Abigail Blakeman was a proud daughter of New England. She believed in clapboard white houses, pewter over silver, mashed root vegetables on Thanksgiving, and all that was Colonial. But even she had to admit that Montecito was drop-dead gorgeous. She hadn’t been all that impressed with what Southern California had to offer on the drive from the airport until the full expanse of the Pacific Ocean came into view about ninety minutes up Highway 101 at the curve at Rincon Beach. The stunning scale and scope of the California coast became clear. She took in the huge waves, the wide beach, and dozens, maybe hundreds, of surfers dotting the water. It almost took her breath away. Almost.

The last half hour of the trip took them past houses pitched out over the ocean or climbing up mountainsides. They drove past polo fields and beach clubs and citrus groves. As they wove their way through the streets of the town itself, she admired charming cottages, low-slung midcentury moderns, and Mediterranean estates peeking out behind high walls and long crushed-granite drives. The village shops looked inviting, chic, authentic. And the flowers and the foliage! It was like being in another world, maybe even another millennium, ancient and unexpected. From birds-of-paradise to sage bushes bigger than a car. The olive trees! The lemons! The enormous prickly pears! Roses and bougainvillea everywhere. She wanted to remain unimpressed but couldn’t.

In her only previous trip to California, more than two decades ago, Abigail had stayed in downtown San Diego for work and found it appalling. Everything about it seemed engineered for naval ships and conferences. She barely left the hotel because she had no real need. Who needed to explore a town filled with Fuddruckers? But this part of the Golden State seemed to live up to the hype, even though she would never admit she was the type to care about hype. One look at a stone-capped stucco wall overhung by brilliant pink bougainvillea and Abigail was sold. She wanted to move right in with the royalty, the celebrities, the barons of business and Hollywood. If the Old Guard would have her.

“How beautiful,” she said to no one in particular.

“The most beautiful,” Ricky answered with conviction.