MARION
I had a meeting with a landowner here in my resort, Oceanview, so I couldn’t drive Demetria to her bakery. Stephen did that. The meeting took place in my office at the resort. Floor-to-ceiling glass walls framing the Pacific Ocean, sunlight bouncing off the water straight into the room. Everything was deliberate, from the black marble desk to the Italian leather chairs, designed to remind anyone sitting across from me of who held the upper hand.
Mr. Buckman sat opposite, nursing a glass of water my assistant had set down. He was on his third rambling story about how his grandfather first rode horses across those Santa Barbara acres back in the 1940s. Papers were already spread across the table, contracts drafted, ready for my signature.
This land would be mine. The resort expansi
