Astrid turns into a long, paved driveway. “The best in the state. Whether you want your kids to go to public or private, one of my services is to help jump you to the top of the waiting list. I’ll send some materials for the two of you to look over later tonight.”
“This neighborhood isclass.” Connor looks around the thirty-foot-high trees surrounding us.
We emerge from what, essentially, is a forest into a clearing where a sprawling, modern prairie-style home takes center stage. Located on the point, the property sits on two acres. The juxtaposition is incredible. While the drive in feels like the wilderness, once we get to the clearing everything opens up. An acre of full waterfront access lined with manicured lawns and sleek stone walkways.
I step out of the Bentley onto the intricate chevron-patterned driveway and instantly feel at home. It’s the first place we’ve looked at and I already know it’s the house I never knew I needed. Without even seeing the inside, somehow I know—this is the perfect home for Connor and me to raise our family.
“Jaysus, this is something else.” Connor runs his hands along the heavy steel panels embedded into an old-growth wood front door. It’s twice as tall as he is. “I’ve never seen workmanship so beautiful.”
“Everything you’ll see is custom. From the finishes to the paint. There is nothing in this house you could buy off the shelf in any store.” Astrid, wearing a vintage ivory wool tweed Chanel suit paired with nude Louboutin’s, is every inch the image of every high-end realtor I’ve met in LA. Minus the entitled attitude. She’s stylish, down to earth and friendly.
We enter a foyer into a seating area filled with oversized plush cream couches and gray-and-cream-striped chairs in the middle of two floor-to-ceiling steel fireplaces. The entire back of the house is glass. Lake Washington seems like it’s in the room. I notice a covered dock, with a huge boat moored at the end of it.
“Wow, this is something else.” I can’t help but look out the windows and gawk.
Connor joins me at the window. Wraps his arm around my shoulder. We both gaze out at the calm lake lapping at the shore. “Growing up, there’s no way I’d have even dreamed of visiting a house like this, let alone owning it.”
He takes my hand and squeezes, letting me know he’s as much in love with this place as I am.
Astrid takes us on the rest of the tour. When I see the kitchen, I silently celebrate. It’s the closest thing to Fee’s kitchen I’ve seen. It’s smaller, and the design is sleeker and modern, but I’m not the professional chef in the group. It’s astounding. Fiona will be proud.
It takes about an hour to tour the entire place. We learn about every custom feature of the house, and they are endless. The bedrooms are perfect. The bathrooms are perfect. There isn’t one thing I’d change.
“Will the owners sell the furniture and art with the property?” The three of us are sitting in what Astrid calls a “whiskey” room, which is more like an old-time gentleman’s lounge with a fully stocked bar with half-a-dozen oversized chairs set up in a semicircle facing the lake.
She taps her phone. “I just asked. Are you ready to head to the next location, or do you have any other questions about this property?”
Connor and I catch each other’s eye. He nods then takes my hand. “Astrid, love. I think this might be the place for us.”
“I thought it might.” She smiles as she finishes her text but doesn’t look up.
“As we mentioned, we’re all-cash buyers,” I remind her, suddenly nervous that maybe we’re not the only ones interested in this house. It’s a steep price tag, I can’t imagine there will be a bidding war.
“There’s one thing to discuss. As you may have heard from Jason, I pride myself on my ability to be discreet.” Astrid leans forward on her elbows, flicking her gaze to both of us.
Rather than answer, I lean back in my chair and hold eye contact. It’s a power move I learned from Kris. Men never lean forward; the body language is too urgent. Desperate. Leaning back gives you control over every situation. You’re in a receptive position—people are likely to be drawn in.
Connor mirrors me. “Go on.”
“Do you covet press and paparazzi?” She looks directly at me when she asks the question.
I brush a lock of hair out of my eyes. “Why do you ask?”
Another negotiating tactic. Never answer a question from a relative stranger unless you have some idea what their end-game is.
“Privacy. The residents in Hunts Point pride themselves on discretion.” Astrid does her best to speak to both of us, but she clearly is addressing me. I get it. “Despite the, uh, situations you find yourself in currently, you’re both well-known in your own professions. Most of the residents here set up shell companies to hold the real estate in to avoid detection. If you’re of the mindset to cultivate press and publicity—say, social media or otherwise, we may need to look at less-exclusive neighborhoods.”
Relief washes over me. She’s alleviated one of my biggest fears without even realizing it. “No. We want to raise our kids in a quiet, secure location where we’re safe. I loved my house in Malibu, but everyone knew where to find me. It’s currently impossible to leave the house without being photographed. It’s one of many reasons we’re relocating to Seattle.”
“Aye. This place is perfect. We love the water view. It’s relaxing. Helps us escape from the madness of our lives.” Connor nods.
Astrid smiles like we’ve answered her questions perfectly. “Well, should we write up an offer?”
With our fate decided, Astrid drives us around what we hope will be our new neighborhood. Shows us the harbor at Carillon Point. Her favorite bistros and restaurants. Grocery stores. We get a great feel for the location, including where the schools are. We stop in nearby Bellevue at John Howie Steak for lunch.
Over the most delicious Cobb salad I’ve ever tasted, we hammer out the details of the offer. It’s hard to believe that we’ll be able to buy the house outright and still bank several million dollars from the sale of the Malibu house.
Just before we finish, Astrid looks at my husband. “Would you mind if I asked you a question, Connor?”