Though, it must be said, it was for ease for me when I was spending time down there, and I didn’t want to walk all the way up to the house to grab a snack or a drink or use the bathroom.
Not to mention, there was the 2700 square-foot house that I’d started referring to as my Goldilocks house.
It wasn’t too small, wasn’t too big, but did have lots of character, great bones and was already pretty danged cool, even if it needed work.
I liked this house, this space so much, even when the situation was resolved, which would hopefully be soon—soon enough I didn’t need to get into massive renovations—but I couldn’t stop myself because I had this feeling, deep down, this was going to be my place.
Not like my cottage in Cornwall that I bought on a whim, because Cornwall was so gorgeous I had to have a nest there but rarely had time to get to it.
Not like my flat in Paris, which my daughters and their friends used far more than me.
Not like my cabin in the mountains of Montana that I was certain would be the perfect sanctuary to inspire creativity, but I’d used it only once before I realized I wasn’t going to get there often enough to make it worthwhile, so I’d sold it.
No, this wasn’t like any of that.
I had the feeling I was going to die in this lake house, like the man who owned it before me.
And my feelings about almost anything were rarely ever wrong.
I just hoped when that happened, it would be like him in more than one way.
In other words, after I’d lived out my life and it was time to make room in this world for others.
The last issue about the lake house was a new issue.
It was the issue I discovered less than a second ago, after the movers had put together my bed. After I’d hauled up the pillows and linens and comforter and blankets I’d carefully packed in my car so I could make the bed in order for it to be ready to fall into it later.
This was, obviously, after I unpacked my suitcases that I’d also brought in my car. Suitcases that held exactly enough clothes, underwear and pajamas for five days (my estimate as per my comprehensive unpacking plans of when I’d be settled into the house, which gave me time to tackle the “closet”—in quotes because it did have some shelves and rails and you could walk into it, but it was still dire).
It was also after I put away the not-limited toiletries I felt I’d need at hand because there’d be FBI presence for the next few days, and I was, definitely, me.
Because I was, I had to put the face on it.
Of course, I could choose not to, but my mask was my armor, and I’d learned long ago life was a daily battle.
You didn’t face it unprepared.
The cable people were coming, and the computer people too, and the contractors would be interviewed so I could decide which one from the list I wanted to work with, and all of this needed more than my oversight, the FBI would be watching.
They’d back off when I was settled (not entirely, but they had other things to do and other people to keep safe, and if anyone knew this was going on—and as a government agency, that might eventually happen—it wouldn’t look good for them that some famous woman was getting that kind of attention when I could afford to make myself safe).
In the end, that was what would happen.
Ongoing, it would be me taking care of things.
Or at least paying for it.
To that end, I’d contracted with Joe Callahan (approved by the FBI), and he’d set up the security system for the house, with permission from the owners of the property down below, patching into the impressive (Callahan’s estimation) system that was already there.
And for continuing security, he’d recommended an outfit led by a man named Hawk Delgado (who was very approved by the FBI).
I knew Callahan was the best of the best, everyone who was anyone did.
Delgado had that same reputation, albeit not as widespread, because not everyone needed his particular skillset.
I’d met him, and as it always went for me, I’d read him.
What I read was that he was beyond impressive.
Part of that was that he listened. He understood my need for privacy, how deep that went, not only as a part of my character, but also my business.
I couldn’t have a bodyguard breathing down my neck.
He got that too and improvised.
In other words, on that score, I was good.
But I digress.
The new issue I’d noted was after I’d walked down the stairs from dealing with my bedroom.
I looked left, through the jumble of furniture and boxes, through the rear wall of windows and beyond, to the large deck at the back of the house.