She’d had a nice house in Brentwood, but nothing like these places. River Oaks rivaled Beverly Hills, and to her eye the lots and homes were bigger here. Cheaper land, probably.
They followed the sweeping curve of the street around to the left. Out the window she saw a dog walker, a wiry Latino wearing all white, with two Dobermans pulling on a sturdy leash. She assumed he was a dog walker, anyway, and not the owner. His clothes, a short-sleeved white shirt and shorts, looked almost like a uniform. The dogs looked like guard dogs, their sleek coats showing the bunched muscle beneath.
Other than a lone female jogger, this was the first person Michelle had seen on these streets. The whole place felt like a ghost town. An expensive, well-manicured one.
“It seems very quiet here,” Michelle said.
“Well, a lot of the River Oaks set like to summer in Colorado.”
“But not Ms. O’Connor.”
“Not Ms. O’Connor,” he agreed. “She’s a dedicated woman.”
He turned the car into a drive blocked by a black wrought iron gate, flanked by brick columns, the entire property surrounded by a high stone wall.
“Excuse me,” Porter said with a sigh, putting the car in neutral. He opened the door, swung his heavy body around and heaved himself out of the car.
Michelle watched as he walked to the gate, punched a number into a code box there. There was a surveillance camera atop the column, she noted. A sign for a security company that promised an armed response beneath it.
Well, it wasn’t too surprising that Caitlin O’Connor would be concerned with security, Michelle thought.
By the time Porter returned to the car, he was beet red and sweating. “I’ll tell you, this weather’s almost enough to make a person believe in global warming,” he said.
Caitlin O’Connor’s house wasn’t one of the biggest ones Michelle had seen on the drive through River Oaks. The grounds weren’t as extensive as the larger estates either. The house looked to be older, a comparatively modest two-story Colonial set back from the street by a neatly trimmed emerald lawn. Greek Revival-wasn’t that what the style was called?-with four columns flanking the entrance. A portico? It had been a long time since her architectural survey class at UCLA.
Three old oak trees shaded the house and yard. There were flower beds, a few in bloom even in the late July heat, and big shrubs that rose almost half the height of the front door, surrounded by low hedges.
“Azaleas,” Porter explained. “They don’t look like much now, but you should see them in the spring.”
“It’s beautiful,” Michelle said. Not to her taste, but it really was.
Porter parked the car in the driveway, in the shade of one of the oak trees.
A middle-aged Latina woman wearing a white shirt and white shorts answered the door. “Oh, Mr. Ackermann-how are you today?”
She immediately stepped aside so that Porter and Michelle could enter.
“Very well, thank you, Esperanza. Except it’s too damn hot.”
“I think so too! Crazy, huh?”
They stood in the foyer for a moment. Michelle had the impression of white and beige: the tiles and walls, the staircase leading up to the second floor.
“This here’s Michelle Mason.” Porter tilted his head in Michelle’s direction. “I think Caitlin’s expecting us.”
“She’s waiting in the Great Room,” Esperanza said.
They followed her through the foyer and into the living room beyond.
A beautiful room, big, twice the size of her living room in Arcata and two stories high, with plush carpet, French doors, and a wall of windows, done in different shades of white, cream and beige, with dark brown accents. That and the cool air made Michelle think suddenly of an ice cream sandwich.
Caitlin O’Connor sat on the couch, the eggshell-colored sofa from the video that Michelle had seen.
She rose to greet them. She wore a cream-colored, cowl-necked jersey top and slightly darker linen slacks, both pieces expensive to Michelle’s eye.
“Hi, I’m Caitlin,” she said, extending her hand. Her blue eyes and blonde hair were the brightest colors around, but she still blended into the room.
Michelle took her hand and clasped it briefly. “Michelle Mason.”
Caitlin’s hand was cool. Nearly the temperature of the conditioned air. Her eyes seemed a little unfocused, Michelle thought. Or maybe she was imagining it, based on the seeds that Gary had planted.
“So nice to meet you.” Caitlin smiled and gestured toward the couch.
“Well, I’ll let the two of you get acquainted,” Porter said as Michelle sat. He glanced at his watch, an expensive one, though she hadn’t been able to catch the brand-Phillip Stein? “How ’bout I pick you up in, say, a half hour or so? Around four-fifteen.” He looked over at Caitlin. “That give you enough time?”
“I think so,” she said, smile still in place. She turned to Michelle. “I’ve already heard so many good things about you.”
“Well, I’ll leave you to it then.” Porter lifted his hand to his forehead in a mock salute. Michelle watched him walk away, almost seeming to tiptoe, a big man remaining light on his feet.
“I’m an admirer of your work,” Michelle said, after he’d left.
Caitlin sighed out a chuckle, lifted her shoulders a fraction. “Would you like a glass of white wine? It’s awfully damn hot out.”
Michelle hesitated. If this was a job interview, saying yes to a glass of wine might be the wrong answer. But if Caitlin was a drinker looking for someone to drink with her, then “yes” might be what she wanted to hear.
“Only if you’re having one,” Michelle said, smiling back. “Otherwise, water is fine.”
“Oh, let’s open the wine. Esperanza,” Caitlin called out. “Hon, can you bring us that bottle of chardonnay in the fridge?”
Esperanza must have been hovering within earshot. A minute or two later, she arrived with a bottle of Calera chardonnay and two glasses. As she started to open the wine, Caitlin said, “How about bringing out an ice bucket?”
So she wanted to drink the entire bottle, Michelle thought.
“I can open that,” she said to Esperanza.
Esperanza handed her the corkscrew. “I’ll go get the ice.”
A nice waiter’s corkscrew, thankfully. So many households used butterflies or Rabbits, and those just weren’t as good as a decent waiter’s corkscrew.
She cut the foil and popped the cork. Poured Caitlin the proper-sized pour-not too much, you didn’t want it to get warm, but enough so that you could catch the nose.
“You look like you’ve had some practice,” Caitlin said.
“I’ve hosted a lot of parties. When they weren’t big enough to hire a bartender, I was the stand-in.” Michelle smiled. As artificial an expression as what Porter had given her earlier. Could Caitlin tell? “I make a great margarita.”
She poured her own glass. A little less than what she’d poured Caitlin. Lifted it. “Cheers,” she said.
Caitlin smiled, and raised her glass. “Cheers.”
Michelle sipped her wine. Over oaked and heavy on the butter, but not bad.
Esperanza returned with an ice bucket. “I’ll bring out some snacks,” she said.
She came back a moment later with a couple of cheeses, some crackers and a small bowl of nuts.
Caitlin cut off a corner of Brie and spread it on a cracker. Michelle took a piece of the Gouda and ate it alone.
“I understand you lost your husband,” Caitlin said.
Michelle wanted to laugh. She had the sudden image of having misplaced Tom, like you would your set of keys. “Yes. It’s been about two and a half years.”
“Not so long, then.” Caitlin took a healthy swig of wine.
With everything that had happened, it seemed like forever, but Michelle couldn’t really get into that. “It was unexpected,” she said, because that was what she’d gotten into the habit of saying.