“You really should be writing this down.”
“Not necessary.”
“Fine. I should go.”
I look at Bailey, who leans toward the phone, so Patty can hear what she needs to say.
“Patty,” Bailey asks. “Have you seen him?”
Patty doesn’t answer her, not at first. She clears her throat.
“We’ll get into that later, okay? It’s not the time, Bails…” she says, but she says it soft. Kind.
It’s the voice Patty reserves for a person that she likes.
“I’m sorry about your grandfather, sweetheart,” she says. “I know how close you guys were.”
“Thank you,” Bailey says. “Me too.”
I take the phone off speaker, hold it to my ear.
“Anything else I need to know?” I ask.
“Nothing for now,” she says. “I’ll be at the gallery tomorrow until you’re wheels up. Call if you need to. But only if you really need to.”
“We can’t thank you enough, Patty,” I say.
“You shouldn’t be thanking anyone yet,” she says. “This is just getting started.”
Alfred Hitchcock Lived in These Hills
The house in Santa Cruz isn’t unfamiliar to me.
I visited Jules several times the year when she was teaching at the university there. And, each time, we drove out to this home in the heart of Scotts Valley—a gorgeous community in the upland slope of the Santa Cruz Mountains. All redwood trees and vineyards, hiking trails as far as the eye can see.
The owner hasn’t only been Jules’s close friend since graduate school, but he was also responsible for bringing her to teach at Santa Cruz in the first place. He is a tenured journalism professor here—not to mention the sole heir to a snack food empire, which explains how he’s able to afford the stunning eighteen-acre estate up on one of Scotts Valley’s most famed roads. It’s a Tuscan-inspired estate complete with a gated courtyard, an infinity pool, and a working vineyard. Sweeping views in every direction.
The snack empire is how he’s able to afford his beautiful house—and, more importantly, how he’s able to afford the boat.
I tap in the code at the front gate and the steel doors swing open, revealing the large main house, lit up and glowing against the expanse.
It looks like he is home, many of the lights are on. It looks like he is inside with his partner and their kids. I can picture them sitting at the kitchen table, eating dinner, sharing a glance when they were notified that the gate was open. Then, before their kids noticed, they’d return their focus to their family.
I won’t know for sure. I keep driving. I pull past the main house and continue down the driveway, which narrows, leading us past the vineyard and toward the back of the property and the pool house. The pool house, which is larger than any house I’ve ever lived in, waiting for us. Food in the refrigerator, fresh sheets on the bed. The keys to the slip and the boat and all its necessary documentation on the kitchen island.
I can see the awe on Bailey’s face, despite the circumstances, at the scope of this estate, at its depth.
“It’s only for the night,” I remind her.
“Why’s that?” Bailey says. “We could probably hide in different rooms here forever and no one would find us.”
The refrigerator has been stocked for us with fruit, pasta, and roasted chicken from a local organic grocer.
We eat by the pool, Bailey dipping her legs in the water. We are exhausted from the day and ravenous for some nourishment, something warm and filling that doesn’t come out of a shiny bag.
“It’s so freaking pretty here,” Bailey says. “You could almost forget it, you know? Why you’re here.”
I nod. “Not the worst thing.”
