Page 32 of Heating Up (Nugget)
“I miss my Tupperware,” she said, eyeing Aidan’s generic stuff with trepidation.
“I bet you do. You probably had one in every size and color coded. Red for meat and green for vegetables.”
“I did not.” But she laughed.
“I’ll finish here; go get the plans,” he told her.
He spent an hour telling her all the places she should put smoke alarms and sprinklers.
“I’ve got to get to bed, Aidan.” She yawned, rolled up the blueprints, and neatly tucked them back into the tube. “I’m meeting that client early.” And she had to be sharp.
“Good luck with that.”
“Thanks.” She started for the bedroom and stopped. “You want to do something Saturday? You know, to keep your mind off the wedding.”
“I’m going to my sister’s for a barbecue.”
“Oh . . . that’s good.”
“Wanna come?”
“Nah, it’s a family thing.”
“No it’s not. It’s dinner, and Brady’s cooking. You should take advantage of that.”
“Maybe,” she said, knowing she wouldn’t go. Dana hardly knew Sloane and Brady. “Let’s see how it goes with my client.”
“Your call,” he said, and went back to cleaning up the kitchen.
Chapter 7
Gia couldn’t sleep, got up to find the remote control, and flicked on the television. She’d promised herself she wouldn’t do this. Wouldn’t torture herself by watching the late-night entertainment shows, where she was the butt of every joke.
The financial self-help guru whose boyfriend had organized one of the largest Ponzi schemes in recent history was hilarious.
Schadenfreude, she supposed. The snark on social media had gotten so bad that the network was on the verge of shutting down her show. Gia couldn’t blame television executives. How could she tell millions of women how to attain financial independence when she herself had been duped by a money swindler and a con artist? For that reason, her syndicated column had already gotten the boot and her latest book could only be found in the remainder bin.
She suddenly felt a tremendous affinity for Martha Stewart. At least insider trading had no bearing on whether Martha could bake a cake. But getting rooked by a third-rate investment banker—who happened to be the man she’d loved and trusted—didn’t speak well for her financial acumen. Or her taste in men. Not only had he stolen her money, he’d stolen her livelihood.
Thank goodness she still had plenty of assets left, including her Fifth Avenue penthouse, which was worth a pretty penny. Unfortunately, not everyone could say the same. Evan Laughlin had left a lot of people in complete financial ruin. And while Gia was solvent—at least for the moment—she knew all too well what poverty felt like.
That was the whole reason for her plan . . . moving to Nugget. She still had the means to make it happen, but her reputation was in tatters. So she’d have to improvise . . . buy the house and land . . . bring her horse . . . lay low until the scandal blew over.
Even if she lost the seven-figure-a-year TV contract, the lucrative speaking engagements, and the hefty advances for her self-help books, she’d figure out a way to manage. Like before, she’d do it the old-fashioned way—making sound investments. And nothing could be sounder than California real estate. Given the drought and the economy, there were fire sales on agricultural land all over the state. “Buy low and sell high” wasn’t just the mantra for trading stocks, Gia told herself.
Based on her drive from Reno to Nugget, she’d liked what she’d seen. Tremendous views of the Sierra Nevada and its endless bounty of rivers, lakes, forests, and desert. It was the way she remembered it from all those years ago. The last vacation before her Dad had suffered a massive heart attack and died. The town, which consisted primarily of a commercial district built around a verdant square, and the obligatory Main Street, wasn’t as charming as other towns she’d seen in Northern California. Still, according to what she’d read, it attracted some degree of the state’s booming tourism trade and was close enough to more popular destinations to get their spill-offs.
Yet, because of its general remoteness and its frigid winter temperatures, land here was cheaper than in the rest of the state. Gia didn’t think that would last too much longer and she wanted to get in before prices spiked. All part of her long-term plan.
In the meantime, this inn was lovely and luxurious—something you would find in a big city—and a good place to take a few days to rest and regather her wits. She’d stayed sheltered in her room since she’d gotten here, fearful that even with a scarf wrapped around her head and sunglasses to cover her face, people would still recognize her. Even the little online paper here had carried Gia’s column with her picture on it. For that reason, she hadn’t been able to check out either one of the town’s two restaurants or any of the shops. Tomorrow, she told herself. The fact was, she couldn’t hide forever.
She got out her laptop to see how the Nikkei 225 Index had closed, tried to ignore her emails but couldn’t. There were at least five from reporters who wanted to interview her, three from her agent, who probably wanted to let her know whether her show had been canceled, and two from her mother, who she hadn’t had time to call back.
Just wanted to make sure you arrived safely, the message read.
The one thing Gia would truly miss was being on the same coast as her mom, who lived in a retirement community in Boca Raton. Gia had paid cash for her mother’s house, taken care of the association fees, and funded whatever incidentals Iris couldn’t afford. They’d been through hell and back together. And Gia had made sure her mother would never want for anything ever again. At least Evan, the son of a bitch, hadn’t connived Iris into investing in his bogus scheme. Ironically, Gia’s mother was almost childlike in her grasp of high finance, making her an easy mark. But she’d been smarter—perhaps less greedy was more accurate—than any of Evan’s dupes, keeping her life’s savings in low-risk government bonds.
Gia looked at the clock. If she didn’t get to sleep soon, she’d be dead on her feet while Dana toured her around the town. Before crawling back under the covers, she shut down her computer and flicked off the television.
