Remember Tuesday Morning (4 page)

F
OUR

H
olly Brooks turned onto the steep gravel road and slipped her transmission into the lowest possible gear, the way she did every day at this hour of the morning. Sales at Oak Creek Canyon’s newest phase of development weren’t exactly overwhelming, but with the summer heat letting up and September right around the corner, her office was busier than usual.

Brightly colored red and yellow flags waved in the wind as she made her way up the mountain road to the single paved street half a mile up. No matter how many times she made the drive, the view from the summit never got old. Holly parked her Durango and stared at the panorama spread out before her. The view skimmed along the tops of several smaller peaks and then ended with the Pacific Ocean spread out in the distance.

I know, Lord … the created things are proof You’re really there.
She tried to remember what it felt like to believe, to accept the things of God as easily as she drew her next breath. But life was complicated now, and when she tried to remember that sort of faith, she felt empty and flat. As if she no longer knew how to believe. She grabbed her leather bag and a stack of work she’d taken home last night and looked once more at the sight before her. The heaviness that resided in her heart swelled.
Okay, so if You’re real … why can’t I feel You anymore?

The quiet whisper echoed through her soul and died there. She dismissed the thought and checked her face in the mirror one last time. As she climbed out, the wind grabbed her thick, blonde hair, whipped it across her face, and blew it in a dozen different directions. Wind meant one dreaded thing. She hesitated and checked the horizon for smoke, for any signs of fire. The developers had held a meeting last week expressing their concern about the coming fire season. She might only have lived in LA for a few years, but she was well aware of the Santa Ana winds and the danger faced every fall by Dave Jacobs and anyone with a personal or financial investment in the hillsides of Southern California.

Holly pressed her way through the wind to the front door of the middle estate. Her office was set up in the front room of one of the most beautiful models in the new development. The house was enormous — more than seven thousand square feet — with no luxury spared. She slipped her key in the front door. The developers were here somewhere, overseeing construction on one of the eight spec homes being built up and down the spacious street on either side of the model.

It was an honor working for Dave. He was six-foot-two, with a presence that inspired loyalty and made other people want to catch his vision. And his vision was a great one. Never mind the criticism from environmentalists that was bound to come when a person spent his days developing the hillsides of Southern California. Away from his development company, Dave was involved in more charities than Holly could count. Every year he provided the material and labor for the construction of three houses for homeless families in the San Fernando Valley, and without fail he was the recipient of a number of philanthropic awards. With all that, his greatest moments were with his family — his wife, Lois, and their four children. With his wealth, he could’ve traveled the world. But his favorite vacations were simple and profound — trips to Michigan’s Upper Peninsula where Dave would bird-watch and return to his work full of nature stories. No, his critics — especially the environmentalists — didn’t have a clue who Dave Jacobs really was.

Holly set her things down. She would see Dave and his son, Ron, around lunchtime, but until then she would work alone. Something she liked least about her job.

She flipped a few buttons on the keypad just outside her office. Immediately, something by Rod Stewart worked its way from speakers hidden discreetly throughout the estate. Holly liked this radio station. It played the oldies her mother listened to, music that reminded her of home back on Staten Island. Holly turned up the music and sang along.

“Have I told you lately, that I love you … Have I told you, there’s no one else above you …” The song reminded Holly of her dad. Long before his heart attack two summers ago, he seemed to know he didn’t have long to live. He had called her up one day and told her that whenever he heard this song, he thought of his family. Holly turned her attention to her work. Two years might’ve passed since his death, but his memory still moved her to tears. It always would.

Just not here at work. She steeled herself against the loneliness and began filing the work she’d brought. She was twenty-five and single, heading toward a serious relationship with the developer’s son, Ron. But nothing about her life was how she pictured it when she was in high school, back when she knew without a doubt that she and Alex would be married and having babies by now, back when nothing could’ve torn them apart.

Back before 9/11.

Holly hurried herself along. She had four appointments today, not counting walk-ins. Each would require a detailed tour, paperwork, and a discussion on financing. On top of that, there were follow-up calls to make and more documents to file. She was checking her calendar when a black Mercedes sedan drove up. Holly hadn’t seen the car before, so she could only assume the obvious. Prospective buyers. She glanced at the decorative flags that marked the walkway to the front door. They weren’t flapping as hard. Good. The wind had died down some.

The two men climbed out of the car and headed up the walk, both of them with straight backs and tailored suits, sure signs of their status in the business world. Holly met them at the front door, introduced herself, and welcomed them in. “How can I help you?”

“Actually, you can help
me
. My brother’s just sort of along for the ride.” The taller of the two pointed an elbow toward the bald man with him. “We work together and met for coffee this morning. I decided to show him what I’d found up here.”

Holly tried to place the man. Anyone who had been through the model home or toured the neighborhood had to go through her. When she wasn’t giving tours, the gates were shut at the base of the road, and no one could gain access up. “Have you been through before?”

The man chuckled. “Not officially.” He held out his hand. “I’m Sam Baker. My wife and I drove by last weekend, but there were six other couples taking up your time.” He grinned. “I told her I’d come check it out today, and if I liked it I could bring her back later.”

Holly was surprised and slightly uneasy, but she didn’t show it. Not once in the past few weeks had she been too busy to give a potential buyer the tour. There might’ve been one other couple walking the grounds, or even two, but six? Not lately. Still, she motioned for the men to follow her. “Let’s take a look at the site map.” She led them to a dramatic, glass-covered model of the development. “As you can see, only two of the homes in Phase Two are sold.” She crossed the room and led them to a second detailed model. “The previous phase was larger. Twenty-five homes.” She pointed to a cul-de-sac area. “Five homes remain for sale in that phase, but none of them have the views of Phase Two.”
Or the sticker price
, but Holly didn’t mention that.

The men stared a little closer at the second model and talked quietly between themselves. Holly was used to this, giving her customers plenty of alone time to talk openly about their likes and dislikes. But as the men talked, Holly noticed the shoes of the taller man. He wore beat-up tan loafers — the kind more suited for Dockers or jeans.
Strange
, she thought. Most business men shopping for homes in this price range wore the right shoes. Dark wing tips, fine Italian leather. She let the observation pass. “I’ll go put together a packet for you.” She smiled at the other man. He wore his baldness in an intentional sort of way. “Would you like one also?”

“Uh,” he looked at his brother and shrugged, “sure. If you don’t mind.”

“Absolutely not.” She returned to her office, but as she was putting the two packets together, her strange feeling about the men remained. She picked up her radio, the one that would signal the developers that she needed their help if any trouble arose in the model home. She clipped it to her belt and tried to get her mind around what it was about the men that bothered her. Maybe the one named Sam was trying to impress his kid brother, make it seem like he was on the verge of purchasing a five-million-dollar home. She’d certainly caught people lying about being in this affordability bracket. Whatever the reason, she was sure of one thing.

She’d never seen him up here before.

Holly returned to the men and handed them each a packet. By then they were fairly focused on the newer phase. “I don’t have an appointment for another hour.” She looked from Sam to his brother. “Do you have time for a tour?”

“Definitely.” Sam smiled. “Tell me, what protection do these homes have against fires? The bigger brushfires?”

Something about the way he asked the question sent a chill down Holly’s back. “Well,” the question was a strange one, not the usual curiosity about square footage and lot sizes. But maybe because of the wind … “We have a sprinkler system around the perimeter of the development, and fireproof tile roofs on every house.” She led them toward the front of the house. “Homeowners’ dues will provide for brush clearing on an annual basis. That sort of thing.”

She chastised herself for letting the man’s question distract her. “Let’s take a look through this estate first.” She moved toward a sweeping staircase, marked by distinctly designed cherry wood and set against an entire wall of wainscoting and detailed high-end molding. “We call this model
Bella Noche
.” For the next twenty minutes she led the men through the house, describing more than a hundred features, forcing them to linger in the rooms with the most breathtaking views.

The whole time she felt strangely nervous. Maybe because the men hadn’t had an appointment, or because of the question about fire or the way the taller man’s shoes didn’t work with his look. Whatever it was, something about them didn’t add up. She kept her hand close to her radio, ready in case the men threatened her in any way. But as the tour came to a close, Holly felt herself relax. The men were talking like any other potential buyers, going on about the benefits of being up here in the hills versus on the valley floor closer to the freeways, and wondering about whether this model or the one next door would better suit their needs.

“You have children?” Holly held her clipboard to her chest as they walked slowly toward the front door.

“Three, and they need all the space they can get.” He rolled his eyes. “They don’t exactly like each other.”

“That’s an understatement.” His bald brother gave Holly a knowing look. “What is the square footage in the other models?”

“They range from sixty-five hundred to just under ten thousand.” She felt proud of the fact. Not that she’d ever be able to afford anything close to the homes she sold, but the developers had done a brilliant job with Phase Two. Each estate took advantage of the limited flat land, and included oversized windows that let in every possible view.

Holly still had time, so she led the men outside and along the walkway that ran in front of the entire street of homes. At the end she pointed to the largest of the homes, one that was just being framed. “That’s
Bella Grande
, the most spacious property in this phase.”

The men seemed to take careful note of the place. “Sits right in the hillside.” Sam seemed impressed with the fact.

“The developers made the best use of the natural topography, while maintaining a building pad large enough to include half-acre front and side yards.

“You have a picture of the place?” Sam’s brother opened the packet he’d been carrying and thumbed through the glossy material inside.

“Yes. You’ll find every model represented in the brochure.” She pointed down the street. “The homes at that end will be finished first. The others have a completion date of next spring.”

With that, the brothers seemed satisfied. Holly was walking with them back to the black Mercedes when Sam turned to her as if he’d just remembered a final thought. “I’d like to bring my wife up. How late are you here?”

“This is my long shift.” She caught her hair in one hand so the wind couldn’t whip it against her face. “I’ll be here until nine o’clock, same as the late work crew.”

Sam smiled. “Very good. Look for us sometime after dinner.” The men left, and five minutes later Holly’s first appointment showed up — a couple in their late fifties, with their realtor in tow. The hours melted away, and it was two o’clock before she knew it, the time each day when the developers took a break and met at the model home for lunch and an update on the sales prospects.

Ron Jacobs was the first through the door, followed by his father and a team of assistants. He found Holly in her office organizing a stack of follow-up sheets. “Hey …” she stood, her voice soft. “How’s the building going?”

He leaned against the doorframe of her office and smiled at her. “With everything my dad’s built in these hills, this is it, Holly. The crown jewel. Best of the best.” He came closer and reached for her hand. His fingers felt sweaty, the way they often did. “You were busy this morning.”

She told him about the two brothers and about the others who had come with appointments. “The one guy, Sam Baker, will be back tonight with his wife.”