by Stacy Finz
“Got my shades, got groceries, went to my sister’s house and got the rest of my stuff.”
“How was the river?”
“Good. The kids said the water is usually deeper. I figure it’s low on account of the drought.” He poured half the contents of the spaghetti package into the boiling water.
She watched as he started the sauce in a second pan, dicing tomatoes and crushing fresh garlic. He seemed to know what he was doing. Good at multitasking, he began setting the table for two. She didn’t stop him because everything smelled so good. It wouldn’t kill her to have just a taste, Dana told herself.
“Where did you learn to cook?”
“Firehouse. Everyone has to take turns.” He grabbed her bottle of wine and poured some into his sauce.
“Is there anything you’re not good at? Cooking, building closets, putting out fires, blowing up kids’ inner tubes . . .”
He laughed, then grew somber. “I’ve got some stuff I’m not good at.”
“Like what?” She sat at the small kitchen table and continued to watch him cook.
“You go first.” Aidan pulled a strand of pasta out of the pot to test it.
“Of things I’m not good at? It’s a long list. The only thing I’m really good at is selling real estate.”
“Nah,” he said. “You’re good at organization and at putting a house together.” He pointed at the stenciled rooster on the wall to prove his point.
She shrugged. “I learned some staging tricks, is all. I’m certainly no interior designer.”
“You’ve got a good eye for color. I like what you did with the paint in the living room.”
Aidan strained the pasta, grabbed two plates out of the cupboard, dished up both servings, which he topped with the sauce, and told her to eat up. She twisted a few strands around her fork and took a bite.
“Mmm, it’s good.”
He nodded. “So what’s the deal with you and Griffin?”
Dana nearly choked on her food. “There’s no deal with us, other than he’s my client.”
“Brady said you two used to date. I certainly got that impression this morning.”
She waved him off. “That was a while ago. He’s with Lina now.” Grabbing the chardonnay off the counter, she poured herself another glass. “You want some?”
He got up and pulled a goblet out of the cabinet so she could pour him the rest of the bottle.
“You’re just friends now?”
“Yes, and like I said, we do business together.” Dana took another bite of her spaghetti.
“Is that what you were talking about this morning? Because it seemed sort of intense, like he might’ve upset you.”
“He just wanted to know if I was avoiding him.” She didn’t know why she was telling Aidan this. It wasn’t like it was any of his business. But she didn’t have anyone else to talk to.
“Are you?”
“A little.” Okay, a lot. “It’s been difficult . . . with Lina. She doesn’t like me.”
“Jealous?”
“Yeah, as if she has anything to be jealous about. She’s beautiful, tiny, and Griff’s totally in love with her . . . and was the entire time we dated.”
Aidan got up to get more spaghetti and sat back down. “Why do women always compare themselves to one another? Maybe she thinks those same things about you and feels threatened.”
“She knows Griffin is crazy about her. He stopped dating me because he was hung up on her.”
“But you’re still stuck on him?”
“Nope,” she said, and pushed her plate away, stuffed. “I’m off men for the foreseeable future.”
Aidan raised his brows. “Sex too?”
She shook her head. “I can’t believe I’m having this conversation with you. What about you? Why did you and your girlfriend break up?”
“She fell for her coworker. They’re getting married Saturday.”
That was a bit of a bombshell. “As in tomorrow?” What woman in her right mind would leave Aidan McBride for a coworker? Look at him: a perfect specimen of a man who not only cooked but made shoe racks.
“Yeah,” he responded, and twisted the last of his spaghetti onto his fork.
“Ah, Aidan, I’m so sorry.”
He hitched his shoulders. “Let’s look at your blueprints after dinner.”
Okay, she could take a hint. He wanted a subject change. Fine. “Sure.”
Dana got up and took her plate to the sink, washed it, and put it in the drying rack. She started to clean up the kitchen and rummaged through the cabinet, where she found containers to put away the leftovers.
“I miss my Tupperware,” she said, eyeing Aidan’s generic stuff with trepidation.
“I bet you do. You probably had one in every size and color coded. Red for meat and green for vegetables.”
“I did not.” But she laughed.
“I’ll finish here; go get the plans,” he told her.
He spent an hour telling her all the places she should put smoke alarms and sprinklers.
“I’ve got to get to bed, Aidan.” She yawned, rolled up the blueprints, and neatly tucked them back into the tube. “I’m meeting that client early.” And she had to be sharp.
“Good luck with that.”
“Thanks.” She started for the bedroom and stopped. “You want to do something Saturday? You know, to keep your mind off the wedding.”
“I’m going to my sister’s for a barbecue.”
“Oh . . . that’s good.”
“Wanna come?”
“Nah, it’s a family thing.”
“No it’s not. It’s dinner, and Brady’s cooking. You should take advantage of that.”
“Maybe,” she said, knowing she wouldn’t go. Dana hardly knew Sloane and Brady. “Let’s see how it goes with my client.”
“Your call,” he said, and went back to cleaning up the kitchen.
Chapter 7
Gia couldn’t sleep, got up to find the remote control, and flicked on the television. She’d promised herself she wouldn’t do this. Wouldn’t torture herself by watching the late-night entertainment shows, where she was the butt of every joke.
The financial self-help guru whose boyfriend had organized one of the largest Ponzi schemes in recent history was hilarious.
Schadenfreude, she supposed. The snark on social media had gotten so bad that the network was on the verge of shutting down her show. Gia couldn’t blame television executives. How could she tell millions of women how to attain financial independence when she herself had been duped by a money swindler and a con artist? For that reason, her syndicated column had already gotten the boot and her latest book could only be found in the remainder bin.
She suddenly felt a tremendous affinity for Martha Stewart. At least insider trading had no bearing on whether Martha could bake a cake. But getting rooked by a third-rate investment banker—who happened to be the man she’d loved and trusted—didn’t speak well for her financial acumen. Or her taste in men. Not only had he stolen her money, he’d stolen her livelihood.
Thank goodness she still had plenty of assets left, including her Fifth Avenue penthouse, which was worth a pretty penny. Unfortunately, not everyone could say the same. Evan Laughlin had left a lot of people in complete financial ruin. And while Gia was solvent—at least for the moment—she knew all too well what poverty felt like.
That was the whole reason for her plan . . . moving to Nugget. She still had the means to make it happen, but her reputation was in tatters. So she’d have to improvise . . . buy the house and land . . . bring her horse . . . lay low until the scandal blew over.
Even if she lost the seven-figure-a-year TV contract, the lucrative speaking engagements, and the hefty advances for her self-help books, she’d figure out a way to manage. Like before, she’d do it the old-fashioned way—making sound investments. And nothing could be sounder than California real estate. Given the drought and the economy, there were fire sales on agricultural land all over
the state. “Buy low and sell high” wasn’t just the mantra for trading stocks, Gia told herself.
Based on her drive from Reno to Nugget, she’d liked what she’d seen. Tremendous views of the Sierra Nevada and its endless bounty of rivers, lakes, forests, and desert. It was the way she remembered it from all those years ago. The last vacation before her Dad had suffered a massive heart attack and died. The town, which consisted primarily of a commercial district built around a verdant square, and the obligatory Main Street, wasn’t as charming as other towns she’d seen in Northern California. Still, according to what she’d read, it attracted some degree of the state’s booming tourism trade and was close enough to more popular destinations to get their spill-offs.
Yet, because of its general remoteness and its frigid winter temperatures, land here was cheaper than in the rest of the state. Gia didn’t think that would last too much longer and she wanted to get in before prices spiked. All part of her long-term plan.
In the meantime, this inn was lovely and luxurious—something you would find in a big city—and a good place to take a few days to rest and regather her wits. She’d stayed sheltered in her room since she’d gotten here, fearful that even with a scarf wrapped around her head and sunglasses to cover her face, people would still recognize her. Even the little online paper here had carried Gia’s column with her picture on it. For that reason, she hadn’t been able to check out either one of the town’s two restaurants or any of the shops. Tomorrow, she told herself. The fact was, she couldn’t hide forever.
She got out her laptop to see how the Nikkei 225 Index had closed, tried to ignore her emails but couldn’t. There were at least five from reporters who wanted to interview her, three from her agent, who probably wanted to let her know whether her show had been canceled, and two from her mother, who she hadn’t had time to call back.
Just wanted to make sure you arrived safely, the message read.
The one thing Gia would truly miss was being on the same coast as her mom, who lived in a retirement community in Boca Raton. Gia had paid cash for her mother’s house, taken care of the association fees, and funded whatever incidentals Iris couldn’t afford. They’d been through hell and back together. And Gia had made sure her mother would never want for anything ever again. At least Evan, the son of a bitch, hadn’t connived Iris into investing in his bogus scheme. Ironically, Gia’s mother was almost childlike in her grasp of high finance, making her an easy mark. But she’d been smarter—perhaps less greedy was more accurate—than any of Evan’s dupes, keeping her life’s savings in low-risk government bonds.
Gia looked at the clock. If she didn’t get to sleep soon, she’d be dead on her feet while Dana toured her around the town. Before crawling back under the covers, she shut down her computer and flicked off the television.
Tomorrow would be the first day of her new life, she told herself, and nearly gagged at the cliché sentiment. But there was something to be said for starting over. Gia had been stuck in overdrive for so long, she hadn’t had any adventures. Her biggest challenge had been juggling too many commitments. Here, she could focus on what she really loved: her horse, the great outdoors, and helping women achieve financial liberation. Only in this case, that woman would now have to be her.
* * *
Gia had on a big floppy hat, a scarf, and oversized sunglasses when Dana picked her up at the Lumber Baron. Dana thought she looked ridiculous and, in a place like Nugget, was only calling more attention to herself. If Gia wanted to avoid being recognized, she’d put a big bulls-eye on her head. But Dana didn’t have the heart to say anything.
“I printed out a list of the places I’ll be showing you today.” Dana handed Gia an accordion file. “In there you’ll find information on each property, including prices. We’re not looking at anything under twenty acres and nothing over eighty. But if you change your mind, I have a few smaller parcels we could get into today. And the homes in Sierra Heights, the planned community I told you about, are all on lockbox.”
“No, I’m not interested in a development.” Gia studied the list. “These have potential, though. I’m particularly excited about this sixty-acre hay farm.”
“We’ll go there first, then.” It was on the way to three other properties Dana planned to show her. “Just remember, the houses on some of these parcels are little more than mobile homes.”
Dana wanted her to be fully prepared. She got the impression Gia was expecting lush paddocks, fancy stables, and manor homes. Most of these places were strewn with farm equipment parts and outbuildings that had seen better days. The owners or foremen lived in modular or modest ranch houses.
She pulled off on Tank Farm Lane and maneuvered her Outback over the rutted dirt road. “In winter this’ll be a nightmare in the snow. I would suggest paving it. But that could take a big chunk of change.”
Gia took off her hat and glasses and tossed them into the backseat. Dana thought she was actually more attractive in real life than on television. Peaches and cream skin any woman would kill for, light blue eyes, and sandy blond hair.
“It’s sure dusty,” she said.
Dana turned on her sprayer and windshield wipers and continued up the road until she came to a white stucco house. As she pulled into the driveway, two dogs circled the car, barking. Jasper came out of the house, holding a cup of coffee and calling to the dogs.
“He said he would make himself scarce for the showing,” Dana said, disappointed. Buyers in general didn’t like looking with owners hovering. Gia, of course, had her own set of reasons. “Let me go talk to him, see if he’s headed out.”
“Morning, Jasper.” She walked toward him.
“Sorry about the dogs, Dana. I’ll lock ’em up in the garage. I gassed up the ATV if you want to take your client out to show her the property lines. You could also take the fire trail with your car, whatever is easier. The door’s unlocked.” He nudged his head at the house. “I’m going into town. Give me a ring if you need anything.”
“Thanks, Jasper. I’ll call you later if there’s any news.” The man desperately wanted to sell the place so he and his wife could retire near their daughter in Sacramento.
“I’d appreciate that.” He tipped his hat, got in his truck, and drove away.
Dana went back to the car. “Coast is clear.”
Gia got out. At least she’d worn jeans and tennis shoes.
“I thought we’d look at the house first and then I’d show you around the property.”
Gia didn’t say anything, just shielded her eyes from the sun and looked around. Together, they went inside the house.
“It’s a three-bedroom, two-bath,” Dana said. The place was tidy, but to someone of Gia Treadwell’s stature, it probably looked like a box. “It’s got central heating and there may be hardwood floors under the carpet.”
Gia walked into the kitchen. “It’s bright.”
And dated, Dana thought. Unexpectedly, Gia didn’t turn her nose up at it. She explored the bedrooms, peeking inside the closets, then took a look at the bathrooms.
“Let’s look at the property,” Gia said.
For the next forty minutes, Dana drove her around the land in the Outback. What they couldn’t see from the car, they viewed by walking. When they left to go tour another property, Gia didn’t say much. It was the same with the next two places. She took her time examining every nook and cranny but maintained a poker face throughout the morning. Dana could read Braille easier than she could read Gia.
“Look,” Dana said, “I don’t want to seem pushy, but it would help both of us if I knew what you liked and what you didn’t like . . . and what’s out of your price range.”
Gia let out a sigh. “The truth: I didn’t really like any of them, but I don’t want you to think I’m a prima donna.”
“I don’t at all. Usually my clients don’t like ninety-five percent of what they see. My job is to hone in on that five percent. But I can’t do that if I don’t know what you’re thinking. So
don’t hesitate to tell me, ‘Dana, this place won’t work for me.’ Buying a home takes time.”
“That’s the thing, Dana, I don’t have time. I’m about to lose my show and the last thing I want to do is be in New York when it all crumbles.”
Dana looked at her agog. “How do you know they’ll cancel you? Don’t these types of things run their course? Won’t they just wait until there’s another big scandal?”
Gia played with a loose thread on her shirt. “My boyfriend . . . now ex-boyfriend . . . bilked thousands of people out of their life’s savings, college funds, and retirement money.... Some had to sell their homes just to scrape by so he could sit on a tropical beach somewhere, drinking Mai Tais with their hard-earned money. These poor victims want blood. Preferably his blood. But they’ll take mine in a pinch.”
“But the FBI cleared you,” Dana said. “You were a victim too.”
“Most people don’t believe that, and even if they did, they don’t want to see me recouping my losses by preaching financial gospel . . . telling people on national TV how to avoid predators and scammers. They don’t want to see me living in a four-million-dollar Manhattan penthouse while they’ve been forced to file bankruptcy.” Gia took a deep breath and gazed out onto the horizon.
“I’m sorry. This can’t be easy.”
Gia lifted her shoulders. “It is what is. What’s next on the tour?”
“Ordinarily, at this point in the program, I would take you to lunch and we’d go over the pros and cons of what we’d already seen so I could get a better idea of what to show you next.”
“I am hungry,” Gia said. “But how likely is it that people won’t recognize me?”
“I could drive us through the Bun Boy and get food to go. Not the most elegant lunch, but in the car people would be less likely to recognize you. You do realize, however, that it’s just a matter of time?”
“I just don’t want the tabloids to know I’m here to buy property. I can see the headlines now: ‘Evan Laughlin’s victims go bankrupt, Gia Treadwell goes shopping.’”
Dana had to admit it wouldn’t look good. “As long as you don’t mind eating takeout. We could find a nice spot to have a picnic.”
