“Okay, now you have five dollars, Mrs. Corcoran... I remember when I could get a whole breakfast down at the Misty Cat for five dollars, don’t you...? I like the Hellcat Scramble myself...”
Then it was time to put a stop to Corbin’s thirty-five texts:
I’ve told Enrique I’m out of the office for the rest of the week due to a family emergency. You’ll need to handle things. I’ll be in touch in about a week. DON’T text me again until you hear from me.
“Handling” things was basically Corbin’s worst nightmare. The administrative day-to-day decision-making was so so so sotorturousfor someone of his genius caliber.
How fascinating to live in a world where people ended up doing things for you just because you didn’t want to. How very like aPasha.
The anger was almost as good as the coffee she desperately needed.
Almost.
“Okay, now you have fifteen dollars, Mrs. Corcoran... whoopsie! This is a Canadian dime! Ha ha ha! Now, how did that get in there? Did I tell you I went to Vancouver over the summer...”
Avalon was officially hyperventilating now. She shot Rachel a quick text:
I may have exactly the property you’re looking for in the North State! Stay tuned.
Finally, a yawning clerk opened another window. Perhaps alerted by a manic gleam in Avalon’s eye, she dispensed with pleasantries and got right down to it.
A few minutes later Avalon bolted out of the credit union like she’d just robbed it with an all-but-drained personal bank account and a stack of cashier’s checks. Which is what the website had instructed her to do.
And she was going to be on time! She was going to make it! She might even be a minute earl—
Fuck.
She came to a screeching halt. The Hellcat Canyon courthouse had been built around 1870. It was handsome, modestly scaled, white domed, Doric of column and marble of foyer.
And it was situated at the top of atleastthirty fucking granite steps.
Why, Hellcat Canyon?Why? To make rash brides and grooms think twice before getting hitched by a justice of the peace? To make criminals think twice about making a break for it?
She whipped her sunglasses off and wiped the sweat and surrendered to a split second of crushing doubt, her lungs already burning and heaving. Maybe the universe was trying to protect her from yet another metaphorical bike jump across Whiskey Creek.
She tipped her head back and stood on her toes. About a half dozen people were milling about the courtyard fountain, each of them limned in the rose-gold of an early morning autumn sun. Her competition.
Suddenly a big guy in suspenders and a denim shirt stretched tautly over his barrel torso burst from the courthouse double doors like a cuckoo from a clock and bustled over to the fountain. He flourished a clipboard. The little crowd surged toward him.
Her phone pinged.
Ava, at least tell me WHERE you are!
Another freaking text from Corbin.
She growled ferally, jerked her head away from it exactly as if he was forcing her to stare at his bobbing white butt again. Her back teeth clamped down hard.
The anger was a gift. It was all the adrenaline she needed.
She took a deep gulp of air like a deep sea diver and all but hurled her body forward.
Bam Bam Bam. Bam.The hard fall of her feet on the steps vibrated her teeth; her breath roared in her ears. She was reasonably fit thanks to San Francisco’s hills, but her only goal in life at this moment was to not throw up before she reached the top, and hopefully not even then.
The entire group pivoted to stare wonderingly at her.
She managed to stand regally erect for three triumphant seconds, hands planted on her hips, smiling enigmatically, the breeze whipping her ponytail sideways.
Before she buckled in two like a two-by-four sliced by a karate chop. Black spots danced before her eyes. Wheezing, she waved away the concerned feet she saw from her bent position. A couple of pairs of John Deere work boots, a pair of Nikes, a pair of handmade loafers so shiny she could see herself in the toes.
