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From there spawned the idea of possibly establishing an autistic children’s foundation or even one for low-income single mothers. Though I didn’t know the first thing about setting up something like that—or managing it. So I retrieved the slip of paper with Mr. Conaway’s number jotted down and called him on Dr. Stevens’s landline, since I hadn’t replaced my cell that was but a remnant at the Lux, along with my diamond bracelet.
He met with me right away to get the ball rolling. Following that discussion, he offered a recap of my investments. His endless reports demonstrated sum totals in each account, percentages of overall capital, return on investments, and so on. As he wrapped up, he pointed out two accounts, showing zero balances.
“What are these?” I asked.
“One is for Dane’s life insurance policy; the other is the policy on 10,000 Lux. We’re still in the paperwork stage. But don’t worry. You have more than enough funds to—”
“I’m not worried,” I said. I’d been broke before and it sucked, but I had money saved from my job at the Lux, in addition to all of Dane’s vast fortune. “I just wanted to know how everything was segregated.”
“Well, I’ve divided the investments into silos that are held by trusts a couple layers deep before they get to your name. Now, you’re perfectly capable of accessing capital immediately,” he was quick to say. “But I don’t want—and neither did Dane—for anyone to easily track the owner of the trusts. There’s some substantial digging to be done in order to connect his money to you.”
“Thank you.” That was a huge relief. I was tempted to request he create another trust with an impenetrable layer for the baby. But I couldn’t bring myself to fully confide in him.
Mr. Conaway did not know why I was at Macy’s retreat. I figured he could easily deduce mental instability. Likely the reason he didn’t even try to pry.
He said in a very firm, solid voice, “I’ll take care of everything on my end. You needn’t worry about a thing, my dear.” He patted my hand. “Everything’s in perfect order; it always will be.” He smiled and it was actually kind of sweet.
I nodded, fighting a few tears. “I know Dane trusted you explicitly.”
He started to pack up his briefcase.
I said, “Just one more thing, if you don’t mind.” As we walked toward the entrance, I continued. “I lost my bracelet that night, at the Lux. The one Dane gave me at our wedding. I’d like to offer a reward to anyone who might have found it or if they come across it while they’re still sifting through the … debris.”
It took a hell of a lot to block my dad’s and Kyle’s voices at the hospital as they’d made me face the gritty reality of what might be all that was left of my husband—teeth.
My stomach lurched. I tried to calm myself.
“I’ll see to it,” Mr. Conaway assured me.
He gave me a fatherly kiss on the cheek before departing. Very unexpected. But heartwarming.
After my lawyer left, it dawned on me that there had been no memorial service for Dane. I wasn’t sure what to do about that. How odd would it appear if I was the one to orchestrate it?
Amano would have taken care of everything, I was sure. I had no idea if someone had planned a service for him, either. I didn’t know if he had family or even a girlfriend, since Lara had passed.
Much as I was loath to do so, I decided to take a trip south to Scottsdale to discuss this with the only person other than Amano and myself who had been close enough to Dane to weigh in on the subject.
Unfortunately, I didn’t have a vehicle at my disposal. So I had to ask Kyle for use of his Rubicon—though, naturally, he wanted to drive me. I didn’t mind and felt a hint of security that he’d be close by.
The trip to the Valley was only an hour and a half, but it felt so much longer. Likely because I was on pins and needles, not necessarily wanting to see Mikaela Madsen but knowing it was the right thing to do, like sending her flowers had been. She’d known Dane her entire life, after all. I was certain she was shredded by his death as well.
We found a parking spot in trendy, Western-themed Old Town, the streets lined with galleries, boutiques, and restaurants. Italy on Your Doorstep was tucked into a lovely space between a renowned barbecue eatery and a classy imitation speakeasy.
The tasting room/market was stylish in decor and atmosphere, with burnt-sienna brick walls and dark polished woods. Mikaela was behind the bar, describing the bouquet and flavors of a Sangiovese as she poured. If I wasn’t mistaken, her Italian accent was thicker. I suspected no one in this chic town knew she hailed from Philly, but likely had been told she’d been imported from Milan or Venice along with the finest of cheeses and most expensive of proseccos.
I’m sure she sold the hell of out her wines and antipasto from just her looks alone.
When she spotted me, she cheerfully called out, “Ciao, bella!” and set aside the bottle of red. She rounded the end of the bar and rushed toward me, arms spread wide. As though we were besties.
After an actual hug—not the air kisses—she clasped my hands and declared, “Ari, darling! It’s so sensational to see you!” She rattled off something in Italian that went over my head, though I doubted it mattered. I had a feeling this was all for effect—for her patrons, aka her audience.
“It’s good to see you, Mikaela,” I told her. “You look wonderful, as always.”
“Business is good,” she said. “Come, let me show you around.”
I introduced her to Kyle first, then let her play tour guide of the neatly, artistically arranged place. Impressive, to say the least, and I was certain Scottsdale society didn’t bat an eye at the lofty price tags attached to everything.
We made our way back to the bar and she said, “Sit. I’ll uncork something special for you.”
