‘It’s lovely,’ I gushed as I closed the car door behind me.
Caitlyn grinned. ‘I told you so. Great curb appeal, don’t you think?’
Behind me, Paul grunted. ‘If it had a curb.’
I shot him a look, then took several steps backwards to widen my view. I whipped out my own iPhone, aimed and took some photos, trying to capture as much of the scene as I could. The stone wall, yellow with dried moss. The half-timbered stucco. The way the lace-curtained dormers peeked out of the shingled rooftop like friendly eyes. ‘It’s like something out of a Beatrix Potter illustration, isn’t it, Paul?’
‘As I’m not Flopsy, Mopsy, Cottontail or Peter, I’m withholding comment until we can see inside,’ my husband replied with a grin.
Caitlyn lifted a wrought-iron latch and pushed the wooden gate open. ‘No time like the present, then.’
The moment we stepped through the gate, I was a goner. As we strolled along the flagstone path that curved gently up to the dusty red front door, I fell hopelessly in love with the huge oak tree that dominated the yard, including the wooden crutch that propped up one of its low-hanging branches. I was charmed by the plantings along the path, cascading over the rims of blue ceramic pots. I wanted those leaded windows, those shutters, those window boxes where screaming orange begonias bedded down with pink petunias, trailing purple sweet potato vine. I coveted the wooden bench, too, borne on the backs of stone turtles. I pined for the bird bath, even fancied the topiary swan – which needed a trim – but, no matter, I was good with pruning shears.
‘Hannah? You coming?’ Paul called from the murky depths of the entrance hall while Caitlyn held the front door wide.
Light fixtures like inverted trumpet vine blossoms, green with the patina of age, flanked the door. I wanted them, too.
Inside, an open staircase led directly to the second floor. ‘There’s a modern bath upstairs with two bedrooms adjoining,’ Caitlyn informed us, waving a hand casually upward then chugging on. ‘But you’ll want to see the downstairs first.’
The claustrophobic entrance hall spit us out into a bright living room with an enormous stone fireplace at one end and a drop-dead view of Chiconnesick Creek at the other. Paul slammed on the brakes and sucked in air. ‘Whoa!’
From her spot in front of the wall-to-wall picture windows, Caitlyn grinned. ‘Exactly. This is all part of the original house,’ she continued. ‘The kitchen and dining room, too.’
I blessed the kitchen – which had modern stainless-steel appliances and marbled granite countertops – but the dining room was dark and pokey, with barely enough room for a table that would seat six. ‘Can we knock this down?’ I asked, running my hand along the wall that separated the dining room from the kitchen. ‘And it’s not just my aversion to flocked wallpaper, either,’ I grinned, although it featured acid-green flowers that even a Victorian housewife would have found hideous.
Paul smiled. ‘Hannah’s been watching too many makeover shows on TV.’
‘You’d have to consult a builder,’ Caitlyn said, ‘but it seems to me that anything’s possible, as long as it’s not load-bearing.’ We trailed back into the living room after her. ‘Through this door here you’ll find the master suite addition, which I know you’ll adore,’ Caitlyn chirped, herding us quickly along. She paused at the door and swept her arm to the side like a game show hostess. ‘And the previous owners balanced off the master suite with an office and laundry room addition over there.’
‘Everything’s so tidy and clean,’ I commented as we wandered into a master bedroom dominated by a king-sized bed, which was staged with enough decorative pillows to bed down the entire U.S. Army.
‘There will be issues, I’m sure,’ Paul said as he peered appreciatively into the walk-in shower that would comfortably accommodate his lanky six-foot-two-inch frame. ‘There usually are in a house of this age.’
‘Pedigree, my dear,’ I corrected. ‘Not age.’
‘It’s not, “Do you have termites?”’ Paul expanded on the thought, opening a door that led to a linen closet, peeking in and closing it again. ‘It’s “How have the termites been treated, and how often?”’
‘According to the owner, the house was last tented five years ago, but you’ll have an inspection, I’m sure,’ Caitlyn interjected as she opened one of the French doors that led from the bedroom out onto the deck.
We followed. Paul rested both hands against the railing, took a deep breath, leaned forward and let it out slowly. ‘I could get used to this.’
Below us, the lawn sloped gradually down to the shore where a wooden dock extended about fifty feet into the creek. At the far end a power boat bobbed, secured to the dock with blue and white lines, the ends of which had been neatly coiled on the planking like braided rugs. A splash of neon blue among the cattails and jewelweed turned out to be a kayak, inverted onto a wooden rack.
‘The boats convey,’ Caitlyn said.
Paul whistled. ‘You’re kidding.’
‘Nope. As I said, she’s a motivated seller. Legal Ease was always his retreat, not hers. She’s looking forward to buying a condo in Scottsdale and to spending more time with her grandchildren.’
Paul turned his back on the view, sat back against the porch rail. ‘The asking price. How much wiggle-room is there?’
Caitlyn shrugged. ‘A bit, but honestly, I don’t think the house will last long at this price point.’
Paul scowled. He hated to be pressured. ‘We’ll need to factor some renovations into the equation, of course, as well as repairs.’
Caitlyn’s smile seemed a bit forced. ‘Of course.’
Paul rolled forward onto the balls of his feet. ‘My wife and I will have to discuss it, but we could have an offer for you by tomorrow. Can you promise not to schedule any additional showings until then?’
Caitlyn remained silent, studying his face as if gauging his sincerity. ‘OK, but if I don’t hear from you by noon…’ Her voice trailed off.
‘You will, one way or the other.’ Paul checked his watch and switched gears. ‘Hannah and I are looking for a nice place to have a late lunch and talk this over. We hear the Boat House is good.’
Caitlyn shook her head. ‘Closed on Wednesdays.’
‘Where would you suggest, then?’ I asked.
‘Well, if you want local color, I’d go to the High Spot. You’ll run into everyone there, sooner or later.’
While we wandered through the garden waiting for Caitlyn to secure the front door and replace the key in a lockbox hidden in a decorative watering can, I said to Paul, ‘We’ll have to rename it, of course.’
‘What? The cottage?’ Paul adjusted a shutter hanging crookedly from a rusty hinge and grinned. ‘How about we call it Crumbles.’
I smiled back at him. ‘Let’s just call it home.’
THREE
‘More tears are shed over answered prayers than unanswered ones.’
St Theresa of Avila, 1515-1582
Alas, because of a curriculum planning meeting Paul had forgotten until a colleague called him with a last-minute question, we had to skip the High Spot café and hustle back to Annapolis. Paul could function for days without food, running on diet cola and fumes, but I was faint with hunger, so he took pity, stopping at a Subway just north of Pocomoke City. I dashed in for a spicy Italian foot-long sandwich – half with jalapeños and half without – which we shared as we drove, staving off starvation.
We stopped for gas on the outskirts of Easton and switched drivers. With his hands free, Paul made arrangements with Caitlyn for a quick house inspection, and after the appraiser’s report came in later that evening, Paul studied it, did the math and made an offer.