and high and overgrown they obscured the sight of the ocean. The wild greenery scratched and skittered along the sides of the Mercedes. Now the shrubs parted, and there was the house, serene and centered against the sea and sky.
It looked as charmingly forthright as it had the first time she saw it, two years before, and again last August when she’d crept down the drive for one brief, clandestine, longing look.
“It’s like something from a storybook,” Joanna observed.
Bob came around to help her out of the station wagon. “It’s a great old house, no doubt about it.” They stood side by side, looking up at it. “Its architecture combines the best elements of several periods and philosophies. The plain weathered gray shingles and the basic structural design reflect the Quaker belief in simplicity. But about the timeFarthingale built his house, the island was changing and architecture was, too. See the framing of the door?” Approaching the house, he ran his hands over two broad, flat, upright boards on either side of the door. “These are called pilasters, and the board that connects them over the top is called the entablature. You can see how it echoes very simply the structure of a Greek temple. This detail is carried on throughout the house, over the eight fireplaces, although as you’ll see, the ones downstairs are more decorative.”
“How did Greek Revival get out here?” Joanna asked.
“It all connects up to what was going on at the time. The United States had just come out of the Revolution and then the War of 1812. The people were eager to show in every way, especially in the outward appearance of their homes, that this country had thrown off the English influence and was becoming a strong republic on its own. They wanted to emulate the ancient Greek city-state, which was the birthplace of democracy, so they put up all these sort of miniature Greek temples. As a matter of fact, many of our big beautiful buildings in town—the Atheneum, the Methodist church, the mansions on Main Street—are Greek Revival, and I have to say those buildings are awfully damned elegant.” Bob shook his head in admiration, then smiled abashedly. “I’m an amateur historian. Just tell me to shut up when I get carried away.”
“No, no, I’m interested in all this, really,” Joanna told him, biting her tongue just before she blurted out, “It’s my field, actually.” He didn’t seem to know who she was—not that he should recognize her with the wig on—and she wanted to keep it that way for a while.
“I should be telling you stuff you need to know.” Bob stepped back and looked up, pointing at the windows. “Six over six windowpanes. See the ripples? That’s the original glass. The good news is that the house hasn’t been tampered with very much. You might say that its integrity is complete. That’s the bad news, too. Except for the necessary reshinglings over the years, it hasn’t been tampered with very much. It hasn’t been cared for. It needs a lot of work.”
“That doesn’t scare me,” Joanna told him.
“Okay, then, let’s go inside. I came out earlier to turn on the heat, but it’s still going to feel chilly. Damp. The way houses do when they’ve been shut up for a long time.” He turned the key in the lock, held the blue door open, and let Joanna pass before him.
Joanna stepped inside. Immediately she was overwhelmed with emotions and, standing very still in the central hall, she gazed around at the sunlight on the burnished wood floors. She heard the gentle hum of the furnace; she smelled wood and dust and sun. The house didn’t seem chilly. It seemed welcoming.
She felt she had come home.
“I want to buy this house,” she said.
Bob laughed. “You’d better let me show it all to you first.” But he waited patiently, letting her look, letting her take her time. They were standing together just inside the front door, at the front of the long central hall from which a
It looked as charmingly forthright as it had the first time she saw it, two years before, and again last August when she’d crept down the drive for one brief, clandestine, longing look.
“It’s like something from a storybook,” Joanna observed.
Bob came around to help her out of the station wagon. “It’s a great old house, no doubt about it.” They stood side by side, looking up at it. “Its architecture combines the best elements of several periods and philosophies. The plain weathered gray shingles and the basic structural design reflect the Quaker belief in simplicity. But about the timeFarthingale built his house, the island was changing and architecture was, too. See the framing of the door?” Approaching the house, he ran his hands over two broad, flat, upright boards on either side of the door. “These are called pilasters, and the board that connects them over the top is called the entablature. You can see how it echoes very simply the structure of a Greek temple. This detail is carried on throughout the house, over the eight fireplaces, although as you’ll see, the ones downstairs are more decorative.”
“How did Greek Revival get out here?” Joanna asked.
“It all connects up to what was going on at the time. The United States had just come out of the Revolution and then the War of 1812. The people were eager to show in every way, especially in the outward appearance of their homes, that this country had thrown off the English influence and was becoming a strong republic on its own. They wanted to emulate the ancient Greek city-state, which was the birthplace of democracy, so they put up all these sort of miniature Greek temples. As a matter of fact, many of our big beautiful buildings in town—the Atheneum, the Methodist church, the mansions on Main Street—are Greek Revival, and I have to say those buildings are awfully damned elegant.” Bob shook his head in admiration, then smiled abashedly. “I’m an amateur historian. Just tell me to shut up when I get carried away.”
“No, no, I’m interested in all this, really,” Joanna told him, biting her tongue just before she blurted out, “It’s my field, actually.” He didn’t seem to know who she was—not that he should recognize her with the wig on—and she wanted to keep it that way for a while.
“I should be telling you stuff you need to know.” Bob stepped back and looked up, pointing at the windows. “Six over six windowpanes. See the ripples? That’s the original glass. The good news is that the house hasn’t been tampered with very much. You might say that its integrity is complete. That’s the bad news, too. Except for the necessary reshinglings over the years, it hasn’t been tampered with very much. It hasn’t been cared for. It needs a lot of work.”
“That doesn’t scare me,” Joanna told him.
“Okay, then, let’s go inside. I came out earlier to turn on the heat, but it’s still going to feel chilly. Damp. The way houses do when they’ve been shut up for a long time.” He turned the key in the lock, held the blue door open, and let Joanna pass before him.
Joanna stepped inside. Immediately she was overwhelmed with emotions and, standing very still in the central hall, she gazed around at the sunlight on the burnished wood floors. She heard the gentle hum of the furnace; she smelled wood and dust and sun. The house didn’t seem chilly. It seemed welcoming.
She felt she had come home.
“I want to buy this house,” she said.
Bob laughed. “You’d better let me show it all to you first.” But he waited patiently, letting her look, letting her take her time. They were standing together just inside the front door, at the front of the long central hall from which a
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