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Meg
October
Four Weeks before the Election
Ron’s deposit hits the escrow account without any problems, and in another five days, the rest of the money will transfer—$4 million from the Canyon Drive sale and $3 million from Ron’s campaign—and I’ll be on my way out of the country.
But first, I have to meet Ron at the Mandeville property with his landscaping guy, Rico. I’d tried to talk him out of it—the election is four weeks away; focus on winning—because every trip to the property is a risk. The listing agent would be very surprised to find us there.
I’d given Ron the inspection report, obtained from the company who’d performed the inspection on the property a year ago, tweaking dates and adding details to match our needs—appliances that need to be replaced, new gutters on one of the outbuildings. I deleted some of the bigger issues that caused the prior buyer to drop out—a deteriorating roof, an outdated HVAC system, and dry rot. As far as Ron knows, the property is in good shape.
But today we’re going to discuss the idea of regrading the back hillside. Ron had noticed a potential for mudslides and wanted his expert to take a look. We park our cars in a cluster in the front courtyard and slip around the side of the house, walking toward the back.
It’s quiet, the sound of nearby traffic on Sunset completely vanished. Just the wind, passing through the trees and down into the canyon. A hawk flies in a slow circle above us, and I try to imagine what it would be like to live here. How peaceful and removed you’d feel, as if you were living in another era.
Ron is excited, likely imagining himself as a twenty-first-century Reagan, all the way down to the checkered shirt and cowboy hat he’ll wear on weekends. I try to picture how devastated he’ll be to learn that nothing he believed was real.
I chose this property carefully, sidestepping Kat and doing my own research. It took me a month of looking at properties—discarding ones too close to town, ones that were likely to find buyers able or willing to rehab them—before I found Mandeville. What makes it so perfect is its checked-out listing agent and all the invisible issues the house has wrong with it. The ones you can’t see, no matter how many times you walk through it.
As Ron and Rico discuss grading and native-plant landscaping, I notice a car entering the property and parking near mine. The sound of their doors slamming catches Ron’s attention. “Are you expecting someone?”
No one has visited this property in weeks. I spent hours sitting in the driveway, ready with a story that would explain my presence. Just pulled in to make a quick call! Not once did anyone show up. Not the owners, or the caretakers, or the listing agent. Not even a car looking to make a U-turn.
But now, fourteen days before my deadline—the one I set for myself back in Pennsylvania, when I’d dreamed not only of taking Ron’s money but of snatching the election from him as well—someone’s here to look at a house I’d believed had been all but forgotten.
My mind flies ahead, trying to figure out how to get rid of whoever this is and how to explain their presence to Ron. Backup buyers? People who’ve made a wrong turn? I click through possibilities, discarding them.
“It’s probably Sheila,” I finally say. “Another agent who said she’d be in the area with some buying clients and could drop off a set of keys for me. I’ll be right back.”
Ron nods and turns back to Rico, and I hurry toward the visitors, hoping to waylay them.
As I round the corner of the house, I see a woman I recognize from open houses fiddling with the lockbox while her clients wait. “Hi there,” I say. “Can I help you?”
She turns to me and says, “Just taking a look. Don’t worry—we’ll stay out of your way.”
“Can I speak to you for a moment?” I ask her.
We walk a few paces away before I say, “Look, my client is really particular about his privacy.” My expression is tense and anxious. “I promised him that we would have the place to ourselves while he brought his contractor over to check out that back hillside.”
The agent looks sympathetic. In Los Angeles, the demand for privacy is common among a certain demographic, and agents are used to accommodating their requests.
“We’re almost done,” I tell her. “Perhaps I could treat you all to lunch, and you could return this afternoon?”
She looks toward her clients, who are peering in the windows and whispering on the porch. “Tell you what,” she says. “We have two other properties to see in the area today, so why don’t we go look at those and return in an hour. Will that be enough time?”
I nearly hug her, my relief genuine. “Thank you,” I breathe. “I owe you. And seriously,” I say pulling out my wallet and handing her $200. “Lunch is on me.”
She plucks the cash from my hand, not even hesitating, before striding back to her clients and conferring with them. Then they head back to their car. “Thank you so much for understanding,” I call out.
Soon, they’re driving back down the driveway and turning right, toward Sunset. I breathe out hard, leaning against the side of the house, trying not to imagine what would have happened if she’d refused. If her clients had been on a tighter schedule. If we had arrived a little later and already found them walking a property Ron believes is his.
I push off the wall and head back toward Ron and Rico. “All set?” I ask, desperate to be done and gone.
Ron shakes his head. “Not yet. I want to show Rico the creek, where I’m thinking I’d like to expand the bank on the eastern side.”
I follow them, my nerves jangling, watching the time slip by, wondering if we can actually get out of here in an hour unscathed. But after forty-five minutes, we’re back in our cars, though I don’t relax until we’ve exited the property and are heading back toward town.
