One day as the men were working on the buildings, a band of Mexicans approached to drive them off the land they still considered their own. Mr. Roadhouse, upon seeing their approach in the distance, was known to say, “It looks as if we will have to fight. I wish we had an American flag!” Whereas his father-in-law replied, “I do have one and a big one! It’s in my trunk on the wagon.”
They quickly brought it out and nailed it to a pole, which they pushed through and above a large oak tree. The Mexicans, seeing the flag of the new government and evidently thinking it a US Army installation, changed their minds and went away. Thereafter that particular oak tree came to be known to the family as the “Liberty Tree.”
Lana looked up. “You think the project that Ricardo and Hal were working on has to do with this Liberty Tree?”
“Liberty Tree, True Liberty . . . I don’t know.” Jack shrugged. “Seems kinda weird given the history that they would name it that in Spanish. Maybe it’s just a coincidence?”
“Or a reference we don’t understand yet.”
Jack leaned back against the headboard. “American history is so messed up,” she said. “The white people straight up stole that ranch from Mexicans.”
“The Mexicans likely stole it from the Native people too.”
“Why does land have to belong to anybody?”
“Land is the most precious form of power on this planet. There’s only so much of it. When you buy it—”
“—or steal it—”
Lana nodded. “You stake a claim on its future. If you own the land, you can do what you want. You can plant trees, build skyscrapers, or plan a whole new city. You can shape the future you want for yourself and your family.”
“Sounds like just another way for some people to hoard power over others.”
Lana smiled, thinking of the gleaming white lacquer desk in her old West LA office. “Sometimes that’s true. But owning land isn’t always about power. It’s about rootedness. Stewardship. Like how Mr. Rhoads felt about his ranch. Or how the land trust people feel about the places they care for.”
Jack looked skeptical.
“Think about this place,” Lana continued. “How does it make you feel to know your mom owns this house?”
Jack thought for a moment. “It makes me feel safe. Like no matter what happens, I can come home.”
“Exactly. When you own something, it’s there for you. And in a way, it even owns a bit of you. From the first day you own a piece of property, it gets its hooks into you. You walk around and it whispers to you what it wants to be, who it wants you to be. You feel the need to take care of it, nurture it. I’ve seen it happen again and again with my clients.”
“I still think it isn’t fair.”
Lana snorted. “Real estate never is.”
Beth texted that she’d had a hell of a shift and could they please figure out dinner. While Jack called in an order to Pizza My Heart for a large sausage and onions with extra olives, Lana texted André again. The pizza arrived just after Beth did. Thankfully, Lana’s phone rang before she had to entertain the idea of eating it.
Lana rushed into the back bedroom and shut the door. Beth raised an eyebrow at Jack, but the girl was too busy redistributing toppings for maximum flavor variety per bite to notice.
“Thank you for calling me back so quickly, André.” Lana sat down on the bed facing the window with the slough and pulled the letter of intent onto her lap.
“Darling, of course! Where are you? Your assistant told me something about an out-of-town medical procedure, and then you never responded to my texts, and when I called her again, she was working for some kind of lifestyle influencer in Ojai.”
Lana hadn’t realized how good—and painful—it would be to hear her old friend’s voice. It was like ripping off a Band-Aid she’d forgotten she had on.
“André, I’m fine. Things up here have just gotten more complicated than I anticipated.”
“Where are you?”
“Monterey Bay, near Carmel.” Near enough.
André let out a long exhale. “Thank God. Here I was thinking you were stuck somewhere awful, like a Siberian prison, or Bakersfield.” He paused. “Wait. Are you getting one of those EscarGlow treatments? You beast! I hear the snail slime smell is awful but the wrinkles positively melt away.”
“Please. You know I don’t have wrinkles.”
“You’re not going to tell me, are you? So what’s up?”