To Steal a Weeping Widow

Chapter Eighteen: Damar's Landing

"Zeegezicht bij Scheveningen" (View of the Sea at Scheveningen) by Vincent Van Gogh (1882), stolen 2002, recovered 2016 - value unknown

Chapter Eighteen

Damar's Landing wasn't exactly close.

It wasn't so out of the way that a daily commute would be unreasonable, but it was a sizable distance from the inner workings of the city. It was far enough, in fact, that it nestled into one of the few patches of green on our section of map. I relished the drive every time, as the journey took me out of the valley and twisted through picturesque landscapes. It'd been too long since I ventured this far west. Somehow, despite living relatively close to the ocean and loving the beach, I rarely found myself wandering the sand. Either I was too busy, the day was too hot, or the area was too crowded. The excuses were admittedly flimsy.

The Whitehill estate was near the coast, blanketed by fresh, salty air and flanked by wide-reaching palms. In the front, multiple expansive lawns were home to various native plants thriving under a gardening team's gentle hands. Behind the house a generous incline dropped down to a thin stretch of beach, allowing a wide view of the cold Pacific water. Aloe Vera and mixed shrubbery gobbled up any available space among the wildflowers cushioning the hillside.

The expensive view was unmarred by neighbors, who were too far away to be of any bother. By all means, the mansion sprawled further than one would think possible given the location. The architect had been a master of property manipulation, leaning into the natural advantages of the spot. Even by my family's standards, by anyone's standards, Damar's Landing was lavish as a result. Elegant in its wealth and bold in its beauty, the property totaled six and a half acres of sheer opulence. In fact, inspiration for the museum had been drawn from the overall architecture and style of the Whitehill home. Both locations proudly exhibited broad entrances, towering columns, ample windows, and mighty facades as eye-catching main features. It was the tinier details where the differences shone; Damar's Landing found subtle ways to stay true to the classic Mediterranean style common in Californian designs. From the ornately carved door to the charming display of reddish-brown roof tiles, Geraldine's home was a work of art.

As beautifully luxurious as the description of the house sounded, or how palatial it may have looked to mere pedestrians, the reality was even more sumptuous. Nothing could do a house like that justice. Seeing was usually believing, but this house strove to bend the limits of belief—it felt unreal even if one was walking through the threshold.

"Thank you, Camila," I said, thanking Geraldine's head of staff as she ushered me in.

"Miss Eleanor! Where have you been, amapola?" She exclaimed loudly. She fussed over me like a mother hen and shooed me further into the house.

Geraldine was the Queen Bee, but Camila was the right-hand lady of the castle. She'd been employed by the Whitehill family for over forty years, having continuously accumulated favor and mutual fondness before earning privileges far beyond the usual constraints of a hired role. She was Geraldine's most trusted friend. She'd helped raise the Whitehill children, chased the troublesome grandkids when they'd arrived, and had dutifully supported Geraldine through the momentous loss of her husband. With an iron-strong will, her gray-edged hair always tucked into a neat bun, and plenty of attitude to offset what she lacked in height, Camila gave no damns and took no shit. Though Geraldine ran an impressive empire on her own, every kingdom needed a great advisor to balance the scales when the wind blew.

"Well, I..."

I faltered under Camila's glare. It was accusing, but it was a very different type of accusation than the ones I'd faced elsewhere. It was more personal, more familial, than I was comfortable standing against.