I followed the private lane for at least a mile, driving slowly and leaving my window open to breathe in the mountain air. When I crested a final hill and saw the property, I felt like Dorothy entering Oz.
The “house,” which seemed such a plebeian word for the structure ahead, perched on the edge of a rise and overlooked a groomed, green lawn that stretched down the mountainside. Trees had been cleared to allow for the lush grass and a heart-squeezing view of Seattle beyond. I could see pockets of seating areas, both on the expansive patio that wrapped around the house, and on the grounds below. Plush outdoor furniture with cushions that were utterly impractical in Seattle’s climate clustered around outsized copper bowls serving as fire pits.
I parked my car in an area roped off for staff and walked along a wide path that led to the front of the house and a mammoth set of doors. I pinned my shoulders back, willing the butterflies in my stomach to settle down, and I reached out to grasp the heavy doorknocker. Just as I was about to let it fall, the door opened in a wide arc, pulling the knocker out of my hand and causing me to stumble over the threshold and into the house.
Tiffany Jacobs helped me up, murmuring apologies in her much admired, heavily insured low, scratchy voice. I crouched to gather the bag I had dropped, and my face collided with her long ropes of shiny, black hair.
“I’m so sorry,” she said again, then extended a cool, slim hand. “So lovely to see you again, Charlie. I’m glad you could help us out tonight.”
“It’s my honor,” I said, back to squeaking again, a lovely counterpoint to her Lauren Bacallesque voice.
She gestured for me to follow her. “I’ll show you to the kitchen, but can you have a glass of wine with me first? Or is that verboten when you’re about to commandeer a hot oven?” She winked at me, and I followed her like a love-struck puppy dog.
I’m having a glass of wine with Tiffany Jacobs. In her new house. And she’s barefoot, which must mean she thinks of me as a close friend! My thoughts chased one another, chastising the ones that recalled I hadn’t even known who Tiffany Jacobs was a week prior, and focusing instead on the view that greeted us as we entered the living room.
Ebony wood floors stretched in wide planks from one end of the room to the other, interrupted only by a see-through fireplace that divided the kitchen area from the great room. An oceanic white rug covered much of the living room floor. I got so distracted by the thick pile on that rug, I wanted to take off my clogs and throw them into one of the copper fire pits, then sink my unpedicured toes into the fluff.
“These windows are from Switzerland,” Tiffany said as she stopped in front of a curved wall of floor-to-ceiling glass. “I thought they were far too indulgent, but Macintosh insisted, and now I’m so glad he did.” I turned and saw a softness in her expression. “He is really, really hot.”
As if on cue, Macintosh Sween’s crocodile-skin shoes clacked on the hardwood behind us. “Hey, it’s the berries and ice cream lady,” he said, offering me his hand. I shook it and felt my cheek muscles cramp, my smile was so engaged. “That shot of hot chocolate had Tiff swooning all week.” The beginnings of fine lines made delicate jewelry around jarringly green eyes. His teeth shone so white, they were one shade shy of blue.
Tiffany nodded. “Nectar of the gods. Babe, would you bring us the bottle of Tempranillo and the glasses I put out on the counter?” He strode into the kitchen, and she called after him, “Bring another glass, too, if you’d like to join us.”
Only after letting my eyes swim in a pool of kitchen-marble-lighting-appliance lust did I force my gaze back to Tiffany, who, by the way, was magazine-ready, too.
Crossing one lithe leg over the other, she studied my face. “I hear you’re from the Midwest,” she said.
I nodded. “Minnesota.”
Mac returned from the kitchen and offered each of us a glass from the Lucite tray he carried.
“Will you stay for some wine, my love?” Tiffany asked. I wondered if she’d had work done on her cheekbones or if they just came like that.
“Can’t,” Mac said. He leaned down to kiss Tiffany long on the lips. I almost looked away but also felt a bit like I was watching a movie. Surely I was allowed to look, after paying twelve dollars plus popcorn?
“Roger wants to talk about that Berrini script. If I don’t call him now, he’ll hunt me down at the party tonight.” Turning a full-wattage smile in my direction, he said his good-byes and left the room.
I swallowed hard, hoping I didn’t look as much like a Teen Beat reader as I felt.
“I’m from the Midwest, too,” Tiffany said. She pushed a cascade of hair to one side of her head, tilting her chin as she looked at me. “I grew up in Nebraska.”
“That’s great!” I said with an enthusiasm I had never before felt about the Husker State. I dipped into my glass of wine and sniffed a bouquet of expensive and … expensive.