what we’ve done? I mean, it’s so . . . big.”
Lindsay looked up, and reached across the table to squeeze her friend’s fingers. “No,” she lied. “Never.”
Bridget returned a smile that recognized the bravado, and appreciated it. She sat back, sipping the lukewarm coffee. “You know what would really be spectacular? To get the reflecting pool cleaned out and the fountain running again.”
“I can’t imagine what that would cost.”
“Probably just a pool pump. I was flipping through the telephone book last night and saw there was a hardware store in town. I bet they have pumps.”
“Girls!” Cici’s voice, muffled as it came from the cellar stairs and through the open door. “Come down here! You’ve got to see this!”
“Oh God.” Bridget rushed to her feet, only half kidding. “She’s found a body.”
The two women hurried inside and, slippers clattering on the stairs, rushed into the dimly lit cellar.
“What is it?” Lindsay demanded.
“Are you okay?” Bridget insisted.
Cici gave an impatient shake of her head, holding the hem of her robe off the dusty floor as she led the way forward. “I fixed the fuse,” she told Bridget. “But that fuse box is the first thing we’re going to have to replace if we expect to have central heat and air. But look.” Turning a corner, she pushed open an arched, stained plank door. “This is what I wanted to show you. I never even realized it was here. I guess the movers must have found it when they were storing our stuff down here and forgot to close the door all the way. I only noticed it because of the daylight coming through.”
“Good heavens,” said Bridget.
“Well, will you look at that?” Lindsay entered the room slowly, gazing about.
Cici had flipped the switch that illuminated the overhead light fixture, revealing a small chamber with a painted iron bed, a dresser, and a nightstand. The interior light was not really necessary, though, because of the glass-paned door that opened to the exterior of the house. A set of steps, all but concealed by an overgrown boxwood, appeared to lead to the back garden.
The bed was neatly made up with a patchwork quilt, and on the dresser was a worn leather Bible. Bridget carefully opened the front cover of the Bible and read the faded brown handwriting inside. “Ida Mae Simpson, 1951,” she said softly. “Wow.” She glanced around. “It’s like whoever lived here just . . . walked away.”
On the left-hand wall there were two doors. Cici opened one of them to reveal a small bathroom.
“Probably this whole cellar was the servants’ quarters,” Lindsay said, “until they decided to turn it into a wine cellar. And this room they would have kept and updated for the modern-day housekeeper.” She sighed. “Imagine being able to live like that. I feel like I’m in one of those PBS specials. You know, Upstairs, Downstairs or something.”
“I think you’re right about this being the old servants’ quarters.” Cici opened the second door, and found a light switch on the interior wall. A narrow staircase opened upward into the house. “Probably this opened into a hallway originally until they decided to build this room around it.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Bridget. “That must be the staircase that goes from the kitchen to the attic. I never realized it went down, too!”
“That’s because there are doors on every level to conserve heat,” explained Cici. “This must have been the maid’s quarters, or maybe the chief housekeeper’s. She would have access to all the floors from here, plus the kitchen garden.” She nodded toward the outside doors. “Nice digs, for hired help.”
“Come on,” said Lindsay, catching Bridget’s hand and pulling her into the stairwell. “Let’s check it out.”
Cici flicked a switch that illuminated a bare bulb one floor above them, and Lindsay tossed a grin over her shoulder. “I just love this house!”
They traced the staircase all the way to
Lindsay looked up, and reached across the table to squeeze her friend’s fingers. “No,” she lied. “Never.”
Bridget returned a smile that recognized the bravado, and appreciated it. She sat back, sipping the lukewarm coffee. “You know what would really be spectacular? To get the reflecting pool cleaned out and the fountain running again.”
“I can’t imagine what that would cost.”
“Probably just a pool pump. I was flipping through the telephone book last night and saw there was a hardware store in town. I bet they have pumps.”
“Girls!” Cici’s voice, muffled as it came from the cellar stairs and through the open door. “Come down here! You’ve got to see this!”
“Oh God.” Bridget rushed to her feet, only half kidding. “She’s found a body.”
The two women hurried inside and, slippers clattering on the stairs, rushed into the dimly lit cellar.
“What is it?” Lindsay demanded.
“Are you okay?” Bridget insisted.
Cici gave an impatient shake of her head, holding the hem of her robe off the dusty floor as she led the way forward. “I fixed the fuse,” she told Bridget. “But that fuse box is the first thing we’re going to have to replace if we expect to have central heat and air. But look.” Turning a corner, she pushed open an arched, stained plank door. “This is what I wanted to show you. I never even realized it was here. I guess the movers must have found it when they were storing our stuff down here and forgot to close the door all the way. I only noticed it because of the daylight coming through.”
“Good heavens,” said Bridget.
“Well, will you look at that?” Lindsay entered the room slowly, gazing about.
Cici had flipped the switch that illuminated the overhead light fixture, revealing a small chamber with a painted iron bed, a dresser, and a nightstand. The interior light was not really necessary, though, because of the glass-paned door that opened to the exterior of the house. A set of steps, all but concealed by an overgrown boxwood, appeared to lead to the back garden.
The bed was neatly made up with a patchwork quilt, and on the dresser was a worn leather Bible. Bridget carefully opened the front cover of the Bible and read the faded brown handwriting inside. “Ida Mae Simpson, 1951,” she said softly. “Wow.” She glanced around. “It’s like whoever lived here just . . . walked away.”
On the left-hand wall there were two doors. Cici opened one of them to reveal a small bathroom.
“Probably this whole cellar was the servants’ quarters,” Lindsay said, “until they decided to turn it into a wine cellar. And this room they would have kept and updated for the modern-day housekeeper.” She sighed. “Imagine being able to live like that. I feel like I’m in one of those PBS specials. You know, Upstairs, Downstairs or something.”
“I think you’re right about this being the old servants’ quarters.” Cici opened the second door, and found a light switch on the interior wall. A narrow staircase opened upward into the house. “Probably this opened into a hallway originally until they decided to build this room around it.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Bridget. “That must be the staircase that goes from the kitchen to the attic. I never realized it went down, too!”
“That’s because there are doors on every level to conserve heat,” explained Cici. “This must have been the maid’s quarters, or maybe the chief housekeeper’s. She would have access to all the floors from here, plus the kitchen garden.” She nodded toward the outside doors. “Nice digs, for hired help.”
“Come on,” said Lindsay, catching Bridget’s hand and pulling her into the stairwell. “Let’s check it out.”
Cici flicked a switch that illuminated a bare bulb one floor above them, and Lindsay tossed a grin over her shoulder. “I just love this house!”
They traced the staircase all the way to
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