and a dog. I’ve lived with chaos and clutter so long I think I’d go crazy if I suddenly had order and peace and quiet. But Scott always kept his space clutter free. He never liked distractions.”

Holly nodded. “Scott? That’s what you call him?”

“Yes. But ever since he left home he’s used his full name: Prescott.”

“Mrs. Chance, I need to understand what inspires him.” As Daphne watched that expressive face, the hands that were never still, the hair that bounced and swayed as she talked, the vivid eyes, the energy radiating, she thought, no. It’s not simple economics driving her. It was about passion.

There was something about Holly that drew Daphne’s interest and sympathy. The young woman had dark circles under her eyes and a slightly harried look to her. She looked as though she needed a few good nights’ sleep and a day at the spa. “Please, call me Daphne.”

When she put the kettle on and settled her unexpected guest at the big kitchen table, she pushed the mass of salad greens aside.

“I’ve interrupted you, I’m so sorry.”

“No. It’s fine.” Then, with the motherly pride she couldn’t help, she said, “One of my sons is getting married. It’s our first wedding in the family.”

“That’s wonderful.” Instead of sitting at the table, her unexpected guest grabbed a carrot peeler and began scraping the carrots that were piled near three massive heads of assorted lettuces. “Did you say eleven children?”

“Yes. And you don’t have to do that.”

“I like to keep busy, and I’ll feel less guilty showing up here if I do something useful.”

She scraped carrots and Daphne washed lettuce greens in her huge stainless sink, wondering how she could help this poor girl. But she’d set herself a nearly impossible task.

“The truth is, I don’t think that anyone knows what inspires Scott, not even Scott until it happens. I could more easily tell you what to stay away from. He won’t touch anywhere that’s ever been a burial ground or a ceremonial spot for the native peoples.”

“Right. I read an article where he came out against a developer that wanted to pave over a burial site.”

Okay, so she hadn’t been helpful there. She tried to think what else her son was passionate about. “He doesn’t like to tear down perfectly sound buildings, he thinks it’s wasteful. Um, he loves the idea of a completely self-sufficient house, so solar panels, water collection systems, abundant natural building materials.” She shrugged. “You could find all this on the Internet.” And that was the trouble with having a famous son. It was getting to the point where she sometimes went on the Internet if she wanted to keep up with him. Not that he wasn’t a wonderful son, because he was. Kind and thoughtful, but he was also self-absorbed and forgetful.

“I’m sorry I can’t be more help. My son and his girlfriend decided they wanted to get married here. Here!” She glanced around. Holly did the same. “Since they are keeping the wedding to family and close friends, and Evan’s family is so big, it makes sense. But I don’t know the first thing about planning a wedding.” She gestured to the desk in the kitchen crowded with various brochures and scribbled notes.

Holly dried her hands and walked over to the desk. She started to reach for a photographer’s glossy brochure then glanced up. “May I?”

Daphne nodded, wondering what on earth this woman was planning. And before her bemused gaze, Holly stacked, sorted and said, “What you need is a single place to keep all the wedding information. You could do it digitally, with a database.” She glanced up at Daphne, obviously sensing that she was not the database type. “Or just get a binder and make sections for flowers, catering, photography, and so on. I can put it together for you.”

“Holly, you might be an angel who flew in the door.”

Her visitor laughed. “I have to work on a million projects at once for a difficult boss. I need to stay organized.” She paused. “Plus, I’m really good at it.”

Within half an hour, Holly had everything organized and sectioned, ready for a binder. “I’m sure you can buy ready-made wedding planners, but it would be just as easy to get a nice big three-ring binder and make your own.”

Daphne got on the phone to Evan to ask him to pick one up on his way.

She turned to Holly. “This will be the first weekend I’ve had most of my children home in I don’t know how long.”

“Is Prescott coming here?” Holly’s alarm showed in her heightened color and panic-struck eyes.

“Yes.”

“Man, my timing sucks.”

Or not, Daphne thought. Or not.