Sea Cliff 104
By Mary Schultz
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About this ebook
Single Los Angeles South Bay interior designer, Cassidy Brooks, works so hard to forget her horrific sham first marriage, she’s all but abandoned romance and love, much to the dismay of her mother on the family ranch in Montana. Enter Bud Griffith, a Los Angeles commercial land developer with a world of love to give. The problem is, he keeps giving everything--except love--to the ex-wife he divorced years before. He is stuck in his past, and only the hidden privilege of his past remains. Cass’s Montana ranch parents accept Bud for the open-hearted man he is, and wrangle to get the two together. Bud’s ex-wife has a bankroll of reasons to keep them apart. Once Bud knows Cass, he can continue on his present course that includes living in a palace on a crumbling ocean cliff, or he can embrace Cass in spite of her bitter resolve against his every advance. When Cass’s father raises the stakes, and Cass takes the reins, it is anyone’s guess whether love can endure miles and mountains, honest mistakes and underhanded dealings, and finally find its way back to Sea Cliff 104. From the author of El Dorado Bay.
Mary Schultz
An incurable traveler, Mary Schultz has trekked Chile’s Atacama Desert and Easter Island to learn about the visual astronomy of ancient peoples. Together with her husband, she has explored the Mayan ruins of Mexico and Central America, lived and sailed aboard a 41 ft. ketch, and camped from Alaska to the Panama Canal. Mary Schultz’ personal essays have been anthologized: When A Life Mate Dies: Stories of Love, Loss and Healing (Healing with Words Series) by Susan Heinlein; her short fiction has appeared in Yokoi, the Bozeman, Montana occasional arts magazine, and the Mendocino Review to name a few. If you are familiar with Apple Computer, City of Hope, St. Jude Children’s Research Hospital, publications focused on software solutions for architecture, engineering and construction, and Total Gym, over decades you have likely read Mary’s award-winning advertising & marketing writing.
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Sea Cliff 104 - Mary Schultz
Sea Cliff 104
Mary Schultz
Smashwords Edition
Copyright © 2014-2022 by Mary A. Schultz
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems without permission in writing from the author, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.
Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only.
All rights reserved.
Enjoy the read, then please take a moment to leave a review with the ebook retailer where you purchased the book.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
About the Author
Other Titles by Mary A. Schultz
Chapter 1
To Cass, the unfinished oceanfront condo appeared equally desolate and open to possibility. She dropped her heavy carpet sample books and tape measure onto the bare new kitchen counter. The sound echoed against the freshly painted walls of the model unit she was estimating for interior design.
The empty condominium smelled of drying paint and plaster. She walked across the dusty concrete floor to the sliding door, while she absently twisted a nonexistent ring on the third finger of her left hand. She pulled back the glass to let the ocean air inside and brushed the gritty plaster dust off her faded jeans and high-top work boots. The breeze caught the collar of her cotton flannel shirt and she folded the fabric back down.
The expanse of the Pacific glistened deep blue in the late October afternoon, and in the distant haze she could see Catalina Island. The way the ocean waves rolled reminded her of alfalfa fields in the wind. She longed for the simplicity of home, the snowcapped peaks of Southwestern Montana's Crazy Mountains, and her family's hundred-year-old farmstead.
They’re tubular, she thought. These units are awful. Little tunnels. She picked up a swatch book and looked at the colors and textures of carpet, tile and wood. She walked over to the white marble gas-burning fireplace and leaned against the mantle.
Desert sand, or Confetti, she thought. Bamboo. Italian porcelain tile with nearly invisible grout lines would finish the kitchen floor. These models may take shape after all,
she mumbled.
The front door opened and in stepped a masked cowboy, complete with white hat and dress boots. The hot wind caught the door. It slammed and Cass jumped.
She took in the sight before her, a towering six-feet-plus of height in a fringed jacket. Blue eyes peered out of the black mask’s eye holes. Those eyes seemed to be studying her reaction.
A laugh bubbled up from somewhere within her. The costumed man reminded her of a giant child playing you'll-never-guess-who-I-am.
Then, she collected herself and put on a somber face, remembering that in Los Angeles, any loose masked man could be a dangerous intruder.
Lone Ranger, I presume?
she asked.
Who are you?
a husky voice asked. And, what are you doing here?
He lifted his hat, slipped off the mask and Cass guessed him to be a man in his forties. She noticed that his straight forehead and strong jaw looked far more appealing once he was unmasked.
Cass looked him over, from the blue-black hair tinged with silver to the startling blue eyes that were so intense she was sure she could see a Rocky Mountain horizon in them.
I should be asking who you are. I know it's Halloween, but isn't it a little early in the day for a masquerade?
He looked down at his blazing silver belt buckle and cleared his throat. For another moment, they stood at a stalemate. Finally, Cass said, I'm Cassidy Brooks, designer.
Are your eyes really that light shade of green?
he asked. His eyes were on her long auburn curls. Was the original Tonto really Canadian?
Cass folded her arms across her chest, unwilling to laugh again, in spite of his mischievous smile.
And you are?
she asked.
He still didn't identify himself. He cocked an eyebrow, as if waiting for her to continue.
Cass tapped her foot and said, Leonard Rasmussen, the developer, and Petro, of Petro Avakian and Michael McGregor Urban Spaces, agreed I should estimate this three-bedroom model first for interior design. Leonard expects this floor plan to be the leader.
Why didn't you say Leonard sent you? I'm Bud Griffith, the project manager.
He extended a hand and grinned. You are amazingly self-possessed,
he said. If you had speed-dialed for help, I shouldn’t have been surprised. Earlier this afternoon, my ex summoned me to take a look at a lamp that shorted out. She didn’t find my get up amusing. She was embarrassed, afraid the neighbors might see me being outrageous. That would reflect badly on her. She has a status to maintain. I guess I’m supposed to maintain it for her.
The warmth of the laugh lines around Bud's eyes unnerved Cass. He’d revealed a lot in a matter of seconds. She'd fallen for charm and wit before, fallen to a low she'd never thought possible. In an effort to guard herself, she took on her down-to-business voice.
Happy to meet you, Mr. Griffith. I hope you'll excuse me, but I'm on a deadline and there's so much to do.
She lifted her silvery steel measuring tape case and turned away from him.
Here, let me hold the end of the tape for you,
he said.
Please, don't let me trouble you. I'm sure you were on your way somewhere,
she said.
Project manager or not, she thought, there's something a bit off center about a man who parades around dressed as a cowboy hero. His presence made her uneasy, though she couldn't have said why.
Are you always so brusque when someone offers to help you?
He followed her and stepped in front of her.
She pointed to the mask he held under his arm and said, I'm not brusque. You just unsettled me.
Well, beg pardon, lady.
Inwardly he kicked himself. He regretted the tone he heard in his own voice and wondered why she seemed as sensitive as sand-papered fingertips. Her legs, he noticed, went all the way up to the seat of her jeans.
Cass raised her eyebrows.
Oh, or is it ma’am?
Bud asked. Not lady. How can I be politically correct?
He acted as though he was either trying to be teasing or cute, but he was sounding remarkably belittling.
So, you don't want to be friends,
Cass said. Okay. That's settled. Now, since you’re here, how about telling me why these condos were designed like a Happy Hamster Habitat?
Excuse me?
He dusted off an unfinished cabinet top and set his hat down.
They are all narrow and deep.
Everyone wants an ocean view,
Bud said. One in the living room. One in the master suite upstairs. If you can be a little bit cordial for a moment, I'll show you.
He turned and bounded up the stairs the way a moose tackles a deep snow field, effortlessly. She followed. At the second story landing, he opened the door at the end of the hall. One entire wall was glass framed with light oak, and out the window, the blue ocean shone.
See that view?
Bud asked. That crescent of coastline lights up like diamonds at night. I suppose that's why in real estate listings, they call this view the queen's necklace. You can see all the way to Palos Verdes.
The peninsula jutted out into the water like a huge green turtle. Closer in, a pair of sailboats glided by, their multi-colored spinnakers filled with wind.
Admit it,
Bud said. The view is beautiful. Will you forgive me? It's hot in here.
He pulled off his fringed Western jacket, revealing a blue chambray shirt and a few straggling wisps of hair that she found herself wanting to pull out from his collar. His shirt carried the scent of freshly cut pine.
I can't deny what you're saying. And every time the light changes, you get a new perspective, too,
Cass said.
Cass hadn't realized she was being less than civil until he called her on it. In her lifelong single-mindedness to succeed and her recent determined efforts to avoid men, she had developed what her boss affectionately referred to as a chip on her shoulder the size of Montana. In the many months since Terrence and the divorlment,
as she'd come to call it, she'd become especially curt and bitter, she knew. How odd that a total stranger, and an attractive one at that, would point out to Cass that she was acting like her worst possible self.
Would you come with me?
she asked, her tone softening. I've got a lot to accomplish here in a really short time frame.
She left the panorama behind and descended the stairs at a brisk pace. She heard his footsteps on the stairs behind her. Let me begin by showing you flooring samples, and we'll see if we can at least give these models the illusion of space.
She opened the sample book and showed him several choices.
I like this sand colored Berber. The texture will add dimension,
she said.
But a Berber wrap on all those stairs? I'm fighting cost overruns. I wanted to keep expenses down Ms. Brooks... or, is it Mrs... or...
Ms. is fine. My friends call me Cass. But we've already agreed we won't be friends. We'll be mutually tolerant.
Funny, that's just what my ex-wife says,
Bud said. Now, about this carpet. Give me a grade lower or give me this one and cut your price based on volume.
You don't exactly fine tune the bargaining, do you?
Time is money. And you said you had to run.
With that, he grabbed his hat, tucked it under his arm, turned and strode toward the door. Hand on the doorknob, he looked back at Cass, his ocean blue eyes sparkling. Give me your business card,
he said. I might need to get in touch.
Ever heard the word 'please?'
She handed him her card.
I say please to my friends. When you've got this place measured, why don't you shop a little and then set up an appointment to show me your whole proposal?
Texas Ranger poser,
Cass said as the door closed.
Bud tapped on the kitchen window and said, I heard that.
* * *
The uniformed guard studied Cass's identification card in the bright morning light. He let her pass into the polished black marble and chrome of the Los Angeles Designer Mart. She rode the elevator to the second floor and started down the long hall, bypassing the suppliers of French Provincial furnishings, anything damask or brocade, and narrowing her sights between scaled down contemporary overstuffed pieces and natural wicker accents.
In a corner shop under a skylight, she found a loose-cushion sofa with a stark white background interwoven with a faint ribbon of dusty rose and ivy green. She saw chairs, same style, and asked the clerk for an estimate based on one dusty rose chair, one ivy, each with contrasting welting.
Master suite, Cass thought. Wicker headboard. Scaled down queen's chair. Wicker dresser with framed mirror.
When she closed her eyes and envisioned the view from the model condo's master bedroom, the image of Bud Griffith's face clouded her mind and she found her heartwarming one degree at the mental picture of his smile.
Death to the tubular, she thought. She left her selections with the sales consultant to give the supplier time to develop a comprehensive bid, and she set off on her next mission.
She swung her heavy leather briefcase as she walked at a rapid clip down the hall. Bamboo strips, floor to ceiling, behind the queen bed, a channel of glass tiles between. Instant openness. No more stacked rabbit hutch feeling.
Cass sprinted from one merchant to the next, choosing lamps, shades, fabric for custom window blinds. For the master suite, she ordered a bid on a custom comforter trimmed with piping to echo the trim on the upholstered pieces in the living room suite.
The lead model, she thought. Don't forget towels, a few dishes and glassware. A silk fuchsia to hang from the ceiling of the master suite. And art.
Cass texted a note into her tablet planner to contact a Montana wildlife sculptor and ask him to give her a price on a sculpture for the mantle. She noted a second call she'd make, to a California wine country artist for one of her vibrant colored pencil drawings. For that one wall just inside the master suite. Light, light and more light.
In the main floor restaurant, Cass sipped an iced tea and waited for her lunch. Tablet open, calculator poised, she reviewed bids. The letters and numbers crawled together, crowding each other into an indistinguishable blur. She pulled her new eyeglasses out of her purse and silently cursed her astigmatic eyes. The waitress brought her Caesar salad. Halfway through the salad, she looked at the bottom line and whistled softly.
Uh-oh, she thought, I've overshot my mark. It's a beach condo, not a summer palace for visiting royalty.
She looked at the list, wondering if she should pare expenses by axing any of the selections she'd made. Then she decided to go with her initial instinct. She reassured herself with the thought that Petro was paying her for her expertise. She knew how to make land pay for itself.
* * *
Friday morning, Cass drove into the palm-lined parking lot of the Marina del Rey offices of Leonard Rasmussen Development Corporation. The Early California hacienda style building posed a startling contrast to the adjacent shopping center and nearby concrete and glass monstrosities. She walked through shaded tall arches and into the patio. Sunlight baked down on huge terra cotta pots filled with blooming birds of paradise. Creeping bougainvillea vines, florid with hot pink blossoms, edged into the red tile roof.
She stood at a wood framed glass office door, one of several that faced an interior patio. Bud Griffith, Vice President Project Manager,
the placard said.
Cass turned and looked out into the parking lot, uncertain what to make of this surprising turn of events. Now it was clear that Bud was second in command to Leonard himself, with far more authority than Cass had assumed, including power over the company's purse strings. Cass had begun the estimate with near certainty that she was a shoo-in to get the contract. Now, nothing was certain.
She braced herself, opened the door and stepped inside. A silver-haired woman sat at a desk in a large reception room. May I help you?
she asked.
Mr. Griffith,
Cass said. I have a ten-thirty appointment.
The woman looked at her desktop screen and picked up the phone, pressing one button. A bell chimed down the hall. Your appointment,
she said. Should I send her in?
Cass studied the office decor while she waited and decided that if Bud had anything to with the design of this office, he had far better taste than she'd have guessed.
The assistant set down the receiver and eyed Cass with what seemed to be a new respect. Mr. Griffith will be right out,
she said.
Bud Griffith rounded the corner dressed in a dark gray suit, crisp white shirt and an elegant red and silver tie. Down to his Italian shoes, the softest dull black leather, he emanated style.
Cass remembered the costume she had seen him wear, and figured that in a lineup today, she couldn't have identified him as the same man.
Ms. Brooks, may I shake your hand?
he asked.
His secretary did a double-take, and Cass wondered if this meant he was being unusually friendly toward her or if she should make ready for some onslaught, or both.
Please,
Cass said, taking his hand. He squeezed her hand a little too hard, a little too long. Cass felt the coarse surface of his warm palm, and for a moment, she found herself looking at his well-manicured but rough-textured hands rather than into his eyes.
Come in,
Bud said. Care for coffee?
Before Cass could answer, he said to his assistant, Sherry, would you?
He escorted Cass into his private office. You'll need some space,
he said, pointing to a black lacquered table in one corner of the room opposite from his desk. More light?
he asked, drawing back the vertical blinds.
The secretary came in and set down a tray. Bud picked up the gleaming steel server and poured coffee into two ceramic mugs. I forgot to ask. Cream?
he said.
No, thanks,
Cass answered.
Ah,
he breathed. He smiled, and the laugh lines around his eyes softened. We drink our coffee the same way.
Cass got momentarily lost in the blue of his eyes. They were as vibrant as the mountain bluebirds that flitted just above the lower meadow on the ranch. She breathed in. The man carried a faint, enticing scent of new lumber, and she fought the urge to lean toward him and sniff him. She collected herself by staring at the clasps on her briefcase.
I'd like first to acquaint you with my proposal,
Cass said, earnestly trying to ignore her fascination with his dark eyelashes. She busied her hands by putting on her eyeglasses. She opened her briefcase and pulled out two matching folders, presenting him with one. I'll review this copy with you,
she said. Then leave it behind for Leonard.
He'll appreciate being included,
Bud said. But of course, the model interiors are my decision.
He said the 'my' with such overbearing emphasis, his momentary spell of enchantment broke. He is pulling rank again, Cass thought. Why does every man in business have to reinforce his dominance the way a tom cat sprays every blooming plant in the yard to mark his turf?
Understood,
Cass said. She opened her folder and turned to the first page. First, you'll find a flooring and carpet bid,
she said. That bid is for all four model units, and Petro has already approved it,
she said. I managed to arrange for two choices of carpet. One is a slightly better grade, but you could have either or both at the same price. For kitchens and baths, I've also got tight bids on Italian tile, but at least for the lead unit, I'd suggest this higher end gray Mexican tile. This bid is for comparison only. You'll see that my first choice doesn't cost that much more, but it's quite striking...
Quite striking, she thought. She studied his ruddy complexion, and decided he was a man who'd seen his