refrigerator empty. Utilities had been cut off, apparently, but she checked the breakers anyway and made sure the hot water heater was shut off. This place wouldn’t need much at all in the way of cleanup, just some routine maintenance to keep it in showable condition until it sold. She guessed that a sale would come along soon—the property had that kind of curb appeal.
She spent an hour or so inside, sweeping up the few bits of mouse evidence and swiping at some corner cobwebs with a duster, draining the pipes and pouring a little antifreeze into each drain. With freezing temperatures approaching in the next month or so, and no heat in the cabin, frozen pipes would be the biggest potential problem. That done, she replaced the locks and turned her attention to the outdoors.
A split-rail fence surrounded an area that was probably two or three acres. Of that, most had been left natural with just a perimeter of twenty feet or so immediately around the house trimmed, either for appearance or as a firebreak. Sam cranked up her gas weed trimmer and set to work on it, concentrating on the drive and walkways first. The drone of the engine and monotony of cutting neat swathes gave her peace from dwelling on her daughter’s messed-up situation. Instead, she found herself thinking of the artist Cantone, imagining that he might have found inspiration in an idyllic mountain setting like this.
The sun had gone behind the surrounding mountains by the time she finished, darkening the property and narrow lane with shade. She packed up her gear, rechecked the locks and headed out.
As long as she was at this end of town, Sam decided she might as well dash by the Cantone property and give things there a quick checkover. It wasn’t more than ten minutes out of the way and there was still daylight once she got away from the steep hills surrounding the ski valley.
She zipped along the county road, enjoying the fact that she was out of the house, doing something on her own for a few extra minutes. Betty McDonald’s car was in her driveway, Sam noted as she turned in at Cantone’s. Some weeds were sprouting along the driveway but otherwise the property looked fairly neat.
Inside, nothing had changed. The smell of drywall mud from her little patch job gave the house an air of freshness, like new construction. In the kitchen she found herself staring at the places where she’d previously seen the greenish haze, but it was harder to spot this time. A faint dusting, barely noticeable now. She still wondered about that, whether she should mention it to Beau.
She locked the front door and turned toward the truck. Beside the driveway were some short plants that she’d never noticed before. They had an odd color, similar to the unusual green she’d spotted inside. On a whim, she walked over and plucked a stem from one. Handling the stem, some of the same substance came off on her fingers. It looked identical.
That probably explained it. Maybe the plant was something Cantone used to mix his paints. Or maybe it was edible and they cooked with it. She found an old sack on the back seat of the truck and carefully wrapped a few stems of the plant in it. She would ask Zoe, her friendly plant expert.
At the Y intersection at the north end of town she happened to glance down at her cell phone on the seat beside her. She’d missed a call, probably while she was behind the hills all afternoon. She recognized Rupert’s number and dialed him.
“What’s up?” she asked.
“Interesting news flash in the art world.” He paused, obviously waiting for her to beg to hear it. She obliged. “Two Cantone paintings have just showed up at an auction house in New York. I inquired, through Esteban, and word is that they came through an artist rep in Santa Fe.”
“What, like an agent?”
“No, I think this is more like a broker, someone who finds art from various sources—sometimes artists or their estates, sometimes owners who want to sell a piece. The rep contacts the big auction houses if the piece might bring a higher price at a national or international sale. The two Cantone paintings are some of his earlier work and are considered very rare. They haven’t been seen publicly in years.”
“Rare, meaning how much in dollars?”
“Well over a million.”
Sam’s breath caught. How could a man who’d created such valuable art live and die in near poverty? When the sale of one painting would have set him up for life, why hadn’t he been able to pay a mortgage on a tiny scrap of property?
“I wonder how and where this art rep got hold of the paintings,” she mused.
“No idea. But we can check her out. It’s Carolyn Hildebrandt and she’s got an office in Santa Fe. I’ll call, see what I can learn.”
“Give it a try,” Sam said. “I’m on my way home. Let me know what you find out.”
She stopped at the market for a roasted chicken and a couple of deli salads for dinner, then headed home. She found Kelly stretched out on the couch in sweats, with the TV blaring some kind of reality-show contest between teams of twenty-somethings who couldn’t stop jumping up and down and screaming “ohmygod!!!”.
“Hey,” Sam called out. “I brought dinner.”
Kelly shuffled into the kitchen, not bothering to lower the television volume.
“Yumm . . . you remembered my favorite chicken. Thanks, Mom.” She helped herself to a heaping plate and started back to the living room.
“Let’s eat in here,” Sam said. “Get the chance to catch up on things.”
She complied but didn’t look thrilled about it.
First things first, Sam reminded Kelly that she needed her debit card back and expected her to repay the money she’d taken from the account.
“That wasn’t meant to be an open-ended cash supply, you know. I gave you the card to help with Christmas expenses only, you know.”
Kelly had the good grace to hang her head, just a little. Then came the charm. “I know, Mom, and I’m really so grateful for that. I didn’t mean to get so far behind on my credit cards. It won’t happen again.”
“Get the card for me now,” Sam said with the biggest smile she could muster. Two could play at this charm game.
Kelly left her dinner plate long enough to retrieve her purse from the bedroom and hand her mother the card. Sam slipped it into her jeans pocket.
“So, what’s going to happen now?” Sam asked. “Job, house in L.A., all that?”
Kelly took a deep breath and pushed her plate away. “Well, it’s like this. I have no reason to go back to California.”
Sam pushed her own plate aside now and gave her daughter a hard stare.
“Real estate has tanked. My house is under water.”
Sam envisioned some kind of flood, but she went on.
“It’s worth less than I owe on it. I can’t refinance because the lenders would never take the loss. I can’t sell it because I’d have to come up with two hundred grand to make up the difference. I know I bought too much house at too high a price. Don’t even remind me of that.” She wouldn’t look straight at Sam. “Even if I’d kept my job I was sinking farther behind every month. It was just a matter of time. So I walked away. Everybody’s doing it.”
Sam wanted to launch into the whole motherly lecture about what if everybody were jumping off the cliff, but that sounded way too much like what her own mother would have said.
“Everybody? Kell, really?”
“Okay, not
Sam could have gone into the whole ‘then why did you leave the job you had’ speech but that, too, was what her mother would have said. She let the silence fill the room.
“I’ll find something. I know I will. But I need to stay here awhile. It won’t be long.”
What choice did she have? Give up her privacy and put her hot new boyfriend on hold. Okay, so that versus a homeless daughter—Sam knew she’d let her stay.
“One month. I want you online every day, looking and putting in applications.” What was she saying? That she’d kick her out in thirty days if she hadn’t moved on? Yes.
Easy to say, but what would she really
She walked into the living room and switched off the TV and pointed Kelly to her computer on the desk in the corner. Job applications were no longer a nine-to-five proposition.
