There was no beating around the bush with Polly. “Casey has a whole other family. In Eagle Rock.” The address alone made Polly shudder. As I gave her the blow-by-blow, she made the appropriate gasps and head shakes, tossing out the occasional “Merde.”
When I finally took a break in my story, she was sympathetic. “The second family, it’s so Fran?ois Mitterrand. He, at least, was the president of France. Casey is not grand enough to deserve acceptance of this indiscretion. But that doesn’t make it any easier for you, Joanie. I’m so sorry.”
She never once said, “I told you so,” because she’d also married young and after a short courtship, so I think she was genuinely rooting for us. Instead, she referred to our junior year abroad, and said, “Come to Paris. Please. We’ll eat, we’ll shop, we’ll buy perfume, we’ll gossip. It will be 1999 again.” I appreciated the invitation, but it could never be 1999 again for me. Polly knew that, too. Her voice lowered, and her tone changed from life coach to old friend. “Listen, you’ve been through much harder stuff than this. You know that, right? You’ll reinvent yourself. I know you will. You have plenty of time. But come to Paris.”
“Soon. I promise. But I have a few things I have to take care of first.”
“That’s right, you do. Is his car in the garage? His custom shirts in the closet? You better light that merde on fire.”
By the time Luther arrived that evening, the house was cleaned, the locks had been changed by Javier’s cousin, and I’d packed the bulk of Casey’s clothes into half a dozen cheap duffel bags I scored at a Big 5 sale years ago and hauled them to the garage. No fires, and none of these activities made me feel better, but I’d stopped feeling worse, so that was a small victory. I opened the door to Luther with a genuine half smile. Luther Mayfield was a family friend, attorney, connection to the past, and everything else in between: a rock, an uncle by choice, an adviser. He would know what I should do next. Luther would know.
Luther had been my father’s next-door neighbor growing up, and they remained close until my father’s death. My father’s parents were ultra-strict Lutherans; he described them as formal and distant. He’d been an only child and, as such, gravitated to the lively, chaotic Mayfield household, where Luther was one of six boys. “Mrs. Mayfield taught me laughter,” my father used to say.
Luther Mayfield was a gifted athlete, going to UCLA on a basketball scholarship in the golden John Wooden era, then onto UCLA Law. He knew nothing about the art world when my father started asking him about various contracts and such. Now Luther runs a successful management company for artists, actors, and athletes, taking on very few clients and providing them his full attention. Like my own father, Luther never strayed too far from his old neighborhood, creating a mentoring program that’s been credited with lowering the high school dropout rate and increasing the number of kids that go to college from one of the roughest areas of Pasadena.
It was Luther that had insisted on the prenup for Casey and me. Add Luther to the growing list of people who knew that I was marrying a poor, poor imitation of my father. I’d given him the short version of the situation on the phone, so I skipped any repeat details. And I’d told myself not to get emotional in front of Luther. “How complicated is this going to get?”
“You’re well protected, so it shouldn’t be complicated at all, at least on my side. The house, the artwork, any IP related to your dad, that’s all in the Henry Blakely Trust. He can’t touch any of that. But he does get to keep half the Motel, as per the amendment to the agreement five years ago.”
Goddamn, of course, five years ago when the twins were born! That’s why Casey insisted that his name go on the deed when he pitched reviving the Motel, arguing that he deserved a piece of it for all the sweat equity and word-of-mouth marketing he’d be doing. That’s why he oversaw every detail of the project to make it just right, a redevelopment hit. And that was the real reason Casey didn’t tell me about the boys right away. Casey never would have walked away from his one chance to get a tiny slice of the Henry Blakely pie. Back then, I thought he had stored away some resentment from the initial prenup, and I wanted to smooth over any ill will by giving him half the property. A show of confidence in our future, I thought. But Casey wanted the Motel for his future, not ours. Any measure of acceptance I’d achieved by stuffing his extensive supply of Thomas Pink linen shirts into a duffel bag had disappeared. I repeated the facts slowly back to Luther: “Five years ago, when his children were born.”
Luther nodded. It hadn’t taken him as long to get there as it had taken me. “You got it. And now that he has heirs, if we try to nullify the agreement, I’m sure he’ll push back,” Luther said. He represented a host of athletes and actors, so he’d seen every complicated paternity situation known to mankind. “Couple of options: You buy him out or he buys you out. Or a third party buys you both out, which will be my recommendation if you want to move on, clean break. How’s his cash situation? Do you know?”
I shook my head. “No, we always kept our finances separate. At least I did one thing my lawyer told me to do. None of my money was used to support his other family, so good for me!” Luther gave me a half hug. “But he has been working a lot lately. He doesn’t tell me about his fees, but I think he’s doing okay.”
Luther nodded. “Another reason for the timing. His income is secure. I hate to admit it, but he did a good job reviving that place. He has added value. You’ll find a buyer for sure.”
A cultural historian had once called the Motel “an iconic headquarters for the vibrant Southern California art scene in the 1970s and early ’80s.” For my dad, it was his childhood home. My father had inherited his family’s tidy, modest Mountain View Motel at age twenty-five, the year he lost his mom to a stroke and then his dad to lung cancer. The place was named for its foothill location and spectacular views of the San Gabriel Mountains. He quickly abandoned the idea of running it as an actual motel and set it up as studios and living spaces for himself and his fellow artists.
Over the years, with Luther’s help, my father made some smart real estate moves and acquired an abandoned Department of Public Works garage next door and extended the footprint of the Motel to almost a full city block. Casey had spent three years renovating the building and bringing it back to my father’s original intent, as studio space for struggling artists. Then he added a small gift shop and coffee bar that brought in actual income. And he thought to put in a ballpark-style concession stand that he used to host monthly pop-up restaurants, featuring young local chefs, that was a hipster magnet. I had to admit, the Motel under Casey’s direction had been very successful.
The renovation put Casey on the map as a man with vision, a worthy successor to my father, though I knew he was limited. I should have paid more attention. I thought it was helpful he had a hobby, and secretly, I was thrilled that he was picking up the family mantle. I encouraged him to spend all his free time there, impressed he was finally getting his hands dirty doing physical labor. But now I wondered if he really was doing the hands-on renovations or if he was off playing daddy and planning his exit strategy? I tried to be unemotional, but the realization of Casey’s level of deception shocked me. “Oh, Luther, how can I tell my mother?”
Luther responded with the same wide berth he always afforded anything about my mother. “She’ll understand. She never liked that place! It’s why she insisted your father buy this house. Suzi Clements was not going to spend her life in a motel.” We both laughed, a release. “If you want to buy him out, you might need to sell the Larry Bell in the bedroom. I think he gave it to your dad instead of a year’s rent,” Luther quipped. Most of the artwork hanging on the walls of my house was “rent,” except for the Dennis Hopper series of photos. Those definitely covered “damages.”