Chapter 6 - THE PARTY ON THE WEST TERRACE
The party happened eleven months earlier.
Jenna rented the house to the son of a venture capitalist for a private birthday weekend.
Thirty guests became eighty.
Someone broke the west terrace railing.
Someone else damaged a vintage surfboard Anna had restored.
A neighbor called security.
The concierge paid cash for emergency repairs.
Daryl never knew because the damage was fixed before his next visit.
Except one thing had not been fixed.
A guest fell near the outdoor stairs and injured his shoulder.
The matter was settled privately.
Using what?
Rental proceeds and, potentially, Robert’s umbrella policy.
But the house itself was insured under Daryl’s LLC.
Maya’s voice sharpened when she heard that.
“If there was a bodily injury on a commercial rental and your insurer wasn’t notified, you may have serious exposure if the claimant resurfaces.”
Daryl closed his eyes.
Robert said:
“It was handled.”
Maya replied:
“That phrase should make everyone in this room nervous.”
Daryl appreciated her instantly for saying what Anna would have said.
The private settlement paperwork arrived by evening.
Jenna had signed:
Jenna Mercer, property representative.
Not owner.
Not manager.
Representative.
Enough ambiguity to function.
The settlement included a confidentiality clause and release.
Maybe enforceable.
Maybe not.
The injured guest accepted $24,000.
Where did it come from?
Rental account.
Which was held under a company Daryl had never heard of:
Malibu Family Retreats LLC.
Owner:
Jenna Mercer.
Mailing address:
Robert’s home.
Daryl stared at the filing.
His father had known.
His mother likely had too.
“Family retreat,” Maya said.
“Cute.”
Daryl was too angry to laugh.
Then the money trail widened.
Rental deposits averaged $8,000 to $14,000 per weekend depending on season.
Three years of bookings.
More than $300,000 gross.
Jenna withdrew most.
Robert received transfers labeled HOUSE EXPENSES.
Elaine received none directly.
But family vacations, catering, club charges, and even the twins’ summer camp fees appeared downstream.
Daryl sat in the Malibu living room that evening while Eli glued the sailboat mast with careful hands.
“Dad?”
“Yeah?”
“Why are you mad again?”
Daryl looked at him.
“Adult money stuff.”
Eli nodded solemnly.
“Is that worse than toy stuff?”
Daryl laughed.
“Sometimes.”
Eli held up the sailboat.
“It looks bad.”
“It looks repaired.”
“It’s crooked.”
“So was the first mast.”
Eli thought about that.
Then smiled.
Anna again.
Not replacement.
Repair.
Maybe that theme was becoming unavoidable.
Then Daryl’s phone buzzed.
Jenna.
One message.
YOU ARE NOT TAKING MY INCOME AWAY BECAUSE YOUR SON CRIED.
Daryl stared at it.
Then forwarded it to Maya.
And felt something settle.
May you like
The broken sailboat had not caused the family crisis.
It had simply exposed the floorboards.
