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Chapter 7
JIMMY
Stepping out of the town car, my eyes fix on the double-story mansion rising from the sloping hill. The single room on the third story, possibly an attic space converted to a master bedroom, would get epic views of Puget Sound.
Despite the cooling weather, the manicured lawns are still green, and lights blaze from the second-story bay window and the multiple decorated arches on the first floor, exposing the covered porch.
I follow the well-dressed crowd up the stone steps and through the heavy wooden door thrown open to welcome guests. A suited usher nods to me, ticking my name off a list and gesturing for me to move through the entryway with its exposed beams and highly polished wooden floors.
The crowd moves through a stylish living room with a black, shining grand piano into a dining room and onto the covered back porch. The large backyard stretches before us, covered with a large white marquee pavilion.
It’s fancier than any marquee pavilion I have ever seen. Small round tables with lavish dinnerware are laid, and white-jacketed waiters move throughout the space, wielding trays laden with crystal champagne flutes. The whole area is lit by large candles enclosed in glass boxes.
I find my name in calligraphy on the mounted seating chart, move to the table, and cast my eye over the other names. I’m seated at a table with Holly and Artie Rampwood and several impressive other people.
Accepting a glass of champagne from one of the waiters, I look around at the guests, jewels dripping everywhere. This is a world away from what I have known my whole life, but it means I’ve finally made it to rub shoulders with these people.
“Ah, Jimmy, you’re here!” Holly Rampwood, looking resplendent in a red ballgown, sweeps to a stop before me, air-kissing both cheeks.
Artie joins us, looking significantly less weedy now he’s dressed in a sharp suit. He grins, clapping me on the back as he shakes my hand. Seeing Artie in his element, I can’t think why I never noticed his innate confidence.
There’s something about how he carries himself like he knows he never has to do more than flick a finger to get the room's attention.
“Glad you could join us! It’s a good turnout. I’ve seen some interest in your package. Hopefully, it sells well. Aunt Laura is convinced tonight will raise a lot for the Foundation.”
He nods to a glamorous blonde woman in her fifties, sparkling with diamonds, as she holds court in the corner of the room. He opens his mouth again when a good-looking man in his mid-twenties in a sharp suit to rival Artie’s, carefully styled light brown hair and dark stubble claps him on the shoulder.
“Ah, this is my cousin, Pete Rampwood. He’s a senior associate with me at Rampwood & Stein.”
Smiling, I shake Pete Rampwood’s hand. Everyone in Seattle knows Rampwood & Stein. They are the premier sports law firm in the country. They are also the reason for the Rampwood fortune and standing here in Seattle.
“Fuck the champagne. I’m cracking open a good bottle of whiskey. Three glasses?” Pete grins, looking young, carefree, and rich.
“I’ll stick with champagne,” Holly drawls, dropping a kiss on his cheek. He wrinkles his nose at her and turns back to Artie and me.
“Holly’s out. Two glasses. Trust me, Jimmy. You don’t want to pass up a glass if you’re a whiskey man. My father has spent the last thirty years amassing a collection to die for.”
“I’m not about to say no to that offer.”
“We’re going to get along famously,” Pete laughs, clapping Artie’s shoulder as he moves off again.
Holly rolls her eyes, laughing as she waves Artie and me off, moving away to chat with other guests. With a grin, Artie turns back to me. There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask.
“I have to admit to being intrigued by the charity tonight.”
Artie grins at me, shrugging and waving his hand vaguely at a waiter approaching with a tray of champagne. The man quickly veers course, offering his wares to other guests. Artie didn’t even look at him. I might be a little out of my depth here.
“Thelma has a lawyer’s gift for persuasion. She wanted the charity supported. Her arguments moved Aunt Laura.”
“Sounds like an interesting family dynamic.”
Artie laughs, shrugging his shoulders as he shoves his hands in his trouser pockets.
“A family of lawyers? You don’t want to be present for Thanksgiving. The saying ‘sparks fly’ has nothing on a Rampwood family get-together.”
I laugh easily with him, unable to imagine what he’s talking about. Thanksgivings with the Houstons are about as laid back as you get. Mom gave up on trying to outlaw football years ago. Trey, Dad, Pop, and I watch sports, Mom gets her family photo and a nice sit-down dinner, and we all pitch in to clean up while Mom and Nanna drink wine and sit with their feet up, bossing us around. It’s a nice way to spend the holiday.
Artie starts to give me a rundown of the great and the good of Seattle present, pointing them out to me as my eyes move around the marquee pavilion. If I could sign up maybe two or three names from those present, I would count that as a win.
