The first half of Monday is spent with the illustrious Mrs. Thompson, staging the final rooms of her coastal mansion. Saving me from tearing my hair out is the firm’s intern, Pete Ramirez, a third-year architecture student at USD. He’s on loan to me from Michael, who wants him to experience more exposure to clients. Specifically, the Mrs. Thompson type of client.

Pete is a confident young man with big brown eyes and a killer smile. He charms Mrs. Thompson within minutes of our arrival, which is both irritatingly predictable and welcome. Because of his diversion tactics, I’m free to hustle and sweat my way to her dream living and dining rooms.

Mrs. Thompson is no spring flower, though, so after entertaining Pete’s flirtations for an hour, she directs her laser-like focus onto my work. Specifically, the placement and color of a series of throw pillows. I’m sweating profusely by this point—in sacrificing Pete’s company, I’d had to shift furniture and hang several bulky mirrors on my own.

“Don’t you think we should have gone with the seafoam silk instead of the navy?” she whines.

“I think the navy is perfect,” says Pete helpfully.

She shoots him a withering glance. “Young man, you’re not a designer.”

I close my eyes and count to five. Poor Pete, floored by the shift in her demeanor from admiring to condescending, stammers, “Uh, well—”

“Jackie,” I say, kindly but firmly. “Remember when I brought the sample pillow, and you thought the color washed you out?”

She tilts her head, blinks, and finally looks away to fuss with her dyed blond hair. “Oh, yes.”

Keeping my voice the same, placating tone, I continue, “Sit with the pillows, live with them for a few weeks. Then, if you want to revisit the color, we can do that.”

She finally nods. “Thank you, Thea.”

Another twenty minutes of haggling over minutiae passes. Pete and I swap a painting and a mirror at her request. Then, of course, she changes her mind and somehow manages to insinuate that the original positions were her idea.

After escaping, we stop for In-N-Out burgers and milkshakes—our reward for surviving Mrs. Thompson.

When we walk into the office at just after one o’clock, the space is abuzz with activity. Two out of the three main phone lines are ringing. Alice’s hands are moving at warp speed to manage paperwork and her current phone call. Matthew and Adam are debating loudly over a drafting table. Michael’s out, but the firm’s final two architects—Janice McDuff and Henry Gilbert—are at their desks. Both are using speakerphones to communicate with clients as their fingers dance over keyboards.

The phone slams down on Alice’s desk, making me jump. “Sorry!” she says, and lifts the receiver again to answer the next call.

“Do you need me for anything else, Thea?” asks Pete.

“Nope. Thanks again for your help today.”

“Anytime.” He flashes me a smile before heading toward Matthew and Adam.

Unwilling to leave Alice in chaos, I lift the secondary telephone’s handset to answer the final call. “Price Architects,” I greet.

“May I speak with Thea Sands, please?”

The male voice is unfamiliar. I frown, preparing to chew out a telemarketer. “Speaking.”

“Ms. Sands, my name is Albert Delaney. I’m a lawyer representing the estate of Margaret White.”

Chills race down my arms. “H-hello, how can I help you?”

“Do you have some time today or tomorrow for a visit to my office?”

What the hell?

“Can you tell me what this is about?” But before I even finish speaking, I know it can only mean one thing. Margaret has left me something in her will. I think of her extensive library and lift my free hand to rub at my suddenly burning eyes.

“…distribution of her assets, Ms. Sands,” continues the lawyer.

“I’m sorry, what?” I clear my throat roughly. “What did she leave me?”

There’s a long pause, then, “As you know, Mrs. White and her husband had no children.” There’s a gentleness in his tone makes the hair stand up on my nape. “Sixty percent of the estate is to be split among her charities of choice. The remainder goes to her sole beneficiary. You, Ms. Sands.”

Blood roars in my ears.

No, Margaret. No.

“That’s impossible,” I snap. “She wouldn’t do that.”

“She did, Ms. Sands,” he says kindly. “The change was made just over ten years ago on…” I hear papers rustle, “The twentieth of August.”

My eighteenth birthday.

My hip crashes into the desk, scattering papers. “Thea! Are you okay?” asks Alice loudly. Her voice comes from the end of a long tunnel.

“There’s been a mistake,” I whisper into the phone.

“I’m sorry, Ms. Sands, I know this is a large shock. If we can find a time to meet, perhaps it’s best if we discuss this in person.”

I don’t want to ask, but the question tears itself from my throat: “How much?”

“Ms. Sands, I don’t think—”

“How much!”

He clears his throat. “Including property and all remaining assets… Roughly eighteen million, eight hundred and forty-nine thousand dollars.”

I close my eyes. Open them again. Everything looks the same, but it’s not. I’ve tumbled down the rabbit hole and all around me are locked doors. But there are no keys, no bottles or wafers to imbibe.

“Give it to the charities,” I rasp. “Can you do that? Let’s do that. She would approve.”

He coughs nervously. “Actually, there’s an addendum… Ah, Mrs. White requested that in the event of your refusal, the monies be held in trust for your children.”

I snort, then chuckle, and finally throw back my head and laugh. I’m crying, too, and can’t seem to stop. Laughing and crying—I’m a madwoman.

“That sneaky bitch!” I gasp and laugh harder.

Alice’s mouth is open, her eyes shocked behind her glasses. Across the office, Matthew, Adam, and Pete watch me with concern.

“Ms. Sands, are you well?” asks the lawyer.

“Call me next week,” I say, and slam the handset into its cradle. I look at Matthew. “I need to go.”

He bobs his head.

* * *

Despite its name, Sunset Cliffs in Point Loma possesses beauty unrestricted by the angle of the sun. Even today, with a heavy marine layer clogging the shore, the windswept bluffs are majestic. Almost mythical, for caught in the interminable conflict of stone and wave are dinosaur fossils—one of the few deposits along California’s extensive coastline.

It’s a fitting place for me to be right now. Much like the fossils, I’m being weighed down and chipped away at by my narrative.

When it takes a fumbling minute to release my seatbelt, I accept the cautionary portent. No walking the cliffs today. I roll down the windows instead, twisting in the driver’s seat to stare across the two-lane road. The view isn’t as important as the damp, briny wind that whips through the car and my hair.

My phone is ringing again—has rung many times since I left the office. The voicemails are piling up: Matthew, Oliver, Alice… and three from my mother. I don’t even question how she found out about the will. She knows people who know people.

When the ringtone shifts to Lillian’s, I want to answer. But I’m sluggish, uncoordinated, like in one of those nightmares where I’m being chased but can only run in slow motion.

Somehow, I manage to pick up before the last ring. “Hey, Lil.” I sound like I’ve just smoked a pack of cigarettes.

“Adam called me. What happened? Where are you?”

“Sunset Cliffs.”

“Are you okay? What was that phone call in the office about?”

“You know how Margaret was disgustingly rich, but she acted only excessively rich?”

There’s a pause, then, “Holy shit, she left you money, didn’t she?” And because she knows me so well, she adds, “I bet that pissed you off. How much? You know, it’s not actually a crime to receive gifts from people who love you…”

“Eighteen,” I croak.

“Eighteen thousand? Shit, that’s awesome! I know you’ll put most of it away, but we should go on a vacation. I’m serious, Thebes. Tropical beaches. Cabana boys. Margaret would be so tickled!”

“Million.”

Silence.

“Lil?”

“I’m sorry, did you say MILLION? Eighteen MILLION?” She’s screaming into the phone, and I can hear startled responses of bystanders.

“Jesus, Lil, where are you?”

“Walking down Broadway,” she says in a more subdued tone. “Wow. Uh… fuck vacation, we’re buying an island.”

A tentative smile breaks through the elastic barrier of my waking nightmare. “Very funny.”

“What’s funny, Thebes, is that you think I’m joking,” she quips, then sighs heavily. “Will you come home? We need to talk about this.”

Who needs shrinks when they have Lillian Harris as a best friend? But I say, “I don’t want to go home right now.”

“Meet me at The Field, then. Maybe our favorite Irishman is tending bar.”

“It’s only three o’clock in the afternoon.”

“It’s five o’clock somewhere!”

I laugh—it’s ragged but genuine. “Okay. See you in twenty.”

“Drive with both hands on the wheel.”

“Yes, mother.”

She snorts and hangs up.

On the drive to the Gaslamp Quarter, I listen to the various voicemails on speakerphone.

Matthew: “I made Adam call Lillian. She told him about Margaret. Why didn’t you say something? Take a few days off, Thea. We can handle whatever shipments come in for Hemlock. That’s an order, by the way. If you need more time, that’s okay too. Call me if you need anything. And call your brother!”

Alice: “I’m baking you cookies because that’s what I’m good at. Call me if there’s anything else I can do.”

Oliver: “Thea, I heard about Margaret. Call me. I hope you’re okay.”

Mother: “Hi dear, just calling to check on you. Ta-ta.”

Mother Number Two: “I’m here if you need me, dear. Just wanted you to know.”

Mother Number Three, and this time her voice is lower, different: “My birthday is Saturday. The usual party at the house. I’d love it if you came. You can bring Lillian if you’d like.” There’s a pause. “Lady Margaret’s funeral is next Friday. Call me if you need to talk.”

I find parking half a block from our favorite pub, and play the last message for the fourth time. I try and fail to read the nuances in my mother’s voice. She’s a very skilled actress but hasn’t sounded so human in years.

A medley of disjointed thoughts dart through my mind. Who’s planning the funeral? Should I be involved? Damn you, Margaret! Is Tabitha coming to the party? Will Alex be back in town by then? Is he in Boston yet? Will he call?

There’s a tap on my window and I yelp.

Lillian grins at me through the glass. I glower at her and turn off the car. “Are you trying to give me a heart attack?” I shout, then grab my purse and swing open the door.

She prances backward easily. “First thing we’re doing when the money comes through is buying you a real car.”

I glance lovingly at my ancient Saab. “No way.”

“That thing is a death trap,” she says, and loops her arm through mine. “When was the last time it was serviced? You need a keeper. Can I be your keeper? You can pay me in diamonds.”

“Gold-digger,” I say tiredly.

She flashes me a soft, knowing smile. “Remember when I said you were a drama magnet? A week ago, I was joking. Now, not so much.”

I wheeze out a laugh. “I’m beginning to concur.”

We play a game of jump-rope with the sporadic traffic on Market, sprinting across during a break. The Field welcomes us into its authentic pub interior, as does Colin, the grinning Irish bartender. He’s a shameless flirt but we don’t mind—the accent is worth it.

We take stools instead of a table. Lillian orders whiskey shots and pints of Guinness, and Colin brows lift. “Are we celebrating or mourning?” he asks, glancing between us and the sunlight spilling through the door.

Lillian smirks. “Both, dear Colin. We thought we’d go Irish for a day.”

He chuckles. “Ain’t that an accurate assessment. Comin’ right up, ladies.”

When he turns away, Lillian pivots toward me. “Have you told Alex?”

I don’t meet her eyes. “I don’t want to bother him.”

“Bullshit.”

I sigh. “Why do I have to tell him anything? We’ve had sex, that’s it.”

“I’ve never known you to be dense before.” At my tight expression, she sighs. “I’m sorry. I know he lives on the other side of the country. I keep forgetting that little fact. Just like you keep forgetting he’s not Damien.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I snap.

She gives me a pointed look. “You’ve already written the story and cast Alex as the villain. You’re setting him up for failure. Not giving this thing a chance.”

“What thing?” I ask sardonically. “I can’t afford to be naive here, Lil. If I start dreaming up scenarios of him professing undying love and moving to San Diego for me, I’m halfway to heartbreak already.”

“He asked you to come to Boston with him,” she reminds me. “Not for a vacation, either, but to keep him company while he’s working. Does that sound like a man who isn’t attached to you by more than his dick?”

Colin sets down our drinks. “Sounds like a besotted fool, if you ask me.”

I wince, and Lillian jerks a victorious thumb at him. “See?”

I glare at Colin. “You’re supposed to say shit like that. It keeps the weak ones coming back for barstool therapy.”

With a cheeky grin, he leans over the counter, forearms planting on the other side of our drinks. His eyes are very green—I’ve never seen them up close before. “Thea, you’ve been popping in for years and I’ve never seen you bring, or leave with, a man. This tells me two things. First, you have self-respect. Second, you don’t trust easily.”

“Thanks,” I snort.

He winks. “You’re also not bad to look at.”

“Pouring on the compliments, Colin,” I droll.

His grin gets wider. “If I thought you’d give me a chance, I’d have asked for your number ages ago.”

I blink at him, taken aback. “Uh…”

He glances at Lillian. “A couple of us call her Mona Lisa.”

Lillian giggles, but I don’t get the joke. Before I can ask, Colin straightens. “My advice as your bartender is unless you’re willing to give me a go, you should cut this guy some slack. Give him a little time to get straight in the head, because you’ve probably sent it spinning on his shoulders. Then, if he doesn’t do everything in his power to move the world for you…” He winks. “You know where I’ll be.”

When he’s gone, I look at Lillian. “Did Colin—the sexiest Irish bartender alive—just hit on me? With puffy cry-face and no makeup?”

She rolls her eyes. “Pick up the phone.”

I don’t.

And neither does Alex.

Around five o’clock, we stagger out of The Field and across the street to my car. (Using the crosswalk this time). After dumping quarters in the meter to buy the space until six, we pick up carne asada burritos from a hole in the wall taquería and head home.

We eat and watch sitcoms. We drink four glasses of water apiece. Jeremy comes over after his shift at the bistro, bringing cream puffs the size of our fists. We devour them in spite of our protesting stomachs.

I slump into a vegetative state, while on the couch beside me, Lillian and Jeremy engage in a lively debate on what new car I should buy, where I should take them on vacation, and how much interest eighteen million dollars accrues per day.

I don’t bother telling them that at least two million is sunk into Margaret’s La Jolla home, and additionally, I have no idea what type of accounts hold the rest. Such facts won’t dent their tenacity.

Cellphone calculators come out and they do the math: around two thousand dollars of interest per day. Lillian then pressures me into revealing my salary, which unfortunately I’m drunk enough to do. More math commences. The sum is ten times what I make per day at the firm. It’s roughly sixty thousand dollars a month—seven hundred and twenty thousand dollars a year.

I listen silently and am unsurprised by the swift decline of their enthusiasm.

Lillian, faced with the numbers, is having a minor self-crisis. Dependent on a trust fund, she maintains a blasé attitude toward money. No financial accountability or curiosity, no idea how much she’s worth, nor any sense of responsibility that comes with managing finances.

Jeremy’s silence is for another reason. He works hard for every dollar he earns while scraping together what savings he can. He manages his checkbook, can recite his account balances, and knows exactly how much debt he can chip away at each month.

Their diametrically opposed narratives—and my chasm-spanning one—are forceful enough that I make excuses and leave the room. They would never say it, but I know they’re glad to see me go.

Indulging in a long bath by candlelight, I thumb through the first few chapters of Illusions. When I realize I’ve read the same paragraph eight times, I put the book down.

Buzz.

My heart jerks against my ribs. Water sloshes as I peer eagerly over the rim of the tub to view my phone, which sits atop a towel. The waiting text message, however, is not from Alex.

Sinking back into the water, I close my eyes.