packed myself back into the car. Following the GPS directions, I twisted and turned my way into the hills, each bend in the road affording me an even better view of the lights of the town below. My father had hired someone to turn on some lights and make sure I’d have no problem getting in. And as I saw the gate for the ranch, I realized I was grinning big. I was so excited to see the house—it always felt so cozy and comfortable and gorgeous, all at the same time. I punched in the code, the old gates swung open, and I headed down the gravel drive.
It was originally a small cattle ranch, and though animals hadn’t been raised here in years, the old pastures and fence posts remained. Every ten yards or so there was a gas lantern atop a post, alternating sides, illuminating the driveway in flickers of flame. In the sixties my grandfather had expanded the original house, creating a wonderfully open space that was great for entertaining. And as I rounded the last curve and finally caught sight of the house, my grin got even bigger.
It was straight out of the Rat Pack. Pure California ranch style through and through, it was low, open, one story, and full of floor-to-ceiling windows. Incredibly innovative at the time, they slid on tracks so that you could open them all the way, creating an indoor space that was equally outdoors.
I grabbed my overnight bag, crunched up the gravel walkway, and took out my keys. Light spilled through every window; they had really left the light on for me. When I pushed open the door, a wave of nostalgia washed over me. Pine, sage, and anight-blooming jasmine seeped in from the back garden. I set my bag down and turned in a 360-degree circle.
I could easily envision Frank Sinatra and Dean Martin hanging out, paling around. Low modular furniture in tangerine leather in the living room off to my left, offset by an enormous glass coffee table in the shape of a kidney bean. Big glass balloon lamps floated over matching deep red oval end tables. An area rug in a black-and-white diamond pattern screamed from the floor, but was tempered by the fountain—oh, yes, a fountain—that was bubbling away on the inset bar in the corner. The most authentic tiki bar you ever did see. Stacked with highballs, lowballs, old-fashioned bowl-shaped champagne glasses, and several sizes of metallic cocktail shakers. I told them I’d be taking one of them out for a test run tomorrow.
On my left was a dining room with a table that could seat twenty. An oblong tortoiseshell, it had chairs with alternating cushions of turquoise and gold. Over the table soared a chandelier that had always reminded me of the old-fashioned game of Jacks, with silver rods jutting out at all angles and spheres of blown ruby glass at the ends.
Under my feet a terrazzo floor poured out in a wave pattern toward the kitchen, where it met polished concrete. An enormous wall of custom cabinets, light blond wood above the largest orange Formica countertop anyone had ever seen. At least in my generation.
Down the hall were several bedrooms, including the master, where I’d be sleeping. But off the kitchen? That’s where I was headed. Through one of those enormous floor-to-ceiling glass doors was the most gorgeous terraced patio, inlaid Spanish tile set against adobe brick. There were tables and chairs and umbrellas everywhere, all in shades of sunny yellow and gold, like you might see outside a Tastee-Freez in the summertime. Threelevels of terraces with potted olive and lemon trees, and then the pool. Free form and lush, it was painted dark green, giving it a tropical lagoon feel. I gazed at it a moment, considering a swim, but my sore muscles were singing a different story.
Collecting my overnight bag, I headed for the master bedroom (shades of green and pink with palm tree wallpaper, very Beverly Hills Hotel) and took a quick shower in the bathroom (shades of aqua and mint with golden mirrors, very Liberace in the Desert), and fell into the
It was originally a small cattle ranch, and though animals hadn’t been raised here in years, the old pastures and fence posts remained. Every ten yards or so there was a gas lantern atop a post, alternating sides, illuminating the driveway in flickers of flame. In the sixties my grandfather had expanded the original house, creating a wonderfully open space that was great for entertaining. And as I rounded the last curve and finally caught sight of the house, my grin got even bigger.
It was straight out of the Rat Pack. Pure California ranch style through and through, it was low, open, one story, and full of floor-to-ceiling windows. Incredibly innovative at the time, they slid on tracks so that you could open them all the way, creating an indoor space that was equally outdoors.
I grabbed my overnight bag, crunched up the gravel walkway, and took out my keys. Light spilled through every window; they had really left the light on for me. When I pushed open the door, a wave of nostalgia washed over me. Pine, sage, and anight-blooming jasmine seeped in from the back garden. I set my bag down and turned in a 360-degree circle.
I could easily envision Frank Sinatra and Dean Martin hanging out, paling around. Low modular furniture in tangerine leather in the living room off to my left, offset by an enormous glass coffee table in the shape of a kidney bean. Big glass balloon lamps floated over matching deep red oval end tables. An area rug in a black-and-white diamond pattern screamed from the floor, but was tempered by the fountain—oh, yes, a fountain—that was bubbling away on the inset bar in the corner. The most authentic tiki bar you ever did see. Stacked with highballs, lowballs, old-fashioned bowl-shaped champagne glasses, and several sizes of metallic cocktail shakers. I told them I’d be taking one of them out for a test run tomorrow.
On my left was a dining room with a table that could seat twenty. An oblong tortoiseshell, it had chairs with alternating cushions of turquoise and gold. Over the table soared a chandelier that had always reminded me of the old-fashioned game of Jacks, with silver rods jutting out at all angles and spheres of blown ruby glass at the ends.
Under my feet a terrazzo floor poured out in a wave pattern toward the kitchen, where it met polished concrete. An enormous wall of custom cabinets, light blond wood above the largest orange Formica countertop anyone had ever seen. At least in my generation.
Down the hall were several bedrooms, including the master, where I’d be sleeping. But off the kitchen? That’s where I was headed. Through one of those enormous floor-to-ceiling glass doors was the most gorgeous terraced patio, inlaid Spanish tile set against adobe brick. There were tables and chairs and umbrellas everywhere, all in shades of sunny yellow and gold, like you might see outside a Tastee-Freez in the summertime. Threelevels of terraces with potted olive and lemon trees, and then the pool. Free form and lush, it was painted dark green, giving it a tropical lagoon feel. I gazed at it a moment, considering a swim, but my sore muscles were singing a different story.
Collecting my overnight bag, I headed for the master bedroom (shades of green and pink with palm tree wallpaper, very Beverly Hills Hotel) and took a quick shower in the bathroom (shades of aqua and mint with golden mirrors, very Liberace in the Desert), and fell into the
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