Chapter 3 - The Lake House on Mercer Island
Walking onto the Vance Estate felt like stepping into an architectural digest feature. Nestled along the eastern shore of Mercer Island, the property was surrounded by towering Douglas firs and sloped down toward a private deep-water dock. The main house was a sprawling contemporary masterpiece of cedar, glass, and raw basalt stone, but the interior was currently a cavernous maze of exposed steel beams and unfinished cedar ceilings.
I wore my best tailored charcoal blazer, my hair pulled into a sharp bun, with Maisie sleeping soundly in a sleek, neutral-toned chest carrier tucked discreetly beneath my coat. I carried my portfolio binder under one arm and a sleek digital tablet in the other.
Arthur Vance was sitting on an overturned wooden crate in the middle of what was supposed to be the great room, wearing faded denim, work boots, and reading glasses perched on the tip of his nose. He was a retired timber and logistics tycoon whose reputation for chewing up contractors preceded him.
""You're late by two minutes,"" he barked without looking up from a set of rolled schematics.
""I had to ensure my daughter was burped and comfortable so she wouldn't interrupt your focus, Mr. Vance,"" I replied smoothly, stepping into the center of the dust-covered floor. ""Two minutes spent now saved us thirty minutes of potential noise later. Good time management begins with risk mitigation.""
Arthur slowly lifted his head, his sharp gray eyes darting from my face down to the baby nestled against my chest. A flicker of surprise crossed his weathered features, quickly replaced by a skeptical smirk. ""A working mother who doesn't make excuses. Novel. Let’s see what you’ve got, Jenna. The last guy wanted to turn my dining pavilion into a glass terrarium that would bake everyone alive by noon.""
For the next two hours, the unfinished mansion was filled with the sound of ideas. I didn't present the generic, sterile minimalism that was trending on social media. I showed him how to honor the Pacific Northwest environment—incorporating floor-to-ceiling accordion glass walls that pulled the lake into the living space, a dual-sided hearth carved from native stone, and vaulted timber acoustics that would make the house feel warm despite its vast scale.
Maisie didn't make a peep. She woke up halfway through, stared wide-eyed at the sweeping wooden beams above her, and cooed softly before chewing on her fist.
Arthur watched her, then turned his gaze back to my rendering of the lakeside banquet terrace. ""My late wife, Margaret, always said a home isn't an art gallery. It’s a container for memory. Everyone else gave me showrooms. You gave me a home.""
He stood up, brushing sawdust from his jeans, and extended a calloused hand. ""The job is yours. On one condition: the main entertaining spaces, the gourmet kitchen, and the lakefront pavilion must be fully functional and dressed before Thanksgiving. My family hasn't spent a holiday together in five years. I want it extraordinary.""
May you like
""Consider it done,"" I said, shaking his hand firmly.
That afternoon, a retainer deposit landed in my account that was larger than my entire previous annual salary. Sitting in my beat-up car outside the estate gates, I buried my face in Maisie's soft curls and wept—not from sorrow, but from the sudden, intoxicating weight of freedom.
