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“Pretty much,” I tell him. “I’m sure you’re used to riding around in Bentleys and whatnot.”
He doesn’t say anything to that, just faces straight ahead. I glance out the window, hoping for some camaraderie from Bert, but he’s just as serious and gives me the nod to keep driving.
Of course, my car hates this small hill normally, so since we’re at a standstill, I have to press my foot down on the gas and hold it there until the RPMs are going wild and it takes off like a shot.
Okay, it takes off like an injured baby impala. One big jerk forward, followed by pathetic hops, and maybe Harrison was right about making sure he was strapped in, because it looks like he’s already succumbing to whiplash.
“Sorry,” I cry out as the car finally gets going and we chug up to the top of the hill. “Not long now.”
It’s actually only about thirty seconds down the slight slope to the very end of the undulating peninsula, but it manages to feel like a million years with this British beast of a man trapped in my car. He’s so big that his shoulder brushes against mine from time to time, and I can feel the heat off him. Doesn’t help that it’s warm outside and I don’t have air conditioning. I also can’t tell if it’s him that smells like balsam and sea salt or if it’s the air outside.
He remains silent and visibly uncomfortable, and I take a little too much glee in that. Serves him right for escorting me to my own damn house. I mean, do I look like the type of person who is going to go home and get her camera and climb up through the tangled salal bushes and overgrown ferns just to get a glimpse of them? Does he think I’ll show up at their door, peer in through their windows, and post it all to my Instagram stories?
I’m guessing so. I totally get him needing to be protective of them, but this seems like overkill, especially since Bert seemed to vouch for my character. Though I guess he could have said a few more complimentary things just in case. So far Harrison knows I live here, but I’m pretty sure I’ve only given him evidence that I’m some quirky manic pixie dream girl, minus the dream part. Nightmare is more like it.
The road ends in a narrow cul-de-sac with barely enough room to turn around, the ocean on either side crashing against kelp-strewn rocks. So far the street has been quiet, so I guess Harrison has been doing a good job keeping people away, if anyone has caught on yet that this is actually where Eddie and Monica are.
The driveway that we share runs off the end of the turnaround, up another slight hill where it forks into two. I take the driveway to the left, which plunks us into my parking spot beside a tall western red cedar. From here you can see a bit of the cul-de-sac, but you can’t see the mansion at all.
It’s a really interesting property. Even though it takes over the very tip of the peninsula, with the ocean on nearly all sides, where they placed the servants’ quarters (aka my house) is among tall cedar and arbutus trees. It’s on the dark side, and you can only see glimpses of the ocean through the trees. I’ve talked about taking down a few to improve the view, but my mother has extreme paranoia and thinks if I do that, it means people can spy on us easier, so I’ve just let the trees grow and the branches continue to block the ocean. But we’re lucky that there’s a path that takes you to rickety steps that lead down to deepwater moorage. The dock is crooked, and one end is sometimes underwater, but when I’m craving the sun and blue sky, that’s where I go.
And while there is a fence separating us from the road, there’s no gate and there’s also no fence between the properties. We just know where the lines are and we keep to our side, even though the mansion has been vacant for as long as we’ve been here. Sure, sometimes there are families or couples staying there, but we never really see or meet them, and I’m sure it’s more the owner’s friends coming to stay rather than an Airbnb or some other vacation rental.
That said, I still have no idea who owns the place. There were rumors in the past that it belonged to the infamous Hearst family, but I doubt that’s true. Whoever they are, however, they must have some kind of connection to Eddie and Monica.
“So,” I say innocently, turning to Harrison as I put the Garbage Pail in park and turn off the engine, “if they’re just looking to rent and not buy, who are they renting it from?”
