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“Don’t touch my stuff,” I fire back.
My body is vibrating with anger. I feel toxic. I live my life in such a way to avoid what I am experiencing. This is why I don’t deal with big corporate types. Even in my natural landscaping business, I only contract with small, local mom-and-pop enterprises.
“I am just letting you know when the time is right,” he says. “Red Hawk Realty will hire the movers and carefully store your things. As an aside, I do happen to know a few appraisers. An auction might not be a bad route for you. You can do it all online.”
“I am ending this conversation,” I reply, now way past toxic to numb. “The time will never be right.”
“Brynne,” he says firmly.
Jack saying my name goes into my ears and straight to my core. Maybe it’s because I imagine a closeness forming that isn’t there. I didn’t realize I was so starved for personal interaction that I would be friendly with the enemy – which, I remind myself, is what Jack is. Maybe I spend too much time alone. Even though I have many acquaintances and customers, close friends who truly know me are few.
He’s got to stop being nice to me. He’s winning.
And the way he behaves towards me. I will never admit out loud that I have a daddy complex. I am the baby of my siblings. A late-in-life baby at that. My sisters, who were several years older, got to spend way more time with my parents than I did.
I loved my Dad. I loved how he smelled, how big he was, and how safe he made me feel. Mom and Dad were older than most other parents of kids my age. Already acting like empty nesters when I wasn’t even out of elementary school, they died in a car wreck after an afternoon spent drinking cocktails at a beachside bar in Hermosa with friends – their favorite hobby.
Besides my sisters, my uncle was the only family I had left. I loved him dearly, but he wasn’t the same as a parent, although he did his best. Losing the inn is like losing my last connection to them.
My sisters would describe me as too emotional and immature. And let’s not forget spoiled. Maybe my uncle spoiled me. Perhaps that’s why I am vulnerable to Jack’s maneuvers. But myacknowledging that Jack Houston is an attractive man with a certain charm doesn’t mean I am looking for a daddy.
“I have to work,” I say to Jack, trying to end our call but finding myself not really wanting to. Honestly, if I didn’t have stuff to do – things Jack is not going to like – it would be kind of cool to hang out with him. And the big romantic inn that he wants to tear down would be the perfect venue.
“Promise me you won’t sleep on the beach,” he says.
I dismiss him a little roughly. I must create a distance between us, or things will get messy. At least for me. I am about to type up papers to challenge the sale, which is what my activist stunt was intended to do. To buy time to file legal documents.
“I am in the house for the night,” I say.
This is not the first time I have clouded the title to hold things up. Before Jack bought it, I claimed there was documentation that the Calypso was a registered historical landmark. That Uncle John had filed the paperwork years ago after he became the owner. As a result, the escrow could not close until the title company resolved it. Which they did after no one could find any sign my story was true.
This time, I claim the sale must be invalidated based on the fact that my uncle was in a state of dementia at the time he was coerced into selling. I have a prescription number and an empty medicine bottle, but I don’t know if that’s enough to prove he was not of sound mind. I also have an original will that leaves the inn to my sisters and me. I am going to cross my fingers and see where this gets me.
I feel dishonest - like I misled Jack by not being more hostile. But acting civil, even friendly towards him, is my only weapon. I hoped he would like me too much to take my house away fromme – but once I file these papers, it would be safe to assume that is unlikely to be his reaction.
Stapling my papers together, I grab my purse and head out, setting them in the seat of the Porsche while I gather my tools for the day. I drape the passenger seat with a tarp and put my hand spade, clippers, shovel, and edger on top of it. I probably look like an idiot using this expensive car this way, but it will save me so much time. I usually bike to my jobs, drawing a cart for tools and yard waste. But it’s too irresistible not to use the car today since I have to go to the courthouse between jobs.
Speaking of ridiculosity, I take a gander at my clothes. I dash back into the house and strip away Jack’s things. I leave them on the floor to remind me to launder them later. I put on a pair of cut-offs and a woodblock print halter top that my surfer artist friend Todd made for me. He was also the person who helped me fasten myself to the porch.
I don’t put on shoes – I rarely wear them -- but I carry a pair of flip-flops with heavy-duty soles. I will need the flip-flops to enter the courthouse and to use the shovel.
I relish being on the Pacific Coast Highway once again. I drove to the Malibu Courthouse and filed my complaint. I am so stoked I made it before the courthouse closed – something I would not be able to do if I had been on my bicycle. Not sure Jack would be amused at the irony.
I pretty much skipped my file-stamped copy over to Zuma Jay’s, where Todd is working. I gave him a hundred bucks and an address.
“Well, look who the cat dragged in?” He beams at me. “How did your stunt go?”
“It helped,” I say.
“Cool beans,” he says. “And what would this be for?”
His eyes are red, though I am reasonably sure his smile is genuinely him. It doesn’t come from the herb he likes to smoke – a habit I wish he would lose.
Like most surfers who spend the day paddling, pushing a heavy board against the tide, Todd is ripped. Not an ounce of body fat on him, just pure muscle. He’s the quintessential sun-and-sand kissed beachcomber.
“Can you serve this today?” I ask. “Please.”
“Just like I did before?” he asks.
