The town car was at the curb, waiting for her. The cars and their attentive drivers were one of Georgina’s favorite perks at the bank. When she worked late—and that was most nights—she appreciated being driven home through the dark Manhattan streets by a uniformed driver in a well-appointed car. Even though she lived in a doorman building, the drivers would watch until she was safely inside the lobby. Georgina handed her carry on luggage to the driver and slid into the back seat. As the car sped in the light early-morning traffic towards Kennedy airport she tried to focus on the new file that Mark had sent to her apartment by messenger one hour earlier.
Georgina had gone to work for Mark straight out of college. Her position as a financial analyst had entailed tracking down whatever information he needed for his rapid-fire decision-making. She had managed to survive Mark's frenzied pace and overblown expectations, and over time had even gained his grudging admiration. More to the point, every year Mark had given Georgina the largest bonus among her class of analysts. The bonus money had made possible a lifestyle that included beautiful, high-end clothes and bi-weekly salon hair. For the first time in her life Georgina had liked her reflection in the mirror. But the rent on her tiny studio apartment had consumed an inordinate proportion of what was otherwise a considerable income for someone her age. Her net worth hovered precariously just above zero. Eventually Georgina had concluded that she needed to move up to a better paying position. But after several years as an analyst in Mark's group, there was no promotion in sight. And Mark was getting on her nerves.
The next step, Georgina decided, was to get a Master's of Business Administration. An MBA would open the right doors for her; once she had the degree, she believed, her upward mobility would be assured. Squeezing in study time whenever she could, Georgina had prepped hard for the admissions test, and, as soon as the test was behind her, she had written and rewritten her applications until they were polished like a Tiffany diamond. Her efforts had paid off. She was admitted to one of the best business schools in the country. She had learned the good news of her acceptance while at work; elated, that very hour she had walked unannounced into Mark's office and given notice. The look on Mark's face as he digested her coup was her favorite memory from her entire time at the bank. On the day that she left for business school she had vowed that she would never again work for Mark.
Why then was she, MBA now in hand, back in the fold? Mark had reached out to her, asking her to rejoin his group, not as an analyst this time, but in a much better management position. She was brilliant, a natural, one-of-a-kind, he had told her. Georgina could easily have resisted Mark's pitch if the economy had not been in free fall when she graduated. There were other offers, but none from firms with the cachet of the celebrated investment bank where Mark worked. The clincher came when he had promised that he would make her a star. Mark had read her just right. Georgina wanted to be a star.
As the peak performer in the group Georgina was spared the worst of Mark’s daily tantrums. But his mistreatment of the lesser-esteemed members of the group had begun to weigh on her, because it fueled the collective angst that churned among her colleagues like a lobster in boiling water. Coming to work each day was for many of them an act of misguided sacrifice, whereby they gave up the last of their dignity in return for compensation packages the size of the overpriced island on which they lived. Working side by side with these dispirited people depressed Georgina, in large part because she suspected that her eventual fate might not be so dissimilar.
The town car entered Queens. Traffic picked up. Georgina checked the time; there was still more than an hour before her flight. Reading through the new file from Mark she noticed that she was booked into a hotel called the Inn at Rancho Secreto. A quick check through the documents showed that Alejandro Rios’ address was in Rancho Secreto. She guessed that the firm’s travel office had booked her into the nearest hotel. She used the map feature on her cell phone to see where the titan of industry lived. Rancho Secreto was a few miles inland from the Pacific Ocean, in what appeared to be a semi-rural area. A hotel search showed that the Inn was a luxury resort property. Georgina brightened at this prospect.
At the terminal the driver opened the car door for her and held out her carry on bag. Georgina mentally prepared herself for the mind-numbing airport routine that she had grown to loathe. But today things went smoothly and she soon sank into her first class seat. The airplane rumbled down the runway, gaining speed. Georgina looked out the window, anticipating the aerial view that always pleased her on take off. The airplane lifted off and New York lay below.
Adela Rios rolled up her yoga mat and placed it under one arm. She looked eastwards across the patio, taking in the rising sun and the pink glow that it scattered on the clouds floating above the horizon. The still-cool morning air moved softly over her; she felt its weight. Although the sun’s rays were too shallow to generate much warmth, she sensed the light strengthening on her face. Her gaze fell on a small bird sitting on the rim of a stone birdbath at the edge of the patio. The bird cocked its head slightly to one side, fixing a watchful eye on her. Adela stood motionless. Taking a single hop into the bath, the bird sank down into the water; it flapped its wings vigorously, splaying water in all directions. Adela watched, transfixed, as the morning sunlight reflected off the water droplets, creating a shower of color in all directions.
“Hey, what about breakfast?” Adela's daughter Consuelo called out from the kitchen window. “I don’t want to miss the bus.”
Jolted back into the morning routine by her daughter’s voice, Adela left the patio and entered the house through the French doors that led to her office. She put the yoga mat away and then crossed the family room into the kitchen. Reaching up to an iron rack over the kitchen island, she pulled down a skillet. She began to heat corn tortillas on the oversized gas range. Consuelo was already making coffee. “Did you sleep well?” she asked cheerfully as she left the stove to get eggs and salsa from the built-in refrigerator.
“I did,” Consuelo replied. Gauging from her mother's tone that she was in a good mood, she went on to ask, “Would it be OK with you if I have some friends sleep over on Saturday? I thought we could stay in the guesthouse.”
Adela frowned when she heard the word “guesthouse.” Three years earlier the guesthouse had been the site of an impromptu party hosted by Adela’s older daughter, Pilar. Pilar was now away from home, a sophomore in college. Returning earlier than expected from an evening event, Adela had noticed several unfamiliar vehicles parked outside the guesthouse. Concerned, she had entered it unannounced. Her discovery of Pilar’s foray into a forbidden pleasure of the Rancho High crowd had led her to rule that the guesthouse was strictly off limits to both daughters.
“It’s fine with me if you have friends over, but let’s have them stay in Pilar’s room,” Adela replied. “It has a trundle bed. They’ll be very comfortable there.”
“Fine,” Consuelo said, her voice betraying mild annoyance. “Pilar’s room, then.”
“Do you want queso fresco with your eggs?”
“Mom, it’s bad enough that we eat eggs for breakfast,” Consuelo groaned. “Let’s not layer on the cheese.”
“Eggs are good for you,” Adela said. “You need fuel to keep up your energy for riding.” They sat down in the breakfast nook off the kitchen. Adela picked up her fork, and then put it down again. “Speaking of riding, I need to tell you something,” she said. “When I was at the barn yesterday your grandfather told me about some tension there. He wants us to keep our distance from the staff for a while, so please be careful what you say when you go there after school.”
“I haven’t noticed anything unusual when I’ve been there,” Consuelo said. “What sort of tension was he talking about?”
“Apparently Jose isn’t too happy with the changes that your grandfather has been making with the racing stable,” Adela replied.
“Did he say anything about the new trainer?”
“Why do you ask?”
>
“I’ve started to get to know his daughter a little,” Consuelo explained. “She helps out at the barn. Actually, she’s one of the girls that I was planning to invite on Saturday.”
“Hmm. What’s her name?”
“Sonia Rousseau,” Consuelo said. “Her father’s made a name for himself taking small stables and growing them, which is what Grandpa wants to do, I guess. I’ve noticed that there’s a lot more activity around the barn since he arrived.”
“Jose isn’t much used to change,” Adela said.
“Jose’s been great with our horses, but he’s had everything his way at the barn for quite a while. Maybe it’s time to shake things up a bit,” Consuelo said. “But I don’t want to do anything to make Grandpa angry. Do you think that I should still invite Sonia?”
“Does she know about your sleepover yet?”
“No, I was waiting to talk to you before I invited anyone.”
“Then it’s probably best to invite someone else this time,” Adela said. “You can have her over later, when whatever it is that’s going on at the barn has blown over.”
After breakfast Adela walked Consuelo to the property’s gate and waited with her until the school bus arrived. Later she changed into riding clothes and drove the short distance to her father’s barn. She found Diamante’s stall empty. Guessing that Jose had arranged for him to be taken out, Adela went to look for him at the exercise ring. She found Diamante trotting around the perimeter of the ring, guided at the end of a long rope by a girl who looked to be about Consuelo’s age. Adela leaned against the wooden fence that enclosed the ring and gripped the top with both hands.
“Hi, I’m Adela Rios,” she called out to the girl. “I see you’re getting to know Diamante.”
“I’m Sonia," the girl replied. "Mr. Ramirez asked me to give him some exercise before you came to ride him today. He told me that he was too hot yesterday, but this morning he’s being a good boy.”
“He was a royal pain yesterday, that's for sure. I almost ended up on my backside,” Adela laughed. “So, your father’s the new trainer, is that right?”
“Yes, we just came out from Kentucky,” Sonia replied.
“You’re a long way from home.”
“Home to us is wherever we happen to find ourselves,” Sonia said. “But I like it here already.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” Adela said. “The Ranch is a good place to be if you like horses. Are you in school?”
“I’m at Rancho High," Sonia replied. "I help out here part time, depending on my class schedule,” Looking over Adela’s shoulder, she added, “Oh, here comes my Dad.”
Adela turned to see Jose and another man walking towards the ring. She took a moment to size up the new trainer. He had the weathered visage common among those who worked outdoors, and his eyes were intelligent and open. His upright posture conveyed the air of someone with a purpose. Adela sensed that he was a comer who would make the most of his opportunity at her father’s barn. She also sensed that Jose would find this type of person threatening. Jose made a perfunctory introduction of Jake Rousseau.
“I’ve just had the pleasure of meeting your daughter,” Adela said to Jake, offering him her hand. “I must say I’m impressed by how well she has Diamante under control. He’s not that easy to handle.”
“Sonia’s great at reading horses,” Jake said proudly, shaking Adela’s hand with a firm grip. “I swear she knows what they’re going to do before they do.” As Jake spoke with her, Adela watched out of the corner of her eye for Jose’s reaction. Jose was paying close attention.
The teahouse had only one room. Its thickly plastered, pure white walls were devoid of ornamentation. Filtered through a paper-lined shoji screen at the window, the early morning light cast an amber glow on the room's sparse furnishings: a single bed covered by a white linen duvet, a plain, whitewashed wooden desk and chair, and a long pine dresser on which stood a large doll held in a metal stand. In one corner of the room a low table painted black served as an altar.
Sam Mori knelt in front of the altar. Five white spider chrysanthemums lay in a basket at her side. Slowly, she poured water from a clear glass pitcher into a round, flat black ceramic container on the altar. The container was a traditional suiban for the practice of Ikebana, the art of Japanese flower arranging. She then placed a kenzan, a heavy needlepoint holder, in the water, locating it off to one side of the suiban. Turning to the basket beside her, she picked up one of the chrysanthemums and carefully measured the length of its stem in relation to the diameter of the container, aiming for a particular ratio. When she was certain of the length, she cut the stem, using the type of forged steel loop handle scissors traditionally used for Ikebana. She repeated the process with each of the four remaining stems, achieving a harmony of proportion by careful measurement. She took her time artfully positioning each chrysanthemum in the kenzan. When she deemed the floral arrangement to be complete, she positioned the suiban next to a group of ceramic miniature bonsai, each one of which represented a departed family member. Sam closed her eyes and began to meditate. She lost herself in the moment.
Sam still lived with her parents on the Rancho Secreto property where she had been raised. Her parents and younger brother, a student at a local community college, lived in the main house while Sam had the use of the teahouse, located across a broad, bricked patio surrounding the pool. Her older brother had moved out of the family home when he found work at one of the realty firms whose offices lined the main street of the Ranch village; he frequently dropped by after work for the evening meals that all three grown Mori offspring enjoyed taking with their parents. Sam found her domestic arrangement very much to her liking. She felt no need to move away from her parents, who respected her privacy. Continuing to live in Rancho Secreto made it easier for Sam to stay in touch with the protected life that she had experienced growing up there; she wanted to stay in touch with that vanishing part of herself. Given her line of work, she was no longer innocent. There were too many days when she actively mourned her loss of a belief in goodness.
Sam rose up from the altar and threw off her cotton yukata-style robe, leaving it in disarray on the bed. She went out to the pool and dove in. The coldness of the water was jarring after the relaxation of her meditation. Fully alert now, she swam briskly, changing her stroke with each lap. The slight morning breeze caused her to shiver when she got out of the water. Reentering the teahouse, she wrapped herself tightly in a towel and ran her fingers through her wet hair. Once warm again, Sam dropped the towel and looked at her body in the mirror over the dresser. Pleased with what she saw, she bent down and pulled out one of the dresser drawers. For a minute she focused intently on its contents. Then, raising herself up to her full height, she looked again at her body’s reflection in the mirror. She imagined the coming evening. She closed her eyes, visualizing.
Chapter Four