“Lucky lady.” The agent smiles at me. I return the gesture without showing my teeth. “This way,” she sings, “to the kitchen.”
My stilettos click-clack over the tile and echo through the cavernous kitchen. I won’t be cooking, so I’m not interested in this room of the house. The counters are quartz and the appliances are all stainless steel. It’s pretty, in a simple way. The sink’s faucet is hooked like a swan’s neck, and the box-thing above the stove is beautifully detailed. Actually, the entire thing resembles the kitchen in Jack’s Virginia Beach home.
I’ve wondered half a dozen times this weekend why we can’t simply live there. His home is gorgeous, and it would make more sense. I like being close to him. But he says he’s selling it. Reminds him too much of his ex-wife. They’ve recently divorced after twenty years of marriage. And he doesn’t have to live in Virginia to be a senator there. He only had to while he was being elected. Now that it’s done, he can live anywhere he wants. Last week I mentioned something about taking a trip to California. Here we are, one private jet ride later, seriously looking at homes.
“All of this will have to be redone. Obviously,” Jack adds, skimming his hand along the counters. “The colors aren’t to our taste.”
Aren’t they?
“That’s the great thing about this place,” the agent says. “There’s enough room in your budget for you to make all the changes you want. This way. Follow me.”
Jack has already hired a full-time staff for whichever California home we choose and has them on standby. Although he hasn’t spoken the words, I know this is the home we’ll buy. It’s the security and privacy he’s after, and nothing rivals this place.
Peeking out the kitchen window over the sink, I steal my first glimpse of the backyard. It’s landscaped beautifully, with a pool, a spa, a cabana on either end, and trees lining the edges for privacy. I can definitely imagine summers spent back there. Alone.
“The community board is active, as you would imagine in a place like this,” the agent says, letting her hand drift over the banister as she leads us upstairs. “So there are rules that must be followed if you intend to purchase the home.”
“What rules?” He stops dead. “You didn’t mention that before.”
There’s the husband I know, hesitant to follow any kind of orders.
“Nothing too strange. This way to the master. You must see the view.”
I stop a few stairs above him and extend my hand. He clenches his jaw and follows reluctantly, taking my hand as he passes.
“These rules are going to be a deal breaker,” he says with a groan, and leads me down a hallway wide enough to fit a car through.
As the agent pushes open two oversize doors simultaneously and stands back with the smile, the room washes in light. The bedroom is enormous, with a cathedral-like ceiling, a chandelier in the center, thick crown molding, and a window with a sprawling view of the Pacific Ocean and Golden Gate Bridge.
“Before we go a step further, I need to hear about these rules,” Jack presses. He’s standing in the center of the room with his arms folded over his chest. He’s taken on his booming politician voice. “What are they and who makes them?”
The agent turns, her blond hair falling over her shoulder. “It’s about the front of the home, mainly. Grass can’t be more than two inches long. Garage doors cannot be left open for longer than five minutes at a time. Cars must be parked in the garage overnight—not in the street or the driveway. No music over seventy decibels. Things like that.”
Nodding, Jack seems to chew over her words. “Those aren’t too cumbersome. Who makes them?”
“The Presidio Terrace Homeowners Association. It’s run by a few of the wives in the community.” She checks her phone. “Mrs. Erin King, who lives there, across the street, is the president. Mrs. Georgia St. Claire—I’m sure you’ve heard of her from the news—lives next door, to your right, though you can’t see her home