Page 58 of Your Every Wish
I pull up the email Mr. Townsend sent us on my phone and read her the numbers.
“That one is 2050.” Emma gestures at the address tiles of a Spanish-style home that’s located behind a huge iron gate. “Only two blocks to go.”
We’ve passed so many mega mansions I’ve lost count. Most of them are Mediterranean style with a few contemporaries in the vein of Bent’s house. With those views who wouldn’t want all that glass?
“I wonder why he lived here and not San Francisco.” Because as beautiful as this is, San Francisco isn’t exactly lacking in the amazing department. Besides, it’s where Willy got his start.
“Don’t know. But I could certainly live with this. It’s not Cedar Pines but it’s a close runner-up.”
“Please tell me you’re not serious,” I say.
“I mean it’s gorgeous here but so ostentatious. Every freaking house has one of those ornate gates. And the garages with their circular driveways . . . kind of pretentious, don’t you think? Look at that one.” She points at a Spanish colonial with a vanishing-edge pool that gives the illusion that the water is spilling right into the ocean. “Really? It’s not enough to have a view of the Pacific. You have to muck it up with an enormous pool, too?”
“The shame.” I feign horror. “I’d gladly take any one of these houses.”
“That one?” She motions at a house with so many stories it looks like it’s about to topple over in the first earthquake.
“Yeah, it’s a bit top-heavy and proportionally odd.”
“It was probably a perfectly nice house once. Then someone started adding on to it until it was the Winchester Mystery House.”
“I have no idea what that is.”
“It’s a house near San Jose. A mad wealthy woman kept adding rooms to it until it was a crazy maze. Now they sell tours.”
I laugh. “We have that in Vegas, too. People with more money than brains.” I tilt my head skyward. “ ‘Them that’s got are them that gets, and I ain’t got nothing yet.’ ”
“Huh? Where’d you come up with that?” Emma grins.
“It’s an old Ray Charles song my mother used to play. You never heard it before?”
“Nope. But that’s what I’m saying about Cedar Pines and Ghost. No pretention. Just sheer natural beauty.”
It’s true, the area is pretty in a natural way. I like the way it smells, piney and clean. I guess like the mountains. Cedar Pines, not so pretty. It’s more like a train wreck. “You’re weird, anyone ever tell you that?”
“Dex does all the time.” She laughs again. “I think it’s that one.”
If it is, no one can accuse Willy Keil of being ostentatious. Or pretentious. “Where’s the address? I don’t see it.”
“Right there on the curb.” Emma pulls into the driveway.
I get out of the car and walk to the front curb. Sure enough, it’s the right address. I don’t know why but I’m overcome by disappointment. “Wow, it’s like a teardown.”
“It is not.” Emma turns to stare at the front façade of the house.
It’s a smallish, plain-Jane, white Spanish-style ranch, dwarfed even more by the mansions on either side of it. Just your run-of-the-mill Vegas tract home. The only thing it has going for it is its red tile roof, which lends it a modicum of vintage charm. And, of course, the multimillion-dollar view. The house is perched above the Pacific, and from the driveway I can see waves crashing on the shore below.
“Pull up the code.” Emma walks to the front door, impatient. “You got it?”
I find Mr. Townsend’s email once again, scroll down until I find the password he sent, and punch the numbers into the keypad. The door makes a beeping sound, and I can hear the deadbolt turning. It’s like any smart lock, except this one is monitored by the federal government.
Emma pushes the door open, and we go inside. The foyer is empty but pretty with its Saltillo-tile floor and arched entryway into the living room, our next stop. As I suspected, the view is unrivaled from more arched windows. The windows remind me of a Taco Bell. The same Saltillo tiles are carried out in here too. There’s a Kiva-style fireplace outlined in bright Mexican Talavera tile and a chunky wooden mantel and wooden ceiling beams. Other than those features, it’s your basic rectangular room with a few leather couches, a recliner chair, coffee table, and a big-ass flat-screen TV.
Our next stop is the dining room. The dining table—Spanish revival, if I had to guess—only seats four and seems disproportionate to the size of the room. Not surprising that old Willy didn’t have many friends. There’s a matching buffet against the wall. The entire set could be an antique or a good knockoff, who’s to say?
We wander into the kitchen, which by today’s million-dollar-home standards is rather cramped. No center island, no gleaming stone countertops (more Talavera tile), no state-of-the-art appliances. Don’t get me wrong, it’s nice, lived in. But for a guy who made his living gambling, I expected something showier. Gold-gilded ceilings, museum-quality nude sculptures, Italian fountains.
I wonder if Emma is as underwhelmed as I am. Neither of us has said a word since we walked in. This was our father’s house. If we were expecting it to tell a story about the man, we were sorely mistaken.
