Chapter 3
“I’m not going back,” said Meri from the marble countertop where she was frothing skim milk for her vanilla cappuccino on a sunny mid-August morning. She’d made the decision to quit two months ago, right after winning the Purchase Prize and overhearing that unforgettable conversation in the lav. The only thing stopping her from making it official back in June was that she needed access to the Gates facilities until she figured things out.
Meri knew her siblings. Knew that behind her where they sat at the breakfast table, they were eyeing each other in a sisterly conspiracy over their bowls of yogurt. But the roar of the espresso maker made it impossible for them to mount their objections just yet.
Meri added the perfectly microfoamed milk to her cup and braced herself to join them. The always-serene Savvy spooned some of the melon that had been sliced earlier that morning by Jeanne, Papa’s devoted cook, into her bowl, silver ringing off crystal. She took a sip of tea, replacing the porcelain cup gently in its saucer.
“What do you mean? Of course you’re going back.”
Sauvignon was the oldest. An attorney. Always sticking to convention, following the rules.
“No, I’m not. It’s my decision.”
“But why on earth not?” chimed in Char. “You only have a year left. Your senior year!”
“You’re doing so well,” Savvy added. “You won the Purchase Prize. Your work was singled out. It’s exceptional. You’re exceptional.”
Meri had thought this through and she had it down. She knew the best argument to sway her sisters. “But you two are home now, and for the first time since we were little, we’re all together again. It’s what I’ve been waiting for for years. Don’t ask me to leave.”
“But we’ve graduated, and you haven’t,” Savvy said logically.
Fail.
Meri leaned in for emphasis. “I’m not going.” Then she sat back, took a sip of her coffee, and folded her arms.
“Meri, what is it? Why in the world don’t you want to finish your BFA?”
“I’ve learned all there is to learn at Gates.”
Two pairs of brows knit together in a joint show of skepticism.
“Is that all you’re having? Here, how about some fruit.” Chardonnay began spooning chunks of cantaloupe into a clean dish. Typical middle child . . . always trying to maintain harmony. “Did something happen at Gates?”
The voices of her classmates rang through Meri’s ears. “She made me want to gag. But you know how it is: ‘Them that has, gets. ’ ” Ever since that day, those words had been plastered in one-hundred-point font on the walls of her brain.
“Nothing happened,” she lied. Telling her overprotective sisters would only cause them pain. “I’m just. Not. Going.”
“What about your art?” asked Savvy.
“I didn’t say I’m going to give up art.” Her optimism bobbed to the surface. “I can make art without a degree. I know what I’m doing. The Purchase Prize proves it. I’ve learned all the basics. Mostly what they’re doing this year is marketing and stuff.”
“But marketing’s important!” said Savvy. “You can be the most talented designer in the world, but you have to know how to sell yourself.”
“I’ve got an idea for a website. A little online boutique.”
Her sisters smiled with cultured civility. But Meri wasn’t fooled. Her defenses were primed for their next volley.
“Without a studio, how are you going to make the jewelry that goes on your website?” asked Savvy.
Meri took another sip of her skim cap. She hadn’t touched her melon. “I want to open my own atelier.”
“Pardon?” asked Savvy, her r coming from the back of her throat. Her accent—like that of all the girls’—was dead-on.
“A workshop,” Char translated unnecessarily, in her enthusiasm for making sure everyone was always on the same page.
“All I need is a little place I can work out of.” Meri got up and padded in bare feet across the Spanish tiles to a cabinet. “Something with electricity, a sink, and good ventilation.”
“Where’re you going to find that?” asked Savvy, taking another sip of tea.
“I don’t know yet,” she said, returning with a scant handful of almonds. “I haven’t really started looking.” The truth was, she didn’t have a clue where to begin. But there had to be something out there. The St. Pierres lived less than an hour north of San Francisco. There must be dozens of possibilities. She just didn’t know where any of them were.
“What will Papa say?” Char fretted.
“He won’t say anything! He won’t even care!” Meri’s bravado abandoned her, while her anxiety, never far from the surface all summer, returned full force. What Papa would say was exactly what had been nagging her since June. And now August had come, and she couldn’t hide from it any longer.
Char got up from the table to slide an arm around her. “It’s all right.”
“You know Papa,” Meri cried. “He doesn’t pay any attention ’til our hair’s on fire, and then he practically drowns us trying to put it out.”
Char gave her a squeeze while the kitchen fell silent. Even her sisters couldn’t deny it. The whole of their tangled lives, the three had been alternately pushed and pulled, ignored and controlled. The shared experience had lashed them together tighter than a French braid.
Then Char had an idea. She raised an index finger, as if to gauge how the wind blew. “Bill Diamond.”
Meri wiped away a solitary tear, forest-green mascara staining her white linen napkin. Celine, the housekeeper, was going to kill her.
“Who?”
Bill Diamond held the door of his compact car for Meri, distorting the image of the real estate logo plastered from headlights to tailpipe.
“I can’t tell you how much I appreciate you spending a couple of hours with me,” she said as they headed out toward Highway 29 South. “Char told me this kind of deal is small potatoes to you.”
“Small potatoes? How ’bout tater tots?”
She blushed, and he laughed good-naturedly. “There are worse ways to spend a fine Saturday morning than a road trip down to Vallejo.” He pushed a button and the convertible top retracted to reveal a sapphire sky. “Let me know if that’s too much air. Did your sister tell you how this works?” he asked, picking up speed.
Just this year, Bill had helped Char with her office building. Char had explained it all to Meri. Once they found a space, the building owner would pay Bill a commission for bringing him a tenant. It wouldn’t be much. But simply being known around the valley as the St. Pierre sisters’ go-to real estate guy made it worth Bill’s while. Relationship-building was everything in his business. Small deals often led to bigger ones.
“So you think I can find something that’s not too expensive?”
“A workshop outside the city in a converted warehouse? If it’s out there, we’ll find it. Excuse me for asking, but is price really an issue? I mean, to be frank . . .”
Meri held up a halting hand. “I don’t want Papa’s help with this.”
“Chill.” He smiled gamely. “I’m only asking the same questions I’d ask any client. It’s called ‘qualifying the buyer.’ Or in your case, the lessee. After all, Char said you quit school.”
Meri started. Apparently Char had forgotten to mention Bill Diamond’s bluntness. Was this how it was going to be from now on? Was she going to be made to feel like a loser at every turn?
“Sorry. I overstepped. But let’s talk turkey. How’re you going to pay for this studio, all by yourself? I assume you have resources. . . .”
Meri lifted her chin. “I will.” When her trust fund kicked in. But that wouldn’t be for a long time.
“So . . .” Bill made a rolling motion with his right hand.
The skeins of long hair whipping across her face impeded her view of the vine-combed hills rising up on either side of the two-lane. To buy time, she developed a sudden preoccupation with digging through her oversized bag for an elastic band. “I’ll figure something out,” she said with a breeziness she didn’t feel. “Let’s just find the place, first.”
“Mind if I make a suggestion?”
The eager glance she shot his way was a tacit yes. Truth was, she needed all the advice she could get. She was an art major, not an MBA.
“Is your father on board with this?”
“You mean, with my renting a studio?”
“Yeah. How’s he feel about it?”
“Honestly? He’s usually too caught up with his own life to pay much attention to mine.”
Bill mulled that over.
“Your papa got off the hook by not having to cough up that final year’s tuition, am I right?”
She nodded uncomfortably.
“Why not ask him to loan you a year’s tuition? A year at a private art school has to cost way more than the rent and electricity for a room in an old warehouse.”
She felt the first legitimate spark of hope in months.
“You think that would work?”
“Tell your papa you want to cut a deal. When you start making some income, you’ll pay him back.”
“With interest,” Meri added, for good measure. Thank you, Char. Bill Diamond was a genius.
Now that everything seemed doable, her focus returned to finding the ideal place.
“Why Vallejo?” she asked, as they pulled off the highway onto an unremarkable boulevard.
“There’re some artsy-fartsy shops sprouting up down here.” They’d come to a street dotted with antiques shops, secondhand stores, and the like. “This was a Navy town, ’til they closed the old shipyard back in the nineties. When the whole economy took a nosedive, the town went bankrupt. Most of these downtown stores closed. But it’s cycling back. There’s a lot of empty real estate up for grabs, and as you can see, creative types are snapping it up. Plus, it’s situated about halfway between the valley and the city. The commute’s short, and the rents’ll be a lot cheaper than in San Francisco. I’ve set up appointments at a handful of locations.”
The vehicle slowed to a crawl as he peered toward an ancient brick monstrosity on the right. “In fact, here’s the first one now.”