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They drove past huge, old-growth cedar and Douglas fir trees that silhouetted against a full, bright moon, up toward the house. She glimpsed the glittering city of Seattle in the distance and realized that Ansel James had a stunning water and city view (as long as there wasn’t fog).
“Wow,” she said, “how much was this house?”
“I have no idea, Saber, and please don’t—”
“I know better than to ask questions like that,” she said. “You don’t have to worry. I was just curious.”
“Millions,” her dad said. “Three, five, ten. I have no idea.”
Her dad parked the car in front of a sprawling midcentury masterpiece of architectural design.
“I know you wouldn’t ask him,” he said. “I trust you. I’m just super fucking nervous.”
“I’ll be very good,” she said. “And very, very quiet.”
He patted her leg.
“Love you, bean,” he said. “Thanks for coming with me.”
They walked up the sprawling stone steps to a pair of heavy, tawny-brown wood doors that could, if opened, allow a mid-sized sedan to pass through. A nice bottle of wine hung from her father’s hand. Saber noticed two large crows sitting side by side on the branch of one of the trees, watching them with what appeared to be intense scrutiny.
Saber ran her hand over her hair, smoothing it out, and wished she had worn something warmer. She understood why dresses were not a top choice for casual evening wear in the Northwest. The air was cool, even now, in late summer. She felt nervous that she might embarrass herself in some way, that she wouldn’t know some secret, rich-people etiquette. The thought disturbed her. She didn’t care what this rich jerk thought of her, did she?
The door opened before they had a chance to knock, and a warm glow seemed to flow from inside the mansion out onto the front step, where Saber and her father stood in the cool dark.
“Welcome, Mr. Warren, Miss Warren. We’re so happy to have you.”
The servant, maid, whatever she was, was a young, attractive woman, petite, with Asian features and black hair tucked into a tight bun at the base of her neck. She wore a clean, black, shapeless linen shirt and loose cropped, matching linen pants, very tidy and timeless. Her whole look was so neat, compact, and lovely that Saber was a little taken aback. She oozed sophistication and confidence, not like any servant Saber had met or imagined.
“Shoes off please,” she said, right as Saber noticed the woman’s exposed feet, perfectly manicured with clear polish. The gleaming hardwood gave way in the living room to a rich, luscious, expansive Persian carpet in shades of silver and rust.
“Taking shoes off is normal here,” Saber’s dad said, leaning in.
Saber nodded and slipped out of her sandals.
“Can I get you anything to drink?” the woman asked, her lovely eyes sparkling. Everything about her was warm, inviting, calm and kind, while maintaining a poised, elegant economy of movement.
“A beer would be great.”
“Water is fine,” Saber said, but her voice sounded uncharacteristically small and anxious.
She was, indeed and despite her best efforts, intimidated.
“Pellegrino?”
“Uh, sure, thanks.”
“We have some flavored waters, pomelo, red currant, yuzu…”
Saber had no idea what a yuzu was.
“Pellegrino is fine, thanks.”
The woman smiled serenely and padded off into the kitchen, leaving them in a vast sitting room with a crackling fireplace. It was made with black polished stone and took up half a wall, but the fire inside was small, cozy even, in the cavernous space. Saber could imagine that if it was really roaring, the house would be sweltering.
Then she noticed the paintings. There were almost a dozen in the huge room, some in little collections, others taking up entire walls. Oil paintings, some framed sketches, large canvases in styles she recognized instantly.
Whoever Ansel James was, she knew then that he was a real collector.
