38
The address Kim had given me for the condominium she shared with Teddy was part of a complex in an area called Paloma Run, located on a sheltered stretch of beach south of Montebello. Teddy was expecting me at 5:00, and I allowed sufficient time to account for rush-hour traffic. There was ample parking provided so as not to annoy the rich in their efforts to park their Mercedes, Maseratis, and Bentleys, many of which were neatly tucked into small cul-de-sacs, landscaped to disguise their purpose. We would have taken offense if we’d been confronted with an acre of unsightly asphalt.
I followed a series of flat stones that wound through the low-growing ground cover. Landscaping was limited due to a proliferation of pines that left the needle-matted ground under them impossible to plant. The building itself comprised two- and three-story sections, set at angles to maximize privacy without obstructing the views of the Pacific. Their apartment was on the second floor, linked to adjacent units by way of open loggias.
When I rang the bell, Teddy came to the door. She was barefoot, in formfitting jeans and a loose gauzy shirt with voluminous sleeves. As was true of the caftan she’d worn the night I met her, the style of the garment was vaguely Indian—small mirrors embroidered along the bodice, the hem beaded.
She stepped back, admitting me, and then closed the door behind us. “This should be interesting,” she said. “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll only be a minute.” She turned and padded down the hallway, disappearing from sight.
Setting my mental timer to “one minute” was a smart move on her part, as it suggested I wouldn’t have time to search the premises in depth, which is how I normally occupy my time when afforded the opportunity. I circled the big open room, which served as living room, dining room, and study. The decor was nautical—no big surprise there, given the ocean beyond. Pale grays and blues, enormous glass goblets filled with sand where hermit crabs walked, leaving tracks like the stylized rake marks in a Japanese garden. Throughout, I saw bleached hardwood floors, floor-to-ceiling windows along the front and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves on two interior walls. A glass-paned door leading to the patio was open to admit an ocean breeze. A stack of coffee table books served as a doorstop, all of them lavishly illustrated with the paintings of J.M.W. Turner. There was one boxed set, two eight-by-twelve-inch volumes, one of text and the other of black-and-white and color plates of his works.
I moved out onto the balcony and looked over the rail. Below, a wooden walkway stretched from the first-floor deck across the ice plant as far as the loose sand. Waves broke in a series of thunderous reports, the surf washing up and back. I could see the appeal of living a stone’s throw from the ocean. The sounds were restful and it was lovely to look out and see nothing but ocean all the way out to the horizon. On the downside, the salt air took its toll and the occasional strong storm could plant a sailboat in your front yard.
I moved back into the living room and sat down on the couch. I entertained myself by looking at the family photographs in silver frames that had been placed on the nearest end table. Children or grandchildren. There was no way to sort out which personal touches belonged to the condominium’s owner and which had been brought in by Teddy and Kim to help them feel at home.
There was also a small stack of promotional brochures for what must have been the infamous condominium where Stella’s husband died. I was curious to see what million-dollar real estate was looking like these days. I picked up the brochure on top; a four-fold color spread showed the living room with its high coffered ceiling, wood-burning fireplace, and abundance of light, the gleaming kitchen, the marble-lined bathrooms, the bedrooms, the gracious outdoor patio with its view to the ocean in the distance. The accompanying sales pitch was one I could have written myself. The word “stunning” loomed large.
A glossy library book about Tiffany jewelry rested open on the arm of the couch. The cover featured a necklace that looked like a baby’s bib, dense with diamonds, emeralds, and gold filigree. I didn’t realize Teddy had returned until she said, “I know what you’re thinking, that we’ve hardly fallen on hard times living in a place like this.” She carried a bottle of white wine and two wineglasses that she placed on the coffee table.
“Crossed my mind.”
“Kim and I are housesitting for a friend. We’re like gypsies. We pick up every few weeks and move to another encampment.”
“But you don’t pay rent.”
“True enough.” Her gaze drifted to the book about Tiffany jewelry. In one easy motion, she closed the book and set it on the floor by her chair.
