I Know What He Did Last Summer…

Truth be told, I have absolutely no clue what “HE” did last summer, or who “he” even is.  It doesn’t matter, but this does; this truth, this blog, and the resulting strength and inspiration it lends to me, and hopefully others… matters!  This particular post has been in the works for months and months, since the middle of last summer;  it’s had multiple titles, and has been responsible for the consumption of a “bottle or two” of Pinot Grigio, Rosé and Makers Mark.  Each time I would start to open up this particular mental file, the little blue file on my laptop, or the boxes and boxes of legal documents that substantiate almost a decade (or three) of my life, which are essentially the culmination of a chain of events from the summer of 2007, I would also start to relive those moments, those memories, and maybe most significantly those feelings. Each of those things, the moments, memories and feelings bring back the sting.  No…neither the word nor the tiny inconvenience of “a mere sting” can begin to describe the “beatings” and bruising that scarred my life for years.  Finally, though I have decided it’s enough!  It’s time; time to “rip off the bandaid,” move on, and remove any lingering residue of the filth that was locked in both the file on my laptop, as well as the messy filing system in my mind, and the cache of legal document boxes that are, literally, stacked five deep and line a wall in my garage, but will be revealed here, now and moving forward, in entirety.  Time to “clean house” so to speak and put that chapter to rest.  I confess that this entry…it’s a long one, and I am beyond grateful to anyone who has the patience to get all the way to the end. I will also say that if there is, unfortunately, any chance that a divorce is in your future (particularly if you hail from Glynn County, Georgia) you really need to finish to the end! “Knowledge is power.” I doubt I’m the first person to ever say that phrase, but to all who’ve said it before me, I thank you and salute you.

When I discovered the work of this incredible talent, Christopher Kearby (@topherkearby) I was so struck by the way he could, both, paint and say far more vividly and succinctly than I can, the depth of emotion I struggle to reveal, is a gift at which I marvel and respect beyond words. I’m also incredibly appreciative that Topher allowed me to use this particular piece, to accompany my post. While there’s far more healing to come, Topher’s expression of the process is spot on!

As I started reviewing all my various attempts to disclose how the “Summer of 2007” evolved and began to combine all the different pieces that could be shaped into something resembling closure, it struck me how much I’ve already shared with you about the summer of 2007.  I’ve been giving glimpses into the “unfolding” and dissection of a marriage, family and lives since this blog began.  With that said, there will be parts of this (and maybe other) posts that sound repetitive, and for that I apologize; it all blends into the life and journey I’m sharing. I only ask that you, please, bear with me?   Also please know that I consider you ALL, (anyone who takes a minute or twenty out of their day to read my words and see inside my heart), my friends!  The harsh reality is…that the more real you are, the more truth you tell, the less liked you risk being too! That just seems to be the way it works, and that’s ok. As Winston Churchill said, “You have enemies? Good. It means you’ve stood up for something, sometime in your life.”

So with that intro, let’s see how I can wrap up that 2007 summer and move on?

Summers, and in fact, all our “down-time,” away from Georgia flew by way too quickly. Al’s work at Sea Island, the new Master Plan and complete design of what seemed like all resort, commercial and residential complexes spanning both St. Simons Island and Sea Island had generated a complete rebirth of his career. Our time in Georgia originally started out as a fresh opportunity and means of rebuilding Al’s architectural career. It did that and then some. Sea Island was in the midst of a huge financial boom, and Al was as “bullish,” if not more so, than when I met him! He had become, again, a whole new person. It still never gets easier to confess, though, that after 18 years, I wasn’t exactly sure whether I ever knew who Al REALLY was?

All too true; it’s just a matter of perspective and circumstance.

What was it that kept “Al’s world” turning?  Was “it” power, control, money, adulation, or maybe all of those items combined?   I had experienced so many, varied, either wildly high, or equally low moments and moods with Al over the years, I never knew what was coming next.  In some ways, after my background and upbringing, the not-knowing, chaotic kind of day to day experience that represented so much of my own childhood, made my years and the similar mayhem with Al, just another version of normal.  The well-known phrase, “the devil you know” came into play far more often than I care to admit.  My life with Al had become an all too real, day-to-day example of that very philosophy.   I worked hard to balance the grim and darker aspects of our life together with the many perks and opportunities that our family enjoyed, and the gift that our children have always been as well.  I was determined to make the best of everything; it was just what I did!   Plus, that day, that first week of June 2007, we were headed home!  

I will NEVER not be grateful for the privileges my family enjoyed!

Al drove his Porsche, which Bennie would pick up the next day for its return to Cottage 64’s driveway, while one of the sweet guys from the Resort’s transportation department picked the kids and I up from the house.  That was no small job, as along with our “truckload” of baggage, we also travelled with our two Corgis, (Grace and Charlotte) and… PJ’s turtle, Squirt.  We were slated to meet up at St. Simon’s McKinnon Airport, but only the enormous vehicle carrying the kids, my crazy four-legged crew, and I drove right up to the jet, with its open stairway, and cargo hold, immediately in view.  Al had parked his Porsche, just outside the fenced, gated and secured airfield;  he usually preferred, to travel light, with just his bag of tennis rackets, couple of t-shirt changes, towels, knee-brace and the other gear that was vital to the maintenance of his daily tennis habit and addiction.  The saddle-leather, monogrammed, and well-worn, duffle bag, with a change of clothes (maybe) and the matching “dop” kit were often an afterthought.  We were in the process of securing the dogs and the turtle in their designated spots within the comfortable, yet not overly expansive, interior of our Lear 60, while Greg, our pilot, was helping Andrew to offload the extensive assortment of luggage from the Resort’s vehicle into the lifted, open door to the cargo area of the plane.  Al was settled into “his spot” inside the Lear, and appeared to be in the middle of, what sounded like, a heated phone exchange, when the kids and I boarded, each with our own, slightly smaller stash of essentials that we were “allowed” to bring with us in the main cabin.  In that moment, he sounded like the “hot head,” he could often be, but over the past couple years he had mellowed a little, too.  It was just two years earlier, upon leaving for our same summer routine, when PJ proclaimed to Al and me, that “he couldn’t just abandon his turtle, Squirt, all summer long?”

This little guy could be Squirt’s twin, and the sentiment pretty much sums up my mindset about life.

 Al’s unexpected response to PJ that day had simply been to suggest we bring Squirt with us?  Indeed, 2004, 2005 and a good bit of 2006 had been good years for our family. Al’s “surprise” purchase of our, oceanfront, Tabby Lane home, together with the addition of the Lear, was a total “game changer” for our family’s frequent, and Al’s almost constant, cross-country travel schedule.  It seemed like a milder side of Al was emerging, even to the point where he made an effort to get home in the evenings to stroll the beach together, he was willing to spend his free time on Saturdays with the kids and I, and he had even acquiesced to indulging my life-long desire to own a show dog!  I was as happy during those few years, as I remember feeling in all the years we’d spent together. 

Al was full of pleasant surprises those few years, including this trip when he flew us all to Sacramento, from Georgia, to watch our new German Shepherd being shown for the first time.

 My brief reverie of the recent few years wasn’t translating so far to our experiences of the first many months of 2007, and wouldn’t prove to be emblematic of the summer’s end, either.  Even the happy vibes that always accompanied a trip home and had filled the day thus far were instantaneously jinxed by the appearance of the person just exiting the interior lobby space of the small McKinnon airfield, who was now striding directly towards us and our plane.  Sporting his usual, mess of tangled, curly brown hair, with an enormous, black, Hefty garbage bag slung over his shoulder, he climbed the stairs to the jet and flopped, both, himself and his “suitcase” on the bench seat that stretched along the edge of the Lear just outside the cockpit. Like the flip of a switch, the happy expressions that my children had worn for the past couple days, were transformed from wide smiles to faces of dismay and disappointment, at the very sight of Kyle.  It wasn’t really one specific quality of Kyle’s that evoked our children’s disdain;  no, it was more than that…it was his entire existence.  Their annoyance and disappointment also had to do with Al and his habit of springing these, last-minute, unwelcome surprises upon us. This must have been the fifth or sixth time that Kyle had been included in one of our ”family” trips home, and while I knew Al did not understand why Emily and PJ felt the way they did about Kyle, it really wasn’t much of a mystery if you possessed even one ounce of human empathy.   Emily and PJ adored the time they had at home; they loved the times spent with their sister, their cousins, their Grandmother and their Aunts and Uncles.  We all loved and looked forward to the annual visit from Mark and Dana, which had become a 4th Of July tradition, plus the two big summer dog shows, each with an accompanying party that we had been hosting for the past couple years, and the dear friends that had become a part of “that life,” were now significant parts of our summers and time spent at home!  Those were all considerations of the limited, yet treasured visits home since Sea Island had entered our lives. Back then, before Georgia, the day-to-day business of living seemed far less complicated, and that was definitely the way Emily and PJ preferred it.  Kyle, like Sea Island, was another complication. There was the other and most obvious issue too, and it also seemed to be the one concept beyond Al’s grasp.   Kyle’s very presence represented even less time that Al would have to share with Emily and PJ.   It wasn’t enough that Al already had Dean, the local Santa Ynez tennis pro, who came to the house every morning to “hit” for a couple hours; then there was his lunch-bunch, “buddy time” with Geno (now, made doubly worse with the addition of creepy, Morty)  and Kyle’s existence symbolized two to three more hours of tennis built into every day, which translated into substantially less “down time” for just us, with Maren…who had always been such a huge part of our family time at home.  I had tried in the past to talk about the uncomfortable subject with both Al and Kyle.  Oddly enough, it was Kyle, who was far more receptive to those discussions than Al.  Al dismissed me, as he so often did, whenever I tried to mention a topic that was distasteful and unimportant to him.  Kyle, on the other hand, actually tried to understand.  He himself, still struggled to process the painful memories from his upbringing and the troubled relationship he had had with his own father.  Kyle’s willingness to explore conversations, like that, almost made things worse?  It transformed him into a sympathetic figure, at least for me, and for Emily…well, kind-of?   Nothing, however, was going to change PJ’s negative feelings about Kyle.   I often wondered why it was so hard for Al to recognize that all his kids wanted was his attention, his approval, and most of all…his time? 

“The most important thing you can give your children is your time.”

There were other things Al did which he believed and told me “should be enough?”  He felt that “things” symbolized his devotion to the kids.  The custom treehouse he designed and had built around the hundred year old Oak tree standing behind Al’s home studio/office which sat upon our Roblar hilltop, or the antique, working Bugatti model car, that Al bought PJ at one of his Concours d’ Elegance weekends, but was kept, and spent the rest of its “life,” or at least all the remaining time that I was still in the picture, in Al’s “office/studio/show garage.”  I don’t know if PJ ever even sat in his “gift,” much less drove it; but those were the items or instances that Al was quick to point out when referencing his parental devotion.  There were also a couple projects he did with the kids;  like the Topographical Map of California, that Al helped Emily design, “construct to scale,” paint and submit for a school assignment.  Emily received an “A” for their effort, and Al had the project encased in a Lucite box which, most likely, still adorns a wall in his Roblar office/design studio.  Those projects were as much for Al, as they were for the kids; tangible evidence of his devotion, I guess? 

Emily and our dear friend, Mark, posing at the treehouse’s completion.

I digress… Needless to say, Kyle’s arrival at the Lear that day was anything BUT a welcome sight!  At least, I was pretty sure that Kyle and I had established some fairly clear parameters about what was acceptable in our home, and what was not…following his most recent visit?  The last trip Kyle had made with us to California was nothing if not challenging… right from “the get-go.”  We arrived late one day at Freehaven, and while Kyle had been there numerous times before, (meaning he knew “his room” was upstairs in the guest wing, next to Al’s office, complete with its own exterior entrance) he, nevertheless, entered the front door with the rest of us, and asked if I had an extra toothbrush that he could have, as he had forgotten his toiletries?  No big deal; I kept a complete “stash” of any missing product a houseguest might possibly need, and depending on the size of the item, it was stored in one of a few locations.  Being that the item in question was a toothbrush, meant it was kept in a lidded basket, located in the cupboard below my sink in the master bathroom.   I always had a supply of Tylenol, deodorant, toothpaste, aftershave, razors, Krazyglue, nail polish remover, or whatever other random cosmetic-type item a guest might need.  Anyways, I told Kyle where I kept those extra items, and five minutes later, I walked into the master wing and through the hall to the large his and her bathroom.  There was Kyle, standing on my side of the bathroom, with his shirt off and brushing his teeth over my sink!  Never mind that Kyle was 30+ years old at the time;  it was a travel day, which meant at least 7-8 hours, even with the jet, and our refueling stop in Lubbock had been delayed, so when we finally arrived at Freehaven, I “might” have been a little tired and irritable?  Oh, hells bells, I confess…I was a total “bitch.”  I took one look at him, grabbed his shirt from the floor, took the tube of toothpaste, shoved them both into the same hand that was holding the toothbrush, pointed to the door, and told him to get his “arss” out of my sight.  I reminded him that this was not a fraternity, nor was it the set of “Animal House!”  I continued on, telling him HE WAS NOT my son, even though most of the time, he behaved like a child, and furthermore, if he was going to be shirtless again, it had better be either in his room upstairs, or in the swimming pool…PERIOD!   See what I mean, those seemed like some pretty explicit boundaries to me?  Meanwhile, the music to Elton John’s song “The Bitch Is Back” must have surely been bouncing around my brain.  

I could only hope that Kyle’s visit this time would be different.  Maybe this trip would be relatively brief, and not the 4-5 week stay that happened last summer?  The trip was starting a bit differently than our norm, as we weren’t flying straight home to Santa Barbara, but instead into Palomar Airport in North County San Diego, so we could attend and celebrate my nephew, and Godson, “G’s” High School Graduation party, as well as spend  a couple extra days at the always lovely, Rancho Valencia for a business meeting Al had planned.  Maybe all these new additions to our usual routine would be the catalyst for a new experience too?  G’s party was wonderful; my sister and brother-in-law hosted it on the enclosed patio of Delicias, which seemed so apropos, as Al and his friend, Paulo, had opened Delicias together way back in the early ‘90s, when they both found themselves bachelors and newcomers to the Ranch.  Paulo had claimed he was surely about to die from boredom! There was only so much tennis to play, the skies were far too dark at night, and while the food was fabulous, one could only eat so many meals per week at the local legend, “Mille Fleurs!”  Opening a restaurant and starting a new project was going to be the path towards solving both Paulo’s complaints.  Yikes…again with my ADD! My little Capone crew had always gotten on so well with that San Diego branch of my family, and my three nephews felt almost as close to me, as if they were my own.  I treasured all the memories and the time we spent together, and they were also the only ones from my family of origin, who genuinely liked Al, I think?   At any rate, the evening and party was perfect, as was the next day…until it got to be about cocktail time.  The kids were with their cousins, Kyle was off somewhere, and it was time for Al to get to his meeting.  Coincidentally, or not, Al’s meeting was with one of the, then “family partners” of Rancho Valencia, who also just happened to be a lifelong acquaintance and friend of mine.  We had grown up in La Jolla together, attended the same elementary school, our families were friends, my Grandfather and his Grandfather had been partners in a few La Jolla businesses, and we had even graduated from the same, small private high school.

Clint and I entering our Senior Graduation Ceremony together.

In fact, we even shared the same last name. As kids, we used to joke that we’d get married one day, and then I wouldn’t have to change my name.  Apart from that sweet, but distant memory, that’s where the serendipitous connection stopped.  Clint had gone to college in Colorado, married early, moved back to the San Diego area, already had kids graduating from high school and was now a part of his families’ real estate/development/hotel empire, which brought us to that moment.  Al and I walked from our little cottage to the beautiful outside patio adjoining the resort’s restaurant and waited for Clint to arrive.  My plan was to join them for a cocktail, greet my old friend, and then excuse myself so they could talk “shop.”  Clint and I greeted one another with big hellos and hugs, just as you’d expect from people who’ve enjoyed such a long association.  He had met Al before, and they were both easy conversationalists, so the meeting was off to a good start.  It wasn’t ten minutes later, though, in the midst of discussing our bi-coastal lifestyle, homes, hobbies, kids, etc… when Clint commented that we certainly seemed to live a grand life!  Having been to our Roblar home, then hearing about all of Al’s Georgia projects, and our oceanfront home there, must have prompted Clint’s remark, which should have been no big deal, but instead became a huge sore spot when Al snapped back addressing Clint, and said, “Well, I’ve created a monster… Mizz (Al’s nickname for me) has become quite the spoiled, lady of luxury, and won’t even deign to fly commercially now that we have a plane.  I thought I was retired when I met her, but I’m going to be working a long time to keep this one happy!”  I was shaken, blindsided and hurt.  I had no idea where Al’s tone and bitterness was coming from, but I did know that I could feel myself becoming emotional.   I couldn’t sit there much longer, and also didn’t want to embarrass myself, or Clint, with any of the tears I could feel welling in my eyes.  I sat quietly for a few moments, trying to gather (or regain) my composure, then excused myself, telling Clint, it was lovely to see him, but I was off to pick up our kids from their cousins.  Clint stood up, we exchanged a hug of farewell, and Al just sat there, as I walked off.  It wasn’t really time to pick up the kids yet, but I could think of no other graceful way to make a quick exit.  As soon as I was out of sight and not far from the lovely cottage where we were staying, the tears that had been merely simmering only moments before began to stream down my face, and I wracked my brain to try and recall what I had done to cause Al’s wrath this time?   It WAS me who asked if we could fly to San Diego for G’s party, instead of flying straight home, but Al seemed enthused about that, as he wanted to set up this meeting with Clint, and the slight detour would accomplish both goals.  I was at a total loss to figure out what else I might have done wrong?   The kids were happy, well-behaved, excited to be there, to see their family, and they were even being reasonably nice to Kyle.  What had prompted Al’s sudden ire, this time?   Maybe, I was just being overly sensitive, as Al often commented was the case, and he wasn’t really being as sharp or as critical as I felt he was?  Ummm, no… I knew his tone too well, and I recognized the timing of his delivery;  that wasn’t the first time an instance like that had occurred.  The comment, his dismissiveness, and the steely, distant look in his eyes, were all signs I recognized.  I didn’t understand the “why” just yet, or how this incident would play out, but, then I rarely, if ever, knew the answers to those questions?  It was difficult to pinpoint the exact cause of Al’s animosity, but I also knew very well “not to bother nor question him with nuisance items like my feelings!”  That kind of probing had a way of making everything worse, so I did what I always did at such times and directed my attention towards our kids, trying to ensure they didn’t feel the burden or consequence of whatever might set off another illustration of Al’s mercurial moods.  It was a practice at which I had become quite learned, albeit slightly “rusty” since 2004 through 2006 had been fairly peaceful, and easier years. 

Once back home, in our normal summer rhythm and routine, the unpleasant matter with Al faded into the background, even if only for a short bit.  I’ve spoken about it before in my blog post entitled “Preludes,” but I had agreed, many months prior to hosting a reception for Lilith and Dick’s “new” son, Paddy in honor of his Christening at our Freehaven home. They had chosen me to be the Godmother, and while there was absolutely no chance that Paddy, who was by then seven months old, would fit into the heirloom, Collins family Christening Gown, I intended to make certain that everything else about the occasion was perfect?   It was maybe a half an hour into the celebratory gathering, following the Baptism at Mt. Carmel, when I realized that Lilith and Dick’s new friend’s twin sons, who were around three and whose parents apparently had little to no understanding of the concept of supervision, were like toy “tops” spinning out of control.  True to our Collins upbringing, my Mom whispered to me at one point, that she thought, “this might be an ideal time for those two little monsters to learn about the concept of discipline?”  Whether it was an appropriate suggestion or not, you’ve got to appreciate her candor, and heavens knows, at that very moment, I was feeling the same way.  I had never been a big believer in “corporal punishment” as a means of discipline, but then I was also a very participatory, dare I say “hovering” parent, and wouldn’t have taken my eyes off my own children at that kind of an event.  Thankfully and soon thereafter, the parents must have caught on to just how disruptive their little “darlings” had become, and they all departed.  The rest of the afternoon and evening was lovely.  We ate our supper poolside, enjoyed the outdoor fireplace with view of the Pacific beyond, the men played pool in the Billiards room/bar located just below the pool deck, and Paddy completed his first official day as a Baptized Catholic.

Maybe three days later, I was in the Upper village, about to enter Montecito Grocery, when I heard a man’s voice calling my name.  I stopped and turned to see the husband component of Lilith and Dick’s friends from Paddy’s Christening.  Apparently his, Jerry’s, investment firm was just a few doors down from the grocery store, and he had seen me walk by, through the enormous picture window in his office’s lobby.  We greeted one another (I guessed we hadn’t been too overtly obnoxious about his twin’s behavior on Saturday), and he went on to proclaim how much he loved our Freehaven home, but just couldn’t help thinking he’d seen it before?  I was in the process of telling him that would have been impossible, as we had built it from the ground up, which had taken seven years from start to finish, and we really hadn’t lived in it for all that long.  Plus, Paddy’s party was one of the first gatherings we had hosted there.  He waited for me to finish before he jumped back in the conversation to explain he had finally figured out his confusion.  Pulling some papers out of a file he was holding, he thrust them in my hands, and said, but of course, “he remembered having seen it online!”   Our Freehaven home was listed on Santa Barbara’s Multiple Listing Service with a very high-profile local real estate agent! “Look, he continued…it’s right there, and by the way, these pictures, really, don’t do it justice; that’s an absolutely stunning home and property?”   More questions were being fired my way, and it was another one of those impossibly awful, dreaded occasions, when I was not privy to, nor been made part of, a huge decision Al chose to unilaterally make, act on, and which always had a way of catching me off-guard.  The list of other such decisions made the same way over the years was lengthy, and just as I felt that very moment, was precisely how each previous instance left me feeling as well…like an idiot.  I tried to recover, with as much poise as I could muster, and simply said, “it’s just a trial kind of thing!”  I then explained that I was running late, it had been nice to see him again, but I’d have to be going.  I rushed in the store, bought the marinated chicken breasts I was after,  while I thought about Al’s deception, and desperately avoided the possibility of eye contact with anyone other than Tony, the tall, sweet butcher.  Thankfully, Emily and PJ weren’t with me; they were back at Freehaven swimming with their cousins, while Lilith and my Mom supervised from the lounge chairs near the pool’s edge.  I drove my car out of the parking lot, headed down East Valley Road a short distance, until there was an obvious place where it would be safe for me to pull off to the side of the road and digest what had just happened.  I looked through the assortment of pictures and information about my own home that had just been handed to me by an almost, complete stranger and struggled to catch my breath. I could tell the photo shoot that was responsible for the multiple pages of “thumbnail-size images” had to have required an entire crew of people who invaded our home.  In addition to rearranging numerous items, seeing the addition of extraneous “decor,” including vases of flowers, trays of food and odd potted plants in places where I would never have put them, felt like a punch in the gut.   The obvious and gaudy “staging” was offensive, especially considering the care that had gone into its design.  

Freehaven’s kitchen worked beautifully, but nothing in that photo resembled either the way that wonderful space looked in real life, nor was the way I would have ever presented anything…real or pretend!

There was an odd display of bar items (when a REAL bar was just around the corner) and various foods covering the kitchen island, but maybe worst of all, both Emily’s and my closets had been rifled through, with certain personal items, unmistakably ours, scattered about the house, both inside and outside, on the wrap-around patio that surrounded the house.  Additionally, the “intruders” had somehow managed to transform my sixteen year old daughter’s bedroom, into what could pass for a tiny apartment of a “30-something” getting ready for a night out;  there were items that were clearly not Emily’s, like dresses draped from the canopied queen bed frame, tacky stiletto pumps and other “unmentionables” or oddities strewn across her bed, like the stuffed Bulldog taken from PJ’s adjacent room?  Because I had watched and helped Emily, over the period of a year and a half, painstakingly, choose each item that would adorn her room, I WAS FURIOUS that her personal space had been desecrated that way. 

This was not the way my daughter’s room was meant, or designed, to look…just ask her!

Fury, indignation, humiliation, anxiety and nausea were all things I felt at that moment.  I had no idea how I was going to confront and deal with this new example of deception that Al had exacted, but at least it wasn’t an immediate issue?  Al and Kyle had left earlier that morning for Santa Ynez and Roblar’s newly resurfaced, lighted, tennis court that was beckoning, and they probably wouldn’t be returning for another day or two, which meant that for the remainder of that day, I had the good fortune of going back to Freehaven, sit by the pool with my children, my niece, my nephews, my sister, my Mother, enjoy a VERY large glass of wine and try to put Al’s not-so-little lie of omission behind me.   Later that evening, after Lilith left with my niece, two nephews and my Mom, who lived just a few doors down on Lilith’s same street, and once I knew PJ was asleep, and I could hear Gilmore Girls playing on the tv in Emily’s room,  I crept up the staircase that led to the guest wing and Al’s enormous office.  Katie Geyer’s “second pass” at completing the beautiful custom space which Al had designed for himself in that upstairs, distant wing of the house had finally come together.  It was a rich, masculine space, with a handsome, antique partner’s desk, custom mesquite table and chairs anchoring the huge picture window in the corner of the room that captured the 180* view of the Pacific coastline in the background and was beautifully, yet subtly, framed by the, “nubby” taupe-colored linen drapes.  The room was completed with two dark, tobacco-colored, leather club chairs and ottomans sitting atop one of the many stunning, and rare Turkish rugs that Chukree had helped Al choose following a buying trip for Sea Island and the Resort a few years back.  It goes without saying, that an enormous Flat screen tv hung on one wall, while the other walls, painted in the only paint color Al would ever consider, “Swiss Coffee, by Behr,” were perfect backdrops for Al’s selection of Ferrari art, and the framed, one-of-a-kind, collection of “Al Capone” memorabilia that Al had purchased a year or so back. The unique Capone memento included the original documents with the notorious gangster Capone’s fingerprints, as well as his mugshot, and the letter from J. Edgar Hoover, acknowledging confirmation and details of the legendary gangster’s arrest. 

Al’s fascination for, an acquisition of a collection like this should, and did, give pause?

Al’s friend, Barnie, the one with the dubious past, the “Camp Fed” experience, as well as the more recent suicide attempt, had helped Al find that special “item” a year or two back, when the duo attended one of the many auctions they frequented, usually replete with irreplaceable collectibles, cars and art…all of which Al thrived on acquiring.  Again as usual, I was not made a part, nor informed, of the purchases until well after the fact, if at all?  Al did share the news of his acquisition of four original and authentic Grammy awards. There was one from The Eagles, another from Fleetwood Mac (Stevie Nicks was the object of a major Al “crush”) and all four Grammy trophies graced the top shelf of the custom, built-in, Mesquite millwork bookshelves in our Freehaven Living Room.  While seldom told the details of such purchases, I was, nonetheless “instructed” that collectible and iconic possessions like those were basically Al’s private “toys.”  

Despite having been married for 15 years at that juncture, with our pre-nuptial agreement long-since expired (in compliance with the “sunset clause”), combined with the REALITY that ALL those “toys” were actually “community property” none of those little factual nuisances mattered one iota in Al’s mind…it was ALL his!

Al’s “toys” were many…and would (or might still) prove to be a tad controversial!

Al had been very blunt and crystal clear, (for 18 years) that I had no place in his business or his many offices, so I felt a bit sneaky, as I shuffled through the papers on his desk later that evening, searching for any tidbit of information to verify that our newly completed home, which had taken 7 years, as well as many millions of both hours and dollars to complete, and which Al had been so vehemently passionate about purchasing in 1999, was now for sale?  Thus far, Al had not spent an inordinate amount of time in the thoughtfully appointed room I was sneaking around, so there was nothing about this office that was remotely close to as tricky and intricately arranged as the stacks upon stacks of paperwork that covered his desk, and every inch of his much, much larger Roblar office/studio.  Thus, and thankfully, it took less than five minutes to uncover the dark navy blue Listing Presentation folder with its bold company name, emblazened in distinctly block, white lettering, topped with the card of one of Montecito’s most revered, high-dollar, real estate agents neatly affixed to the outside with a gold paper clip.  I was more than a little surprised to see that the card atop the folder, didn’t belong to Geno; Al’s (our) supposed dear friend, who had been a real estate agent, turned “best buddy” for, at least, the past 4-5 years?   I had, however, heard of the woman whose name the card bore, and my mind raced, wondering how Susan Parkinson had inserted herself into this new equation?  Not wanting to “disrupt” the desk any further, I tidied the small pile of papers that I had sifted through to find the suspect document(s) and went back downstairs.  Once my face was washed, teeth brushed, a cup of hot tea resting on its coaster atop the, carefully chosen antique side table next to me, and I was tucked into my cozy side of the King bed, I opened the navy blue folder and scoured through the Listing Agreement paperwork together with page after page of columns of tiny square picture insets detailing the enormous variety of photos that had been taken.  The more pictures I inspected, the more nauseous and angry I became…again!  The entire incident felt like such an assault, and symbolized the complete undermining of our family, our marriage, of me, and any sliver of trust I might have still felt for Al.  

This was just one of FIVE instances in the past year alone, when something similar to this had occurred.  How many more such occasions would there be?  Would I be able to withstand the constant, “drip, drip, drip” of doubt that was eating away at my self-esteem, faith in my marriage and the man I had chosen to be my “partner” in life?  There was once a time when I believed in him, or wanted to believe in him, and remained committed to my decision to build a life together.  That faith was being tested with every moment of every day for the past year and a half or so.   Al obviously didn’t share in my belief that your spouse is your partner?   For the past several months, I actually felt, as though he’d have chosen an alliance with anyone over me?  Not a comfortable feeling!   It was far too recent, and painfully fresh, that Al had announced the sale of Marina Drive, our oceanfront beach house in Hope Ranch.  My curiosity about the deal and its details were immediately dismissed.  Al was quick to remind me, “having a basic understanding of real estate did not qualify me to comment on his deal-making.”   I still couldn’t believe he had actually said that, but he did, and he had continued on, saying, “you benefit, and live a very “cushy” lifestyle, as a result of these decisions that I make, so stop interfering and go back to rearranging and fussing around the houses we still have!”  I rationalized that that one statement somehow justified my snooping through his office earlier as acceptable. See, I told you…I’m always looking for an upside. 

Back in the mid to late 90’s, when Al’s work at the fabled Sea Island resort provided an opportunity to regain his financial footing along with restoring his architectural legacy, he took advantage of the project to reclaim his once-monied and power status.  Ever since, he had been successfully clawing and climbing his way back, putting to rest any mention or memory of the embezzlement embarrassment and severe financial setback in 1993.  Now he was, indeed, officially “on top,” and a real player again. 

From the time I first met Al, there had been a constant supply, almost like a merry-go-round, of real estate properties in our life, and we interacted with each property, just as one, capriciously, chooses a vivid and ornate animal character for each spin around a Carousel. Regardless of the how and why each new property appeared in our lives over the years, here it was 2007, we were in California at the start of a new summer break and rather than thinking about all the positive aspects about being home, I found myself debating back and forth with myself, how to best approach Al and his secret “staging” and listing of our Freehaven home?   Al’s covert manipulations and obvious attempts to keep me in the dark regarding his “dealings” made the mere thought of initiating such a potentially explosive confrontation enough to make me feel sick to my stomach.  For the past year or so, Al had been regressing back to the days when he was on edge about every. little. thing.   He could switch from a relatively “pleasant” mood to either an explosive rage, or broody silence within moments.  His “flip of a switch,” daily ups and downs were not just dramatic and unsettling, but required that the kids and I “tiptoe” carefully, through our days, as we avoided the eggshells that, “figuratively” covered the ground below us.  As I struggled to understand the pendulum of Al’s personality, the only distinct difference or change I could come up with, was the addition of a couple new friendships he had cultivated during his past several trips back and forth from California to Georgia and vice versa.  One such “friendship” was with the uber creepy Morty, and almost immediately after befriending him, I started to notice a shift in Al’s demeanor; could that be possible?  I was never told how the two of them originally met, and I had only spent a few, brief occasions in Morty’s company, but the “sleaze factor” that oozed from every pore of that man’s body, made me feel like I needed a hot shower immediately following each encounter.  Even the kids mentioned, after the one visit we paid to Morty and his wife Josie’s, Refugio ranch, that they felt uncomfortable and didn’t want to go back for the dinner invitation Morty and Josie had extended.  Emily whispered to me, that she thought “Mrs. P. must be drugged?”  Josie seemed one measure short of comatose during our entire afternoon visit;  she wasn’t able to walk around the property for our “tour” that Morty insisted upon giving Emily,  PJ and myself to see the myriad of animals they kept, and when we all returned back to the house, Josie also seemed oblivious to Al and Morty’s obnoxious game of “one-upmanship.” In fact, she seemed completely oblivious to EVERYTHING?  With each mention of a car they had had, a property they had owned, places they’d been, or people they knew, Morty had a “one better” for everything and his crass behavior and comments seemed to bring out the very worst in Al.  Between Morty’s creepiness and his wife’s mental vacancy, they definitely were not people I was “jonesing” to spend much, if any time, with?  

All those factors, combined with the fact that Morty had been the reason behind Al’s cancellation of Rancho Encantado last Christmas, made worse by Al’s announcement, just days ago,  that he had terminated, Sal, our longtime contractor and friend of ten years, all because Morty had introduced him to a “far superior craftsman/contractor” had instilled in me a disdain for Morty that I rarely felt, for anyone.   Apparently, it had taken very little convincing on Morty’s part to sway Al’s “swapping out of Sal” for another local builder, Mike Trabutto, who Morty claimed “produced a much higher building standard and would be a far better fit for the type of  properties that ”bore Al’s stamp.”  When Al relayed that story to me, I was disgusted.  He had severed ties with, and was initiating a lawsuit against, a man (a loyal man) who had been a part of our life for the past 10 years; a man who had put up with far more of Al’s sh*t and temper tantrums than most people would ever consider enduring?   Sal’s banishment was the last straw and provided me all the reasons I needed to write Morty off as a troublemaker; he was the perfect scapegoat, for which I could blame Al’s less than pleasant change in behavior. I wasn’t prepared just yet to understand and completely accept that Al, and only Al, was responsible for the choices he made and the actions he exacted.  Nonetheless, the fact remained, whoever I might blame for Al’s loss of integrity, I was still going to have to raise the subject of the Freehaven betrayal, with Al, himself. 

The next few days felt heavy, and I knew I was not just distracted, but almost obsessed with finding an appropriate time to broach the subject of Al’s secret listing, and the marketing of Freehaven . 

Roblar’s hilltop siting and plethora of amenities was something special.

Between Al and Kyle wanting to be at Roblar playing tennis or sitting poolside 24/7, and considering that, at this point, my children were far more content at Freehaven, versus taking a backseat to the reality of Kyle, Al, and the “non-stop tennis program” at Roblar, finding a good time to broach the dreaded conversation was not going so well.  Factoring in, that the next, three to four weeks would be a “revolving door” of parties, guests, our annual 4th of July celebration, a “quick” trip back to Georgia for Al towards the end of this week before Friday’s kick-off party for the first big dog show celebration of the summer made an opportunity to carve out any extra free time almost non-existent?   There was more; Al had agreed to fly Jerrico, and my dear friend, Lana, back with him from Georgia…as easy as that might sound, given Al’s lack of patience, dislike for conversating, and the addition of Jerrico, who none of us had ever lived with or knew beyond the show ring and handlers… it was all just more to worry about.  There was also no escaping the reality that a confrontation like the one ahead of me would require special, if not extraordinary, timing and handling.  I was loathe to raise one more, “egg-shell” type subject, which could either bring on a bitter battle or the silent treatment…but certainly not a positive outcome.  I chose the path of least resistance, for the time being, in order to serve the greater good or at least maintain the status quo, and instead said nothing!  

Ten days later, it was a glorious Friday evening, and the beginning of the Ventura Dog Show weekend.  We were hosting a cocktail party that was attended by an assortment of dog show handlers, owners, patrons, and even a few judges.  Many of whom had become friends and most of which were an always entertaining, if somewhat eclectic, group of people.  Al was suppose to have already arrived with Jerrico and Lana in tow, but there had been a “hiccup” in Atlanta while picking Jerrico up from the vet, so it was pretty safe to assume that the rest of the flight would be no picnic?  Lana is, both an amazingly talented artist and dear friend. We had worked on numerous fundraising projects at the Resort, in addition to becoming close friends through church and other avenues.  She is one of those free spirits with a fascinating history, gracious and generous soul, and gift for conversation.  The kids and I always enjoyed spending time with Lana, but I wasn’t certain if a lot of “conversating” would bode well on a long, delayed flight to California with Al;  only time would tell?   Freehaven, once again the site for the gathering looked perfect!  The beauty of its structure, setting, interiors, stunning landscape, and magnificent 180* view of the Pacific Ocean, with the soft  sounds of music filling the interior and exterior areas where guests were already mingling, and enjoying the  selection of passed hors d’oeuvres, including Truffled Risotto individually served in Demitasse Silver spoons, Grilled Shrimp skewers with a Mango dipping sauce, Rack of Lamb “lollipops” with a drizzle of Rosemary and Mint, and Portobello Mushroom and Gruyere Cheese Quesadillas was providing a delicious and lovely evening as our guests mingled on the covered patio and sipped their beverages of choice.  Joan and Jim of Old West Catering had worked their usual, spectacular wizardry with the food, and my Mom was insistent on helping as well. With her usual flair, she set up an elaborate and beautifully presented “spread” on the custom stone dining table, complete with her “signature doctored Breadsticks,” a hugely-favored and requested treat at every gathering I had, or will ever host, along with the magical pairing of both her tangy Lemon and spicy Dill dips, together with a carefully chosen and thoughtful arrangement of Crudités.  When Al, Lana and Jerrico finally did arrive, well into the evening, I was pleasantly surprised by Al’s good nature.  As he was so unpredictably, but aptly capable of doing, Al seemed to thrive while “holding court and showing off” Jerrico to the perfectly suited crowd of dog fanciers.  Several of the “dog show patrons” just happened to be from areas near Al’s East Coast origins, and he was enjoying the attention being lauded upon him, while discussing the exquisite siting and design of Freehaven.  The evening could have gone either way…really disastrously, or really well?   Thank heavens, it was the latter.  

The next several weeks were filled with a flurry of activity, houseguests, parties, a good bit of revelry, mixed with an occasion or two of strife.   Amidst all of the goings-on, though, there was an undeniable undercurrent of tension between Al and myself.  In a rare moment with just the two of us at Roblar, I found an opportunity to, cautiously, bring up the issue of Freehaven and the “marketing presentation” I had found.  My timid and tentative start to our conversation quickly devolved into a heated and emotional exchange as soon as Al realized I had some back-up facts and then actually produced the Navy Blue folder which contained the Listing Contract and multiple pages of “thumbnail” sized, staged, photo proofs.  He was unprepared for and annoyed by my questioning of him, and any attempt to deny what I was holding, was matched, if not surpassed, by his indignation at how I had obtained those documents.  I could almost see the wheels in his brain methodically churning, as he went from one question and fit of rage to the next.  “None of this is your business;  I make the decisions that feed this family.  You will not challenge the moves and deals I make.  I notice you certainly enjoy the perks of flying in a private jet and my providing for all of your stupid, dog-show parties and nonsense.”  Al kept ranting…and round and round we went.  I tried to point out that I was, and had always been very appreciate of the privileges that his work and talent provided; reminding him that I constantly thanked him, as well as boasted to all that would listen about his great talents and accomplishments. My efforts and explanation wasn’t working though; I could feel it...nothing I could say would ever be enough.  All I wanted was to be included in the process and planning of OUR lives; I wasn’t demanding to make decisions, but said I hoped to be treated as a partner, not another child, who merely did as they were told and didn’t participate as a spouse.  My voice was getting shakier by the moment, and Al was getting louder.  I knew if I became too emotional and wasn’t able to speak clearly, Al would totally shut down and dismiss me, as he had so many times before. My dislike for confrontation made, and still does, make me susceptible to a horribly embarrassing display of nerves. Those nerves always turn my slightly flushed face and neck to a deep shade of red, renders my voice to nothing more than faltering, and could even result in tears…God help me, then?  Any one of those events might cause Al to immediately turn and walk away, or could just as easily elicit anger and ridicule.  As a result, and because I never knew which reaction would occur, I learned over the years to seldom raise a fuss.  I guess I turned myself into something of a coward in order to keep the peace.  Looking back now, after spending years carefully examining all of our history and any culpability on my part, I realize I was repeating in my marriage the same behavior I had learned in my childhood.  Anything I could do to ensure my safety within our family structure, and stick with my “don’t rock the boat” mentality, also became my definition of  survival mode.  Even as I say the words, and see them in front of me on the screen of my laptop, I feel ashamed of how long I allowed myself to live that way, but it would be several more years before I stopped being a mouse, and would REALLY stand up for myself. 

Our “discussion” that particular day ended with Al walking out of the house, crossing the expansive driveway courtyard and entering his studio/office for the next several hours, but not before he was sure to get in the last word and accused me of being incapable of reason.  He snapped at me that “Freehaven wasn’t getting sold, and even though I had misunderstood the whole situation, I was to stay out of his business!”

I would sometimes reminisce back then about the years from 2004, through 2005, and the beginning of 2006;  those had been good years for our family, and I couldn’t help but wonder…what happened?  Regardless of what had transpired in the past, where I found myself that very day in the mid to late weeks of June 2007 was far from the easier times of the years just prior.

Months earlier, Al suggested that I get in touch with Katie Geyer, our interior designer to discuss doing a little “refresh” on the interiors and patio furniture of Roblar. While I recognized that Al proposed the minor redo of Roblar as both a panacea and distraction from the fact that he had completely kept me out of the decision to end the Encantado purchase, counseling instead with Morty, I was still pleased to be given the green light and freedom to do some much needed upgrades at our longtime Roblar home.  That week of June 25, 2007 brought not just the spruce-up of Roblar, and the arrival of Katie for her last trip to California (or anywhere) on behalf of the “Capone account,” but it also marked the exit of Kyle.   Al must have realized that keeping Kyle “in the mix” with Katie, the addition and installation of new interiors, combined with the constant presence of the kids and I at Roblar, would be more than any of us could handle;  Kyle’s visit that summer was limited to just three weeks, a huge win for our kids.  As Kyle departed, Katie arrived and “project Roblar refresh” commenced.   It felt like the biggest part of the project was cleaning out the tired parts of Roblar in order to make room for the new.  We had a small but able crew between Katie, our beloved caretaker “Senno,” as well as “MP,” Al’s office assistant, who had been working for Al for a few years by then, and “MP” also volunteered her teenage daughter’s help for a few days as well.

Throughout all my years with Al, one of his habits or little idiosyncrasies was to bestow nicknames on people.  My friend Bill, who initially introduced Al and me, became “the teddy bear;” the New York assistant who aided Prince Bandar in the embezzlement suit of Al was referred to as “the fat rat;” Maren’s landlord was referred to as “hold the mayo Billy;” my youngest Sister was referred to, (and will always carry the name), “Lilith,” after the character in the TV show, “Frazier;” one of my friends, named Deanne, was forever known as, “Irene;” and Al (initially) nicknamed me “a non-pain in the ass,” which he claimed was high praise?  That moniker was eventually changed to “Mizz.”  I’ll bet that my original nickname has now been reinstated, only minus the “non” part, haha!   Following in that tradition, when Al hired an assistant for his Roblar office/design studio, she too was given an alias.  She will remain nameless, other than the nickname Al bestowed upon her… “Miss Piggy,” (hereafter called “MP”) was the branch manager of a local bank, and had been working part-time for Al as a bookkeeper, for a couple years until we entered the Rancho Encantado escrow in the mid to latter part of summer, 2006.  It was then that K. Ass, Al’s longtime (35-40 years long) accountant suggested Al hire “MP” on a full-time basis.  The Encantado property was 300+ acres, with an actively producing Walnut orchard taking up a good bit of the acreage, and between the prospect of managing that, the bills, other financial details, and ongoing maintenance of our other properties including Freehaven, Marina, and Tabby Lane, Al needed some secretarial backup in California, as well as the crew of assistants he kept busy in Georgia.  As circumstance would have it, “MP” and I had attended one semester of high school in the Valley decades earlier and knew each other vaguely.  I had been super supportive of Al hiring her at the beginning, and even saved her position on one occasion.  I would come to regret that falsely placed loyalty. It would become abundantly clear just how eager “MP” was to undermine me, as time went on, and one of my earlier posts, called “Games People Play” provides examples of how zealous “MP” was in her attacks on me!

This very apt expression is proved to be true repeatedly.

Al’s temper was like a Santa Ynez summer, and you could watch the temperature rise and then even out, right along with his moods.  The “rants” were numerous, and could sometimes be diffused fairly quickly, or other times, the moods might trigger more of a “duck and cover” kind of day. I’ll never forget the morning he came storming out of his office/studio, across the driveway courtyard and into the Roblar kitchen, with smoke almost visibly billowing from his nostrils; “what in the hell” he was saying?  “She was a damn branch manager of a bank and yet is too stupid to figure out how compound interest is calculated?  There’s no way I can work with this; she has to go!”  I listened, let him voice his frustration, and then suggested he call K. Ass and ask his help in working through the issue with “MP?”  Heaven knows, math was NOT my strong suit, so I was in no position to be critical, and it seemed only fair that “MP” be given another chance.  I continued “talking him down,” saying “surely K. Ass could straighten this little issue out, and plus you really do need some help keeping all of this California business going while we are back and forth so much between here and Georgia?”  I reminded him too, that it was difficult to find trustworthy people to have around in our absence, and that if he trusted her on that level, then surely it must indicate she was worth another go-round on this one math issue?  “Call K Ass…it will get better!”  That occasion and conversation had occurred probably close to a year earlier.

Oops, back on track…and, back to the last week of June 2007.  We had Katie in town for five days to work on the Roblar “refresh,” that was to be completed in time for our 4th of July influx of guests and our almost weeklong celebration.  Under Katie’s direction, our small crew worked to remove the “stale furnishings/accessories” out of Roblar’s main house and guest house to make room for the new updates.  It was a fine system, and by the end of the first full day, we had created quite the rummage pile in our driveway courtyard.  On the second day, we carried in and unpacked the huge variety of boxes in all sizes and shapes of new bedding, other linens, and additional miscellany, like lamps, shades, other décor etc..  There were also a few new headboards, side tables, new bunk beds for PJ’s room, and almost entirely new furnishings in Emily’s bedroom.  By the end of day three, all the big items had been placed, new bedding adorned each of the six beds located throughout the house; several new window coverings had been installed and all new teak patio furniture was unpacked and placed in its new home on the sprawling patios between the house, the pool and the tennis court.  Day four was basically a repeat of the previous day, and we continued the finalization of placing items etc…  “MP” and her daughter were helping with the sorting of rummage into various piles.  There was a pile of tired and/or soiled linens;  another pile of items which had outgrown their usefulness or didn’t “fit” the new “glam ranch image” that Katie had infused; plus a section for anything broken, that was headed to the local dump. “MP” had been hawkish as she sorted through the growing collection of discards, and asked if she could take the bulk of what was leaving.  I was happy to let her have whatever she wanted; if it wasn’t part of Roblar’s original soul, the parts that were uniquely “us,” the parts that were my family heirlooms, the art that Al worshipped, or any part of Roblar’s new refresh, it didn’t matter to me where it went.  By the end of day four, however, I couldn’t help but notice that “MP” had also been almost obsessive in controlling the unwrapping of new items, gathering corresponding receipts and noting the price tag of  EVERYTHING.  It would be several weeks later before learning her motive, but “MP” had already created, signed and sent a letter to Katie’s office in Atlanta, dismissing Katie’s services, prior to this current refresh of Roblar even being concluded.  Meanwhile, Katie’s visit was quick and exhausting, but an enormous success; every corner and each square inch of Roblar, inside and out, had been rejuvenated, as Al had suggested, and Roblar was lovely and ready for action…or at least ready for the 4th of July! 

The invites were casually, handwritten by me to compliment the informality of the holiday.

It all happened with not a moment to spare, as the 4th of July holiday was just a week away and  in addition to expecting a houseful of 15 that would be staying with us for three to four days over the holiday, we’d also be hosting our usual 4th celebration with a total of 45 for the actual holiday.  With the same affinity I feel for Thanksgiving, 4th of July is one of my most favorite occasions to celebrate.  I love that both holidays pay homage to our country, that they each bring people together in a very relaxed and happy atmosphere, and like Thanksgiving, the 4TH is a holiday that hasn’t been overtaken by commercialization or gifting rituals.  Our family was in the habit of entertaining often, and as such had been especially blessed to call on the “standing appearance” of a talented and much-loved, local band The Frost Brothers who always provided the music.  It had become such a tradition, that they knew to end each gathering with the Eagles song, “Hotel California,” one of Al’s most favorite songs and which carried special significance.  Depending upon the occasion, like a Christening, or a special birthday like Al’s 60th, or even the Sea Island party we celebrated in 2006 to mark our impending full-time return to California, we might have had one of our favorite restaurants or the tried and true Old West Caterers do the food, but otherwise for the more casual parties, between my Mom, my Sisters, Maren and me, we were more than able to accomplish, and handle any such task, quite well.  2007’s summer would continue to perpetuate the theme of deviating from our norm in many respects.  It was during Katie’s visit the week before when “MP” overheard all the talk about our 4TH holiday plans; certainly “MP” wasn’t on the list of invitations I had sent a couple weeks back. It was then that she volunteered that “her husband and son were known for their BBQ skills, and wouldn’t it make life easier for me if they took over the main grilling and bigger parts of the meal, with my Mom, Sisters, and me doing just the hors d’oeuvres, our family specialties and dessert?”  It seemed like a gracious offer, and while I didn’t love the idea of giving up all my 4th of July traditions, I accepted MP’s offer, thinking it might ease some of the tension and pressure between Al and I?  Nevertheless, I couldn’t help but question the conflicting feelings swirling around in my mind, but I also added “MP’s” family of four to the guest count.

Our rousing, if slightly unconventional, annual Bocce match.

There were still many other details to coordinate, like readying the guest rooms, arranging flowers and centerpieces,  setting up the outside bar and tables, wrapping the 45 sets of silverware in the linens I chose, as well as the hosting, shopping, preparing and execution of all meals for our family and friends who were staying with us for the duration of the four day extravaganza.  “MP,” and her offer to assist with the BBQ process seemed to be working fairly well, with the only hint of a glitch occurring at the beginning of our meal on the 4TH.  I entered the house from the patio and found Morty going through our kitchen drawers looking for steak knives.  “No-one can cut that damn Tri-Tip with a regular knife;  surely you have steak knives” he asked?  Of course I did, but only 12-16, and we had 45 guests, which is why I had chosen to use regular dinner knives.  That Morty was the only person to find fault with the meal, and then proceed to boldly rummage through my kitchen without permission, nor that type of familiar relationship, was certainly NOT helping my impression of him, nor further endearing himself to me AT ALL.  Nonetheless, I handed him several steak knives, and ushered him out the door to the patio, but not before he took a parting shot, and said, “well, at least the people at my table will be able to cut their meat.”  If you’re thinking that was an awfully petty thing for me to mention, much less get bothered by, you’re right.  At that point though, that man and the liberties he was taking in our lives was getting on my very last nerve; between he and “MP” my instinctual radar was vibrating at a very high frequency.

The Brothers always had everyone on their feet, rocking into the night, and closing the 4th in a big way.

Moving on!   As was always the case, the next few weeks seemed to fly by and before I knew it, we were almost at the mid-mark of August.  While the days quickly turned into weeks, the level of drama was “amping up” as well,  and little did I know then, it was about to get worse.  Al was back and forth almost constantly between Roblar and Freehaven, while the kids and I tried to enjoy a tad more low-key schedule and were enjoying spending the bulk of our time at Freehaven.  Late one morning towards the end of August’s first week, with Al about to fly from California to Georgia, the doorbell of Freehaven’s enormous, iron and glass front door rang sharply through the house.  

The picture quality is far from perfect, or even remotely close, but then nothing else that summer was perfect either, except maybe Freehaven’s beautiful Iron-encased, Front door.

Al answered the door and introduced me to his new “contractor extraordinaire,” a byproduct of Al’s friendship with the toxic, and arrogant piece of work known as Morty.  Mike Trabutto was visiting Freehaven to tour the house, and get an up close and personal view of some of the nuances of construction details that were especially noteworthy to Al, as well as the standard of craftsmanship that Al not just required, but demanded.  We shook hands and the two men turned to go in another direction through the house.  The entire meeting and visit only lasted 30-35 minutes, before Al came to tell me that Mike had offered him a ride to the small private airfield in Goleta where the Lear and our pilot, Greg, were waiting to head east.  Off they went, and as I watched Mike’s vehicle back out of the driveway and head up the Olive Tree-lined drive, I felt a tinge of sadness flow through me. There was no specific reason for the feeling; rather it was just an air of uneasiness that accompanied the presence of yet another new, “Morty-type” person in Al’s life.  This guy didn’t come on with the “Mack Truck” load of BS that emanated from Morty, but nonetheless, he still sported a shifty, “blue-suede shoe” hustler-type of arrogance that made me feel very uncomfortable, and like I needed to wash my hands. Time would, and will, tell more behind the reason for the contractor visiting that specific day, but for now it will suffice to say Mike Trabutto wasn’t just checking out Al’s construction standards.   Al’s return from that Georgia trip coincided perfectly with a visit from K. Ass.   Al told me he was coming to review several financial documents and would be working with Al and “MP” on a couple special projects.  Al failed to mention that I would be a party to one of those “special meetings.”  When Al suggested I ask my Mom if the kids could stay overnight with her for one of the nights during K. Ass’s visit, I didn’t think much of it and arranged for the “slumber party.”  I met my Mom for lunch with the kids, and afterwards, they all piled into her car and were off to see a matinee in Santa Barbara.   I pulled my car into the Roblar garage, walked past the Media Room and into the kitchen, where I saw the three of them (Al, K. Ass and “MP”) sitting at the breakfast table. Still, nothing alerted me that there was anything unusual going on.  Al spoke first and asked if I would come sit and join them for a bit, so I did.  The next words out of his mouth, however, finally jolted me into the reality of what had been orchestrated, and was when I realized that I was being set up!  “Mizz, I’m going out to the office for a bit so you can listen to K. Ass and “MP” outline a few issues that need an answer, and I’ll be back a little later to finish up with you all!”  What in the world was happening?  I found out right quick, though, exactly what was going on and proceeded to be lectured for the next 45-60 minutes on all the ways I was too extravagant, too careless…even wreckless, in my spending habits!  “I had become a financial liability to Al, and it would have to stop.”  Those were the very words that came spilling out of K. Ass’s mouth.  It was only after those, and many assorted, other criticisms and corrections were spoken, that “MP” handed me several sheets of papers with columns of figures, and next to each number was an itemized, and detailed description. 

That tissue box and the conversation it would prompt wasn’t pleasant. “MP” was only too happy, though, to stir up a little trouble, when she asked, “Missy, for example, why do you feel it necessary to purchase and equip each bathroom with tissue boxes that cost $800 each? I’d sure label that a needless expense!” That was just the beginning!

After they had gone line by line through each amount listed, and I was compelled to explain why every single expenditure listed was necessary, it was only then that K. Ass dropped the “liability bomb!”  I could hardly believe what I was hearing?  I knew I was pretty “handy” at spending money, and had gone overboard in the past, to which I had always apologized, and went forward trying to be more thrifty, but my efforts were never good enough, and I was always being cautioned that “MY ALLOWANCE was a generous one, and Al was demanding that I be far more diligent, and additionally I would be held to task and monitored with painstaking precision.”  I tried to defend myself saying, “it’s not like I’m buying myself expensive jewelry, outrageous wardrobes, designer bags or minks for God’s sake?  I like to do things for people, meaning my children and family;  I enjoy donating to our kids school and other philanthropic causes, and while my show dog “habit” is expensive, it doesn’t compare to the money Al spends on cars, art, collectibles or properties…..like the 7 houses that we own, 5 of which are furnished and WHICH we live in?”  

One of my favorite movies was always “When Harry Met Sally,” but to this day…every time I watch it, looking at this talented actor (to whom I mean no disrespect) reminds me of K. Ass! The resemblance, and even his voice, is just so strikingly similar; my watching of that movie has been dramatically reduced since that fateful day.

K. Ass looked my way and started speaking again….."Missy, all the things Al purchases are investments;  the cars, and the houses for example, (by the way, you only have 6 now; remember Marina Drive just sold?) each of those items have a return on investment….YOU DO NOT!”  That was it;  the last time I ever spoke to K. Ass!   I could have exploded, but instead, I stood up, put my hands on the table (to steady myself), looked pointedly at K. Ass and Miss Piggy (No more “MP” after that little performance) and said…“that’s it; I’ve had it.  I don’t deserve to be blindsided or treated this way, and certainly not by the two of you.  Al doesn’t even have the guts to discuss this with me himself;  he calls on the two of you to be his hatchet men?   Do you think for one minute that Al could have achieved all of this without some modicum of support and backup from me?  Do you think he could have stayed at Sea Island all these years and completed all that work or achieved all that success, if I hadn’t participated even a little?  Do you think it’s easy to be married to someone who is dismissive at best, has no interest in sex, has questionable hygiene, and who has admitted that the kids and I are NOT top priorities?  Do you think it’s normal to have the Sheriff show up every Christmas Eve serving him with more lawsuits because Al refuses to honor his Ex-wife’s health insurance payment obligation?  Do you think it’s easy to be married to someone who has put a man in the hospital, and then served with a felony Assault charge, all because Al wasn’t allowed to drive his car through a particular gate?  NO, IT IS NOT!  In case the two of you didn’t know this, Al is NOT A WELL-LIKED HUMAN.  Despite his negotiation skills, and architectural talent, the only people, other than Uncle Ed and Mac, who “might” GENUINELY like him, or at least tolerate him, his moods, his temper, and his foul behavior are people who benefit from him, and/or are on the payroll…JUST LIKE THE BOTH OF YOU!  I’ve stuck with him all these years for our children;  because at some point I felt like maybe I couldn’t do better, and when you’re told often enough and for long enough, that “spelling” is your only talent, and it’s an overrated one, you begin to doubt yourself!   Then, every once in a while, like a few years ago, I thought I saw a change in Al, like he was softening and becoming a kinder person, which inspired me to stay a little longer.  I WAS OBVIOUSLY WRONG THEN, AND I’M FINISHED LISTENING TO THE LIKES OF YOU TWO RIGHT NOW. THIS CONDESCENDING GARBAGE ENDS HERE…PERIOD!!!”  After that last comment, I left the room and headed down the hall to the master bedroom.  I sat back there in my closet, on the little “junior” chair that had belonged to my Grandmother, and literally hid out for what seemed like the longest time, feeling paralyzed.  I was mad, fearful and not sure what to do next.  One thing was certain though, I wasn’t about to go out for dinner with K. Ass and Al, as had been suggested earlier that morning.

I guess I must not have been sitting there as long as it seemed; because it was only 30 minutes later that I looked down at my watch trying to decide my next move, when Al walked into our bathroom, calling my name.  I actually thought of hiding behind some clothes for a moment, (as pathetic as it sounds), but instead I answered him and walked out from my closet.  He looked at me and it was one of those rare moments when he actually looked and appeared contrite;  instances like those were isolated, but made me feel like I had been way too harsh and possibly out of line with K. Ass and ”MP” just 30 minutes earlier.  Al apologized and said he had sent them over to the office/studio, so we could talk a bit, privately.  In a moment, I was transported back to being the fragile girl who hated confrontation, and would go to almost any length to avoid arguments.  We sat on the huge double chaise in our room, and he started off saying that “he hadn’t meant for everything to get so heated and out of control.”  He continued, saying “I wasn’t sure the best way to handle the subject I needed to discuss with you, so I brought K. Ass and “MP” to lay the groundwork and then thought I could join you to talk about the real issue.”  “What real issue,” I asked?   “Well I know how upset you were about Marina Drive, when I sold it, and how you feel like you don’t have any say, or choice in what I do and don’t do with properties?  I know that you lack any sense of security in a homeplace for you and the kids, and I was trying to propose a possible solution.  I guess I didn’t do that very well?”  Times like that weren’t frequent, but when they did occur, Al could be both soft-spoken and almost gentle in the way he said things, and/or handled talking to me, and then I always doubted myself more.  Right then, I was a mess, both on the inside and the outside;  I really didn’t know what to say next, so I just stayed quiet.  Al kept on… “I meant to propose that we draw up some legal agreement, basically dividing assets and giving you a feeling of control over your life and security for you and the kids?”   I was letting his words sink in before I finally spoke, but said, “that sounds an awful lot like some kind of divorce proposal?  Are you wanting to get a divorce?”  I waited for his response;  he lowered his head slightly and slowly said “No, that’s not it, but I don’t know how to make you feel more secure, so I thought if we split things up now, you’d feel empowered?”  

That summation of narcissism is true, but nothing could be further from my intention. Nonetheless, at some point, the bottom line remains and it is… THE TRUTH IS WHAT MATTERS, AND THE TRUTH HAS NO VERSIONS.

From start to finish, that day was representative of the way our summer, and truthfully our entire life to a certain extent, had gone thus far…..like a roller coaster!  Up one day, down the next, just waiting for the next “drop or plummet” to happen.  For the time being, that very moment, Al was playing his “mild card” but I knew too well and too recently, how quickly that could all change.  I was exhausted, both physically, but especially mentally.  I rose from the chaise and told Al, I was going to go to Freehaven.  I knew K. Ass’s plane left in the morning, and I couldn’t have stood having to look at him, much less talk to, or sit through a dinner with him.  I would go to Freehaven and try to sort through the jumbled mess that was filling the space between my ears.  He didn’t say anything, but Al got up too and hugged me;  it was an odd, kind of sad, distant, holding on…afraid for what might happen next.  Normally that show of empathy and vulnerable display from Al would have been more than I could withstand, but today was different.  I slipped out of his embrace and walked toward my closet.  I already had everything I might need at Freehaven, as it was stocked just like all our houses were stocked, and so I picked up my purse from the little table in my closet, walked down the long hallway that spanned the entire front side of our Roblar home, entered the garage, climbed into the CLK,  left the driveway, and  steered the car down the road that led over the hill and on to Freehaven.  

Roblar Avenue, Santa Ynez…my/our home for 15 years; the longest place I’d ever called “HOME,” but that 13th day in August, 2007 when I drove down that driveway, it would be my last time ever seeing it again.

Once I was over the Hwy154 Pass, where I knew my phone got clear reception, I called my Mom, and gave her a brief summary of what had happened, but asked if she would please still keep the kids, as I was a mess and needed some time by myself to think.  She replied of course, and said that we would talk tomorrow.  As I steered the car down the twisting, long Freehaven driveway, I remembered how skeptical I had been when Al first purchased the property, and I thought about the many, many arguments we had had about all the decisions he had made to get it to the point it was now…finished.  To this very day, I will never agree with his choice to design and build our two children’s bedrooms in their individual, tiny little square shapes with the smallish bath/shower combo and mirrored, sliding closet doors that accompanied each room.  “It’s a standard room size, Mizz” was always Al’s “go to” retort. To which I would add, “but why….why in the first house you’ve ever designed for yourself, on 24 stunning ocean view acres, with over 7500 square feet of living space, two guest rooms, each double the size of your children’s, and an auxillary “office” for yourself that commands one half of the entire second floor, why don’t your kids deserve a room that is more special than standard?”  That issue never was resolved, or changed, and the two small bedrooms and baths on the first floor are indeed, standard-sized.   Apart from that though, the house and property was/is spectacular, and oddly enough, it’s a house I would probably choose for myself, over and over again.  The kid’s rooms will forever remain a mystery, but (lest you think I can’t give credit when credit is due) Al got the rest of the house and the property REALLY RIGHT!

The next morning I awakened to the unfamiliar quiet of a house occupied by just me;  I’m not sure I could have remembered the last time that had happened?  I made my coffee and went to sit in one of my favorite spots… the swing that Katie had had fabricated to replicate the one that hung in my favorite spot in Cottage 64 on Sea Island.  While this Freehaven swing hung outside, adjacent to the Master bedroom, rather than inside the enclosed and air-conditioned porch in Cottage 64, it too had a soothing effect, and I sat there wondering what the balance of the summer might look like?

My Calm…

I sipped my coffee while the coastal fog surrounded my hillside refuge and tried, really hard, to not feel completely overwhelmed and devastated by what the reality of yesterday meant.  Were we getting divorced?  Why had Al ambushed me that way, and what the hell was up with “MP” and K. Ass?  K. Ass had never been included in any of either the significant nor symbolic moments of our life together.  He wasn’t at our wedding; he wasn’t around for Emily’s birth or Christening; nor at the grand opening of The Crescent; he wasn’t at PJ’s Christening; he wasn’t at Al’s 60th  weekend Birthday Celebration; he was NEVER included in any of the summer visits or other occasions that marked important visitors or times in our life;  why now, was he given the task of disciplining me like an indulged child gone astray?  The last time K. Ass and I exchanged anything more substantive than a telephone conversation, was during the embezzlement debacle of 1993;  I obviously must have missed something?  It would, and still will,  reveal itself…but on that August morning, the reason for K. Ass’s surprise ambush was unclear.  “MP,” on the other hand, I understood a bit better.  Bitterness, unhappy marriage, jealousy, the dour expression that was affixed to her face, and every other thing about her spoke volumes!  Granted, I was a tad slow on the uptake, and I tend to favor the “underdog,” but it doesn’t take a Harvard grad to understand that “Miss Piggy” had some issues with me.  She had no problem “sucking up” when it served her, nor any issue with taking all of our discarded belongings from the Roblar driveway, and quite clearly…she had no issue joining K. Ass in their attack on me.  My bad, though…I had been the one who naively protected her job, when I could have just as easily encouraged Al to fire her, rather than keep her?   

I must have been on cup #9 of coffee when I got my Mom’s phone call.  “The kids were fine, but they wanted to talk to me, and did I remember that I was suppose to take her for her surgery consult with Santa Barbara/Montecito orthopedic specialist, Dr. Furad, who was performing her knee surgery in just a few days?  “No Mom, I answered, I haven’t forgotten and will be ready to go;  I’ll pick both you and the kids up and we’ll all go together; we can grab lunch at Via Vai, and have you there in plenty of time.”  She sounded relieved and said “we could discuss the rest of everything later.” (That meant I’d need to figure out something to say about Al, yesterday’s disaster, and more…) but at least I had another hour or so before all that would happen.  The rest of the day went as planned; Mom’s consult went well, and she was set for surgery on Friday, just three days away. The day also passed without any word from Al.  In itself, that wasn’t unusual, but it was fuel for more fear of what was to come.  Emily and PJ had been great; they loved being in Santa Barbara and so close to their cousins, Grandmother, Aunt and Uncle.  As much as we all adored Roblar, it had become a sore subject, as it usually symbolized the presence of extra guests, like Kyle, and not just the family they adored. They were so accustomed to Al’s absence from our everyday lives, they never even asked about Al that day.  PJ wanted to ride his dirt bike, and Emily (true to her special and unique personhood) just wanted to be home, with me and to know what was happening.  I couldn’t include her in EVERYTHING that was happening, because that would have been a horrible and irresponsible burden.  I couldn’t tell her this wasn’t the first time I had been afraid of Al, the future and what might occur, but I could tell her I was taking care of everything…which is what I was trying to do.  I had zero idea of what was running through Al’s brain, but I knew very well what was going through mine.  My older sister, who happened to know the wife of Al’s suicidal, deal-making, art collector, car dealing buddy, Barnie, had called me to say she had heard “through the grapevine” (by the by, unless there’s an actual glass of wine that accompanies that grapevine, I want nothing to do with any of what happens along the other, more insidious “grapevines” any longer) that Al was divorcing me and was already setting the stage.  Geez…how dense could I be?  That was the reason behind the “what-for calling out” I received from K. Ass and Miss Piggy; but holy cr**, what was I to do next and who was I to call.  In the past two decades, I had acquired the business cards of at least three to four divorce lawyers, but never wanted to believe that was the decision I would have to make?  Now, it appeared that was the only choice?  

I was sitting in the waiting room of the outpatient surgery center on Castillo St. and on hold for the fifth law firm I had placed calls to that morning.  The waiting room was absent of anyone save me, and it was a safe place for me to be making these contacts.  Unfortunately, the results of my first four attempts proved that Al was indeed pursuing an avenue that was leading directly towards a divorce. There’s this thing in divorce (or I suppose any legal action) called “Conflicting Out.” I mention it, because it can greatly effect the kind of representation that you are likely to obtain when pursuing a divorce.  Bottom line in my particular situation was that Al had indeed already spoken to the top four divorce attorneys in Santa Barbara.  I knew that because when I called them to set up consultation appointments, their offices relayed to me they weren’t available, as they had a “conflict.”  You get the picture, right?  

APPARENTLY LIKE SO MUCH ELSE THAT SEEMS ASKEW WITH THE GLYNN COUNTY, GEORGIA JUDICIAL SYSTEM, “CONFLICTING OUT” MUST NOT BE A THING THERE, IF I READ THIS CASE CORRECTLY?  IT’S ALSO INTERESTING TO NOTE THAT TWO OF THE JUDGES/ATTORNEYS IN THIS PARTICULAR CASE WERE AL’S GEORGIA COUNSEL.  DO I THINK THAT’S A COINCIDENCE…

“H E, DOUBLE HOCKEY STICKS, NO!

Thus, the fifth call I was now making was to a well-known divorce firm in Los Angeles called Kolodnee & Antu.  Apparently, Al had “conflicted out” all the decent Santa Barbara firms, and I was forced to move on to different territory.  In addition to the obvious heartbreak that message COMMUNICATED, I would learn that another pitfall of that circumstance meant higher legal fees, and more of them to accommodate the extra distance and travel time that would be required of the out-of-town counsel to make appearances in Santa Barbara county courts, as that’s where our domicile was, and where our case would be heard, or “adjudicated!”  Luckily for me, one of the two lead partners in that firm took my call, and when I outlined the crazy circumstances of our multiple homes, Al’s history, our marital record thus far and rattled off just a few of the assets we had acquired during the course of our marriage, in addition to what I had learned over the course of this summer, he assured me his firm would be more than pleased to represent me, and there was no time to waste.  He then transferred my call through to his assistant to schedule an appointment to meet next week.   The next week found us, the kids and I, taking care of Mom while she recovered from knee surgery.  Emily had offered her room during Mom’s recovery, as the two enormous guest suites were upstairs, and that was a “no can do” in Mom’s current state.  Rather than stay upstairs in one of the guest rooms herself, Emily chose to sleep on the velvet, extra deep, comfy couch in the media room, which most of the time was used exclusively by Al.  It had now been a week since my blow-up with K. Ass and Miss Piggy, and with the exception of one phone call over the weekend, there was only “radio silence” from Al.  I was getting nervous, (no, not nervous…panicked would have been a more fitting description) by then with the “mind-blowing turmoil” that was about to present itself in the week ahead. In addition to taking care of my Mom while she recovered from surgery, The Santa Barbara Kennel Club Dog Show was this next weekend, our annual Kick-off Cocktail party was Friday evening, and additionally, we were ALL (Al, the kids and myself) slated to leave directly from the finish of the dog show Sunday afternoon to fly back to Georgia for the start of the next school year.  Now too, I was faced with the reality of a trip to Los Angeles in TWO days to meet with “my potentially new attorney,” and file a divorce action that would FOREVER ALTER everything in our lives;  just another ordinary Monday, right?  WRONG!   Later that afternoon, I was startled by the unannounced arrival of Al at the Freehaven front door;  it was his house too, so it wasn’t a shock that he might come by, but under the circumstances of the last week, I was still a little taken aback.  It’s almost like Al had some special radar that could pick up my emotional vibrations, and he always knew exactly when to swoop in with precision perfect timing.  His arrival that late afternoon was accompanied by box upon box of pizzas from Via Vai, along with several additional “to go containers” that held the favorite dishes of not just me and the kids, but my Mom’s as well.   He greeted us all profusely, and hugged me tightly as he whispered in my ear how very sorry he was.  Al and my Mom had something of an unspoken pact;  they neither really cared for the other very much, but they were politely courteous to one another.  Al was very out of character that particular day, as he chose to sit next to my Mom while we ate outside, somewhat picnic style, and proceeded to “chat her up” about the surgery, what rehab would be required and offered that she could remain at Freehaven, even after we departed on Sunday for our return to Georgia. He went so far as to say that it might be very helpful and reassuring for Mom to have Clara, our Freehaven housekeeper around; because Clara worked Monday through Friday and drove, so she could assist Mom with whatever she might need.  I knew the moment he continued speaking suggesting that Lilith, Dick and the kids could come visit and/or stay with her too, Al was in full, “SUCK UP MODE!”  He still referred to Lilith’s husband, Dick, as “the lizard,” due to his incredibly shrinking arm length when it came time to picking up a check! Only in order to satisfy the most extreme measure of contrition would Al have ever contemplated making that statement.  Later that evening, with Mom and the kids asleep, Al and I shared the first intimate occasion in months, and he proclaimed that “he didn’t know how he could fix or make up for all the horrendous past months, and his mistakes, but that he was intent on trying; would I please give him another chance?” 

First thing the following morning, I called Kolodnee & Antu and cancelled my appointment for the next day.  Ron Antu was insistent and almost terse with me, saying “I don’t recommend that you do this; at least let us meet and you can sign the appropriate paperwork, should it become necessary.  You must be prepared if everything should go south over this next weekend;  if you leave the state and return to Georgia, I can’t help you there.”   I thanked him, and said I understood. I’m not sure I wasn’t just so relieved at the thought of NOT pursuing a divorce, that I’d have said anything to hang up the phone and put those horrible thoughts out of my mind.

Sunday, August 26, 2007… Off we flew (Al, Emily, PJ, and myself along with our four-legged bunch, back to Georgia, Sea Island, another school year…and then some!