The final document transferred a seven-bedroom oceanfront villa overlooking the Pacific into my name.
White stucco, warm limestone, an infinity pool, broad terrace, ocean-facing guest rooms, a floor-to-ceiling library, a huge kitchen, and private stairs to the beach.
It cost a little over six million dollars.
I paid cash.
The closing agent offered champagne.
I asked for coffee.
She laughed.
“You just bought a six-million-dollar house.”
“I know.”
“You don’t want to celebrate?”
“I am celebrating.”
“With coffee?”
“It’s good coffee.”
Nobody in my family knew.
For fifteen years, I had managed the estate my husband Armando left me.
Armando had never been flashy. He owned three good suits, wore the same watch for twenty-two years, and bought commercial land in areas others considered too remote.
Then roads came.
Businesses followed.
He also invested modestly in several technology companies before our relatives even understood venture capital.
