Gurion laughed softly and perhaps proved himself a man of some common sense when he said, “It won’t hurt.” They agreed to meet this same day at noon.
Having set out after the morning rush, David made good time and reached Santa Barbara at 10:16. Almost eight hours remained before he would be late for dinner with Maddison.
Estella Rosewater lived in a large house on an eye-pleasing street shaded by old magnolia trees that the weather and intelligent city arborists had shaped well. In a state that for decades had suffered under politicians who were even more incompetent than they were corrupt, David found it heartening to encounter proof that at least in days past, even if in the misty long ago, government had not only served the people well but had a hand in making beauty.
The tile-roof white-plaster Spanish Mediterranean residence featured a crescent-shaped front porch that hugged an entrance rotunda. A housekeeper in black slacks and white blouse answered the doorbell. David was expected. She led him across the limestone of the rotunda, along a hallway of Santos mahogany, to the back of the house, where a study overlooked a rose garden.
The mahogany continued from the hall and bore upon it a Persian carpet with an intricately figured overall gold-and-red pattern set against an indigo field. Although the study was elegantly furnished, it clearly functioned as a workplace, not merely a room dedicated to afternoon tea or evening brandy.
Estella Rosewater got up from her chair and came around the desk to greet him. She was a slim, attractive woman in her early sixties, with blonde hair fading to white and clear gray-blue eyes. She wore a powder-blue knit suit, a white silk blouse, a simple strand of pearls, and medium heels.
David suspected that during business hours, this woman always dressed for work, even if she worked from home, and that during her leisure time, she was nonetheless so well put together that she could have been photographed for a style magazine. Soft-spoken, composed, with a firm handshake, she seemed a paragon of self-discipline.
She sat forward in an armchair, ankles crossed, hands folded in her lap, and he sat in an identical chair, facing her across a small table on which stood a crystal bowl filled with peach-colored roses.
Although David was neither physically awkward nor carelessly dressed, he felt raw-boned and somehow untidy in her presence.
“You and your husband were friends with Patrick Corley.”
“Initially, we were business partners, but the business went so well that friendship inevitably grew from it.”
“Your husband was an eye surgeon?”
“Haskell was an excellent eye surgeon. He developed numerous surgical techniques and devices that saved the sight of countless people.”
Her pride in her late husband brought fresh color to her face, and she sat up even straighter in her chair.
“He was a good man, Mr. Thorne, kind and generous and patient. But although Haskell could make money, he couldn’t grow it or even keep much of it. When we married, he trusted me to put his earnings to work, and as it turned out, I have a modest talent for money management. We invested in various things, including financing six custom homes built by Pat Corley, two here in Santa Barbara and four next door in Montecito. Pat had built, I believe, eighteen others before we began working together.”
“And Corley was an honest, reliable partner.”
“More than that. He was a caring, responsible craftsman. Many general contractors, building custom homes on spec, they cut corners where the cutting is difficult to see, just to line their pockets with a few thousand more. Pat never cut corners and still achieved a handsome profit. We were proud of the homes we built together.”
David said, “I believe his wife was an artist.”
“Nanette worked in stained glass, in all kinds of art glass. More Tiffany inspired than either modern or churchy. Nan was very talented and a good friend.” She rose, went to a sideboard on which were arranged a dozen or more photographs in decorative frames, and returned with a photo of Patrick and Nanette Corley, which she gave to David before settling in her chair once more. “Nanette worked on construction sites beside Pat, framing in her own windows, hanging her wonderful art-glass chandeliers.”
The woman in the photo had an appealing elfin face and a mop of shaggy auburn hair. David said, “She died eleven years ago.”
“Pat was devastated. We all were. Nan was such a vivacious, vibrant woman. We thought she’d live forever. The cancer was fourth stage by the time they discovered it. She was gone in just three months. A terrible thing, a terrible time.”
In spite of the woman’s composure, David could see that the loss of Nanette and no doubt the subsequent death of Patrick Corley still affected her after all these years. And Haskell Rosewater had died only fourteen months earlier. Estella was at that point when friends and loved ones began to pass away ever more frequently. The essential loneliness that was a key thread in the weave of life, which everyone strove not to think about, now became a truth that she could no longer avoid considering.