Chapter 10: Rancho Mirage
Chris felt suffocated. He’d only been on the island for ten days, but his mind had been inside Atman’s the whole time. And working for Sam meant there was constant pressure to produce results, even if Sam wasn’t there. Chris knew that would quickly change at some point.
He needed a break. But he also needed to find the truth. He negotiated some family leave time with Maya in LA and his “cousin” in Palm Springs.
Lying to Sam was the easy part. The hard part—Chris hadn’t lied to Maya in years.
When he finally landed back in LA, he called her. When he told her he was heading to California to take care of some important business in Palm Springs—and not stopping in LA—his voice didn’t even crack. She barely looked up from her laptop.
“That’s good,” she said. “You need some sunshine.”
The irony hit him harder than it should have.
—————
He arrived at Sunnylands on a Thursday morning.
The desert air shimmered with heat, even in spring. Rancho Mirage stretched out like a mirage of affluence—perfect hedges, bougainvillea explosions, infinity pools disguised as water features. But Sunnylands was different. Quieter. Older. Like it existed slightly out of time.
The estate stood low and wide across the desert green expanse, a pale pink modernist monolith, shadowless under the sun. From a distance, it looked serene. Up close, it hummed.
A tour group gathered at the visitors’ center. Mostly retirees in linen shirts and wide-brimmed hats. Chris blended in with a pair of sunglasses and the self-conscious slouch of a man pretending to be on vacation.
The guide appeared at 10:00 sharp.
He was young—maybe early twenties—with shoulder-length blonde hair, a subtle gold chain around his neck, and the kind of androgynous confidence that didn’t seem taught. His voice was warm, his gestures casual.
“I’m Tristan,” he said. “Welcome to Sunnylands, a historic retreat for presidents, diplomats, and seekers of all kinds. Follow me.”
Chris fell in line, silent.
—————
The tour moved slowly, reverently.
The group entered the estate through the monumental front door that blurred the line between interior and exterior. The ceilings around the perimeter were low, but the space felt vast as it vaulted up over the living room and central atrium. Every angle was strange, but intentional. Light entered like it had been rehearsed.
“This house was designed by A. Quincy Jones and opened in 1996,” Tristan said. “It’s an architectural time capsule. But more than that—it’s a living meditation.”
Chris looked up.
“The layout follows sacred geometries,” Tristan continued, eyes flashing. “Not religious. Resonant. Ratios from nature. Sound. Light.”
Chris wasn’t sure if that was part of the standard tour, or if Tristan had clocked him somehow.
As they passed by the living room, all eyes went immediately to Rodin’s Eve sculpture under the central skylight, or “roof monitor” as Chris knew it. Modern paintings hung in thick gilded frames on the lava stone walls. Mid-century furniture with custom floral patterns still sat perfectly preserved. The juxtaposition of seemingly disparate styles and epochs was palpable, but not off-putting.
They turned left down a short corridor and into the Room of Memories, which was full of black and white photographs and other memorabilia collected by the Annenbergs. It was the CliffsNotes of US history, except you felt the presence of past Presidents. On the far wall was the portrait of Walter—media mogul, diplomat, philanthropist, and proprietor of the Sunnylands estate.
He looked stern and serious, but his emotions were betrayed by context.
The portrait might have been the smallest one Chris ever saw—Walter only occupied a quarter of the frame, his likeness positioned to the bottom left of the painting. It was also rendered in egg tempera, a stylistic intention by the acclaimed artist Andrew Wyeth, but a method that hadn’t been used since the Renaissance.
But the strangest feature of them all—Walter donned a robe. A choir robe, according to Tristan.
Chris interrupted. “A what?”
Tristan chuckled. “Yes, I know. He wore it regularly. He used to say it was the most comfortable kind of clothing that still looked dignified.”
But it was the next room— the Inwood Room—that stopped Chris cold.
Small. Asymmetrical. Lined with antique furniture and gold-gilded furnishings. At its center, an antique mirror stood atop a fireplace mantle. The mirror was in three sections, ornately framed in gold, and utterly forgettable—except it wasn’t, not this time.
Chris stared at it.
Something in the way the light hit its surface… it didn’t reflect so much as refract. Like it was showing light’s memory, not its presence.
Tristan noticed.
“This room has undergone a number of transformations over the years,” he said quietly. “It was not the Annenbergs’ favorite room, but Walter considered it an especially resonant space. It’s in this room where diplomats formulate policy and make resolutions, still to this day.”
Chris stepped closer.
Tristan grinned. “Most say the mirror was purchased in England while Walter was ambassador. Others say it was smuggled in from a church in France. No one really knows.”
Chris asked, “Did Walter wear his choir robe in here?”
Tristan tilted his head. “We may never know.”
“What a mystery.”
Tristan shrugged. “That was Walter. He was part showman, part mystic. Depends on who you ask.”
Chris nodded and stepped back.
As the group moved on, Tristan turned and added, half-smiling, “If you’re looking for secret passageways behind the fireplace, you’ll be disappointed. It’s fake, but not that kind of fake.”
Chris smiled, but said nothing.
—————
After the tour, he waited until the others left.
Tristan emerged from a back door, carrying a canvas tote and looking mildly surprised to see Chris still there.
“Lose something?”
Chris hesitated. “Actually… I was hoping to ask you a few questions. Off the record.”
Tristan raised an eyebrow. “You a reporter?”
“Architect.”
Tristan motioned toward the parking lot. “We’re not allowed to talk about mystics or ghosts on the grounds. But the bar down the street doesn’t have that rule.”
—————
The bar was dim and blessedly air-conditioned.
They sat in a booth with two cold beers between them. Chris explained, carefully, that he’d been sent here under unusual circumstances. That someone—possibly artificial—had drawn this place before ever seeing it. That he’d heard a story about a robe, a mirror, and a message sent into space.
Tristan didn’t laugh.
He just nodded slowly and sipped his drink.
“That actually tracks,” he said.
Chris blinked. “You’re not surprised?”
“Walter was deep into experimental broadcasting. Did you know he funded early satellite uplinks for diplomatic messaging? He called it nonlinear diplomacy.”
Chris narrowed his eyes. “That’s not in the tour script.”
“Nope.”
Tristan pulled a notebook from his bag. Inside were sketches—not drawings, exactly, but architectural notations, sound maps, even what looked like waveform patterns laid over floor plans.
“I’ve been... following threads,” he said. “Things that don’t make it into the coffee table books.”
Chris pointed at one diagram. “Is that the Inwood Room?”
“Redrawn from memory. It’s got harmonic proportions that match early Vedic mandalas. And I found a weird stitching pattern in a robe in the archives. Looked almost like quantum math.”
Chris sat back. “You’re serious.”
Tristan smiled. “I don’t joke about robes.”
They clinked glasses.
Chris, emboldened, said: “I told someone earlier that it looked like a space suit.”
Tristan grinned. “You’re not the first to say that.”
He paused.
Then, quieter: “But you might be the first who means it.”
—————
Later that night, Chris walked the perimeter of Sunnylands in the dark.
The estate was closed, but the desert didn’t care.
He stood at the fence line, staring at the shape of the house against the stars. It looked like a ship half-submerged in sand. A vehicle frozen mid-transmission.
He took a deep breath.
He didn’t believe in destiny.
But something had pulled him here.
And for the first time in a long time, Chris didn’t feel lost.
He felt… pointed.