Signs indicated we were in Brentwood. “Is this where you live?” I asked. He nodded. “I would’ve taken you as more of an ocean kind of guy,” I said. “I figured you’d be right on the water.” “I have another place in Malibu,” he said. “But this is my primary residence.” We drove under a canopy of thick, tree lined streets and rode past low lying houses that were hidden behind tall, private gates. It was nothing short of beautiful and unlike anything I’d ever seen back home in Iowa. He turned into a narrow driveway surrounded by thick shrubs and clicked a button near his visor. The private gate opened to let us through and we pulled forward onto a paved driveway. The outside of his house was covered in white stucco and topped with a red tiled roof. Palm trees and various green shrubs lined his property, providing the perfect amount of shade. A bubbling fountain next to his front door served as a nice resting spot for two little brown birds, and his grass was manicured and lush.
