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My father, understandably, cut off all contact with my uncle. Interestingly enough, my uncle still included my dad in his will. He also included my uncle, me, and my cousin, Billy. I refused to go to the reading of the will, but I heard all about it. Billy’s always been a wild child, thrown out of multiple boarding schools and a college dropout, so my uncle attached stipulations to him accessing his inheritance and requires that my dad’s brother, my Uncle Liam, sign off on him receiving it. Apparently, Billy threw a tantrum when the same restrictions didn’t apply to me. Also, I received more than Billy did. Not that I cared. If Billy asked, I’d give him my inheritance, but I haven’t heard from him in years.
Family drama aside, I now have a new interest in my uncle’s will. Follow the money. Back when Uncle Mark passed, my dad emailed me a copy of the will. During my research over the last two weeks, I found that file and took the time to read it. Two hundred and fifty million went into a trust for my stepmom’s drug addiction rehabilitation facility, Nueva Vida. Patrick, my stepmom’s best friend, received one hundred million. Over the years, I’ve grown to love Patrick. He’s a big, burly man with an enormous smile, a fantastic laugh, and a kind soul. I hadn’t heard he’d received anything, but I’m glad my uncle didn’t forget him. Apparently, the two men were together for a long time. My dad and Uncle Liam received the bulk of their uncle’s inheritance, both inheriting three billion in a nontaxable trust, plus the entirety of his stock in Sullivan Arms. And there was a long list of recipients of smaller amounts ranging from five to twenty-five million dollars. I’ve studied the list extensively.
Wayne Killington received ten. Senator Talbot received twenty-five, plus his political action committee received twenty-five. The head of the NRA and the organization both received twenty-five. Zane’s father, Congressman Oglethorpe, received the same distribution to both himself and his political fund.
Other smaller figure recipients included staff at my uncle’s properties, his masseuse, the Houston church my family theoretically attends, my uncle’s alma mater, and my private school in San Diego. A horticultural society in Houston received ten, as did several art museums in the Houston area.
Photographs of the recipients in my uncle’s will line my home office wall. Most are in the NRA or in politics. It’s not surprising that the NRA would be well-represented. The NRA is tight with the heads of most major gun manufacturers. And the NRA supports political candidates who support protecting the second amendment.
My wall of photographs of men posing in group shots at charity banquets, hunting, and playing golf, with arrows marking connections, is meaningless. They obviously run in the same circles, work in the same industry, and share the same objectives.
Regardless, I’m curious. I want to know more about Zane’s father, who lived in our neighborhood, Wayne Killington’s neighborhood, and rose to prominence as a California congressman during the same time period Sullivan Arms went public and Wayne Killington rose within the company. I grew up thinking of him as Zane’s dad, but I’m curious how a public servant became so wealthy.
My phone rings. It’s the CIA phone, and the line calling in is from the brokerage front.
“Hello?” One unexpected phone call, and my pulse picks up.
“Sophie, you’re not going to believe who I've got here in my office.” Fisher’s booming voice lets me know he’s speaking to others, and I’m probably on speaker.
“Who?”
“It’s us!” a female voice screeches.
“Gemma? Is that you?”
“Yes! Come meet us for lunch. Then we’ll go shopping while they do man stuff.”
“You’ve got it! I’d been worried. You didn’t return any of my texts.”
“Oh, I lost my phone. What a disaster. I’ll tell you all about it. Get your butt here.”
“Hon?” Fisher’s voice breaks in.
“Yeah?”
“Meet us at the restaurant, okay? I’ll send directions to your car.”
“Sure thing. Can’t wait to see you, Gemma!”
The call ends, and after concealing my research project behind a tapestry, I rush to get dressed. There’s not much I can do to my air-dried hair, so I twist it into a half-knot, find a short skirt that goes well with a pair of surprisingly comfortable Prada heels, and a little top that exposes about an inch of my waistline. Basically, it’s an outfit I’d never be caught dead in back in DC, but here I’m Sophia Garcia.
Twenty-five minutes later, I’m pulling the door open to The Lark.
Gemma squeals and stands at the table, hands clenched, elbows and knees bent, like she’s eager to give me a hug and she’s just waiting for me to reach her. We throw arms around each other like we’re the best of besties.
Rafael stands and offers a much more subdued hug. Before sitting, I lean down and give Fisher a peck on the lips. He reaches up and squeezes my bottom. His fingers linger on my thigh. Of course, I can’t possibly know what he’s thinking, but the glimmer in his eyes says he likes my short skirt while his possessive touch says it’s too short for public consumption.
“So, how long have you both been in the US?” I glance between the two of them, but really, I’m wondering why we didn’t get a heads up that they entered through customs.
“Oh, we’ve been here, what, three days now?” Gemma says to Rafael. “I love LA. I spent an entire day shopping on Santa Monica Boulevard.”
“I do love Santa Monica.” It’s a completely honest assessment. And I’m feeling a little impressed that Gemma didn’t gush over Rodeo Drive, since it gets so much attention. Santa Monica has some of the same luxe brands, but it doesn’t have the pedigree of Rodeo Drive and therefore isn’t quite as pretentious.
She and I devolve into a conversation about boutique shops and her finds. During gaps of conversation, I glean that Rafael and Fisher are discussing windsurfing.
After lunch, we leave separately from the guys, and I drive us over to the section of State Street that’s closed off to cars. I figure it’s a good place for us to leisurely kill some time while the boys go back to the office to discuss business.
We meander down the sidewalk, popping into stores or galleries. Since separating from Rafael, she’s been more muted, less vibrant. We step into a home goods store, and as I pick up a succulent in a pot, I ask, “Are you okay? You seem a little quiet.”
