Page 10 of The Fadeaway

“Hello, Mrs. Hudson?” a man says.

“Yes, this is Ruby.”

“This is Alan Berkshire, your mother’s attorney. I’d love to meet with you as soon as possible, and I understand that time is of the essence to you as well, based on your message.”

Ruby clears her throat. “Yes. It is. I’m only in Santa Barbara temporarily, so I’d like to handle as much of this in person as I possibly can. Could we set up a time to meet?”

“How is this afternoon?”

Ruby flips over her wrist and consults her watch; it’s nearly three o’clock. “I can be there at four?” she offers, calculating how quickly she can run a brush through her hair and slap on some lipstick. “You’re downtown on State Street, correct?”

“Right by the courthouse,” he says. “You’ll know you’re there when you see brides and grooms standing on the grass with professional photographers and makeup artists,” he jokes, alluding to the fact that the courthouse is incredibly picturesque and a popular spot for Instagrammable weddings.

“Got it. I’ll be there at four,” Ruby promises, ending the call and standing up quickly. “Hey, Helen?” she calls. “I need to go meet my mom’s attorney now. Are you fine here for a bit, or do you want to come?”

Helen materializes in the doorway of the office; the hat and scarves are gone, but she’s holding a small painting gingerly in her hands. “Do you think this is a real Picasso?”

Ruby squints at the artwork. “Maybe?” She walks over to inspect it. Sure enough, the telltale signature is right there on the canvas. “Apparently there’s a lot about my mom that I didn’t know, so maybe she’s been squirreling away invaluable works of art behind my back along with hiding the fact that she was the one driving in an accident where a woman lost her leg. Who even knows at this point?” Ruby throws her hands in the air and then lets them fall in exasperation.

“Yeah, that was a doozy,” Helen agrees. She leans against the doorframe with one shoulder, still holding the painting. “I didn’twant to ask too much about it, but you said she was drinking and driving? And some lady is living in her house up in Seattle because your mom felt bad about the leg?”

Ruby blows out a long breath. She needs coffee. “I think it’s so much more than that, Helen. I just…this is overwhelming, you know? All of it.” Ruby puts her hands to her face and stands there for a moment, breathing in and out.

“Oh, love. Don’t I know it. My parents are both long gone, and let me tell you, with each of their deaths came a mountain of garbage—both literal and figurative. So just cut yourself all the slack you need.”

“Yeah,” Ruby finally says. She drops her hands from her face. “You’re right. And do you think you can come with me? To the lawyer?”

Helen sets the painting down carefully so that it’s leaning against the office wall out of the way. Ruby will have to deal with the Picasso later. “I’m ready when you are,” Helen says gamely. “As long as we can get a latte somewhere along the way.”

“My thoughts exactly.” Ruby grabs her purse off the kitchen island and forgoes a change from her sweatshirt into something nicer. She checks her bag for a hairbrush and a tube of lipstick so she can do a quick touch-up in the car. “Let’s roll.”

Alan Berkshire’s office was indeed located near the courthouse, and on this gorgeous, sunny October afternoon, Ruby and Helen stroll down the sidewalk with iced coffees in hand, dodging kids on skateboards and watching as young college students lounge in the emerald grass that surrounds the courthouse.

“Nice digs,” Helen says, lifting her sunglasses as she looks at the mission-style building with its dark ironwork and tiled roof. “Not a shabby place to spend your days.”

“A bit more relaxed than the White House, huh?” Ruby says, taking off her own sunglasses and dropping them into her purse as they pass through the front door of Berkshire, Hallywood, Briar, and Lane’s law office. The woman at the front counter is young and pretty, and her hair is loose and wavy, her nose studded with a glittering diamond. Ruby can’t help thinking that a young woman greeting the public in D.C. would be more likely to have her hair slicked back and her nose stud-free, but there’s something in the air in Southern California that makes her breezy attitude and natural look feel right.

“Welcome!” the front desk attendant chirps. She lifts a hand and waves at Ruby and Helen, and Ruby can feel Helen pause next to her, startled by the motion. She reaches out and grabs Helen’s hand, tugging her along so that she won’t gawk like an East Coaster.

“Hi,” Ruby says with a smile. “I’m here to see Alan Berkshire. Ruby Hudson.”

Recognition passes over the young woman’s face and her smile widens, though so do her eyes, making her look like a stunned little girl. “Oh! Mrs. Hudson. It’s an honor to meet you.” She stands behind her desk, revealing a form-fitting, stretchy black dress over bare legs. The dress is about two inches too short. “I’m Reggie.”

“So nice to meet you,” Ruby says, falling immediately into First Lady mode. “And this is Helen Pullman. We have an appointment at four.”

“Yes, of course. I’ll let Alan know you’re here,” she says, stepping from behind the desk and revealing a pair of rhinestone bedazzled Birkenstocks on her feet. Her toes are painted hot pink. “Can I get you some coffee while you wait?”

Helen holds up her plastic cup and rattles the ice around to indicate that they already have some.

“No, thank you, Reggie. We’re fine.” Ruby smiles at her.

Reggie disappears down a long hallway, her extremely toned derriere wiggling its way to get Alan Berkshire.

Ruby can barely bring herself to look at Helen, but she glances in her friend’s direction just in time to see her put the straw of her iced coffee between her lips and raise her eyebrows quizzically.

“Ruby!” Ruby looks up as a man in a shirt and tie (sleeves rolled up; no jacket) approaches. He is fair-haired and balding, his remaining hair windswept and his face tanned as if he drives through Santa Barbara in a convertible on his way between his law office and the golf course. “Alan Berkshire,” he says, hand extended. His eyes dance merrily and he turns to Helen, who introduces herself. “Lovely to meet you both. It’s not every day I have a First Lady and a Chief of Staff walk into the lobby of my humble offices.” Alan spreads his hands to indicate the well-appointed but still rather bland space.

The women follow Alan to his office, which has a giant window that looks out at the courthouse lawn. Palm trees wave against a late afternoon sky that looks like turquoise brushed over with gold, and on the green grass, two young men in cut-off jeans toss a frisbee back and forth. It looks like an image that the California Board of Tourism might have conjured up to make visiting Santa Barbara a must-do.

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