She rang the bell again, but no one came to the door. She became even more irritated when an Atherton police department car turned down the drive and parked behind Max’s rental.
Kimberly Ames had called the cops.
Two uniformed officers, one male and one female, exited the patrol car. The male officer started up the stairs. “Ma’am, if you could please come off the porch.”
“I’m waiting for Gerald Ames. Kimberly said she would tell him I was here.” She hadn’t. It was implied.
This comment seemed to surprise the officer, but he still asked her to step off the porch.
Max obliged. This wasn’t the time to pick a battle with the police.
The female officer, D. Sherman per her nameplate, said, “We had a complaint of trespassing and harassment.”
“Officer Sherman, I can assure you that I was neither trespassing nor harassing anyone.”
“You’re on the Ames property even though you were asked to leave,” Sherman said.
The male officer, G. Grant, said, “Identification, please.”
Max pulled her wallet from her purse and flipped it open to show her New York State driver’s license as well as her press credentials. She didn’t say anything.
“Please remove the license from the wallet.”
Max complied, suddenly realizing that the two cops were named Sherman and Grant. She let out a short laugh, but didn’t comment.
Grant took her license and walked back to his vehicle. He got on the radio.
Max stared at Sherman. She didn’t find the need to make small talk or explain herself. They asked, Max told them she wasn’t trespassing, and that should be the end.
Except this was Atherton, and rules were oddly enforced.
Chapter Nine
Eleanor Revere, Max’s grandmother, lived only a mile from the Ames family, at the end of a long, meandering cul-de-sac. Eleanor had always liked modern, contemporary architecture, but a sign of the times when she and Max’s grandfather designed the house more than forty years ago was the influence of Frank Lloyd Wright—both modern and nostalgic. The smooth, linear style of Wright also appealed to Max. Guests often asked if Wright himself had designed the house, and Eleanor was always pleased. “No,” she’d say, “but we asked the architect to adapt Wright’s style to our unique landscape and the original frame of the house.” She’d also doubled the footprint of the single-story house, though it was impossible tell from the outside how large the home truly was.
Max could practically hear Eleanor lecture: We don’t flaunt our wealth; it’s uncouth.
When Max rang the bell, it was William who answered the door. He looked relieved.
“Did you think I would bail?” She kissed him on the cheek.
“Of course not,” he said.
“Then don’t look so concerned.”
In a low voice, William said, “The chief of police just got off the phone with my dad. Why were you at Gerald Ames’s house?”
“The rumor mill is working double-time.” Max wasn’t surprised that Chief Clarkson called Brooks; she just thought she’d have more than fifteen minutes to figure out what to say to her family.
The large, tiled foyer flowed seamlessly into a lowered gathering room that, weather permitting, opened onto a rose garden surrounding a fountain and a large koi pond. Max had always loved the fountain, the sound of running water was soothing. She’d spent many hours on the bench behind the fountain, where she couldn’t be seen from the house. Reading, thinking, crying when her mother forgot her birthday. Again.
The Reveres had lived here for more than fifty years. Her mother had been raised in this house. It was a spacious one-story, not a grand mansion with sweeping staircases, but quietly appointed with lots of glass, pinpoint lighting, polishe disappeared during spring break, u questions.”d floors, hand-crafted rugs, and every piece of furniture picked and placed for that exact spot.
Max breathed in and her mouth watered at the authentic Sicilian smells.
Kimberly Ames had called the cops.
Two uniformed officers, one male and one female, exited the patrol car. The male officer started up the stairs. “Ma’am, if you could please come off the porch.”
“I’m waiting for Gerald Ames. Kimberly said she would tell him I was here.” She hadn’t. It was implied.
This comment seemed to surprise the officer, but he still asked her to step off the porch.
Max obliged. This wasn’t the time to pick a battle with the police.
The female officer, D. Sherman per her nameplate, said, “We had a complaint of trespassing and harassment.”
“Officer Sherman, I can assure you that I was neither trespassing nor harassing anyone.”
“You’re on the Ames property even though you were asked to leave,” Sherman said.
The male officer, G. Grant, said, “Identification, please.”
Max pulled her wallet from her purse and flipped it open to show her New York State driver’s license as well as her press credentials. She didn’t say anything.
“Please remove the license from the wallet.”
Max complied, suddenly realizing that the two cops were named Sherman and Grant. She let out a short laugh, but didn’t comment.
Grant took her license and walked back to his vehicle. He got on the radio.
Max stared at Sherman. She didn’t find the need to make small talk or explain herself. They asked, Max told them she wasn’t trespassing, and that should be the end.
Except this was Atherton, and rules were oddly enforced.
Chapter Nine
Eleanor Revere, Max’s grandmother, lived only a mile from the Ames family, at the end of a long, meandering cul-de-sac. Eleanor had always liked modern, contemporary architecture, but a sign of the times when she and Max’s grandfather designed the house more than forty years ago was the influence of Frank Lloyd Wright—both modern and nostalgic. The smooth, linear style of Wright also appealed to Max. Guests often asked if Wright himself had designed the house, and Eleanor was always pleased. “No,” she’d say, “but we asked the architect to adapt Wright’s style to our unique landscape and the original frame of the house.” She’d also doubled the footprint of the single-story house, though it was impossible tell from the outside how large the home truly was.
Max could practically hear Eleanor lecture: We don’t flaunt our wealth; it’s uncouth.
When Max rang the bell, it was William who answered the door. He looked relieved.
“Did you think I would bail?” She kissed him on the cheek.
“Of course not,” he said.
“Then don’t look so concerned.”
In a low voice, William said, “The chief of police just got off the phone with my dad. Why were you at Gerald Ames’s house?”
“The rumor mill is working double-time.” Max wasn’t surprised that Chief Clarkson called Brooks; she just thought she’d have more than fifteen minutes to figure out what to say to her family.
The large, tiled foyer flowed seamlessly into a lowered gathering room that, weather permitting, opened onto a rose garden surrounding a fountain and a large koi pond. Max had always loved the fountain, the sound of running water was soothing. She’d spent many hours on the bench behind the fountain, where she couldn’t be seen from the house. Reading, thinking, crying when her mother forgot her birthday. Again.
The Reveres had lived here for more than fifty years. Her mother had been raised in this house. It was a spacious one-story, not a grand mansion with sweeping staircases, but quietly appointed with lots of glass, pinpoint lighting, polishe disappeared during spring break, u questions.”d floors, hand-crafted rugs, and every piece of furniture picked and placed for that exact spot.
Max breathed in and her mouth watered at the authentic Sicilian smells.
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