in place. She thumbed through to the end and lifted a photo from a silver paper frame that had held it in place.
She handed the photo to me. “I have a lot more. I’ll get them together for you. But here’s a start.”
We both stared at the photograph. Joe was looking up at us, a big, hunky Italian guy with the world’s greatest smile.
“The house feels empty without him.” Maura looked up at me. “You’ll try to find him, Aggie? Everybody says you’re good at figuring things out.”
I wasn’t sure that anything I figured out was going to make her life happier, but I nodded.
Outside the ribbons of the Morris dancer dolls were fluttering in a light spring breeze, and the morning sun was smiling in the sky. I could almost feel the gaze of friendly neighbors peering through windows to be sure all was well on the street.
Here in the Village, with its charming houses and well-tended yards, it was hard to imagine that the rest of the world wasn’t exactly the same. Husbands never disappeared. Chocolate fountains never splattered. Women, even angry women, never died at charitable events. Standing here I could see why Maura found the real world confusing.
Suddenly I wasn’t quite so sure this neighborhood and those neighborly gazes were completely benign. Despite the smiling sun I got a chill down my spine. It was time to move on.
In my van again I headed toward the Victorian to see what the newest carpenter on a growing list had accomplished on our renovations over the weekend. I pulled onto Bunting Street and parked, telling myself I should sit a moment to admire what Lucy and I have accomplished.
The house that will be Junie’s quilt shop was designed and constructed in Stick Victorian style at the turn of the twentieth century. Although it was easy to miss before we began our renovations, the house has always been well proportioned and gracious.
When Lucy and I got our first glimpse, the exterior was a nondescript beige. For the update, Junie suggested a color that falls somewhere between a muted mauve and lavender. Junie’s psychic ability may be questionable, but her color sense is extraordinary. Now the front porch is spruce green, the shutters black, and the considerable amount of trim is a warm cream or soft rose. The effect is charming without drawing negative attention to itself on a street with a mix of residential and commercial buildings.
The tired, overly disciplined evergreens were dispensed with last month to be replaced by a variety of blooming shrubs and beds of perennials. Junie always wanted to tend a garden, and now she’ll have one. Once the forsythia and Japanese magnolias that will block out the parking area have grown tall enough she has plans for a patio with a fountain in the back. She envisions an annual summer tea on the lawn for her best customers, and many additional happy hours with her granddaughters.
Junie will love being the proprietor of a quilt shop, and she’ll love living here—if Lucy and I can only make it happen. The problem is that we never planned on doing anything as extensive as this project, so we quickly reached the point where our own efforts weren’t enough. We were knowledgeable and talented enough to do simple flips, and we even assembled a list of contractors in our price range who were capable of doing required rewiring and plumbing. But despite following every lead, we have yet to find a crew who can install a kitchen, build attractive shelves and counters for merchandise, and change the basic configuration of the rooms upstairs, which will be Junie’s apartment.
The first team we hired installed a bathroom countertop backwards, so the backsplash nestled against our belly buttons. The second framed in a closet on the wrong side of what would be Junie’s bedroom so that the biggest window could be curtained by caftans and poodle skirts.
Two more failures followed these, both companies recommended, both incapable of swinging a hammer without
She handed the photo to me. “I have a lot more. I’ll get them together for you. But here’s a start.”
We both stared at the photograph. Joe was looking up at us, a big, hunky Italian guy with the world’s greatest smile.
“The house feels empty without him.” Maura looked up at me. “You’ll try to find him, Aggie? Everybody says you’re good at figuring things out.”
I wasn’t sure that anything I figured out was going to make her life happier, but I nodded.
Outside the ribbons of the Morris dancer dolls were fluttering in a light spring breeze, and the morning sun was smiling in the sky. I could almost feel the gaze of friendly neighbors peering through windows to be sure all was well on the street.
Here in the Village, with its charming houses and well-tended yards, it was hard to imagine that the rest of the world wasn’t exactly the same. Husbands never disappeared. Chocolate fountains never splattered. Women, even angry women, never died at charitable events. Standing here I could see why Maura found the real world confusing.
Suddenly I wasn’t quite so sure this neighborhood and those neighborly gazes were completely benign. Despite the smiling sun I got a chill down my spine. It was time to move on.
In my van again I headed toward the Victorian to see what the newest carpenter on a growing list had accomplished on our renovations over the weekend. I pulled onto Bunting Street and parked, telling myself I should sit a moment to admire what Lucy and I have accomplished.
The house that will be Junie’s quilt shop was designed and constructed in Stick Victorian style at the turn of the twentieth century. Although it was easy to miss before we began our renovations, the house has always been well proportioned and gracious.
When Lucy and I got our first glimpse, the exterior was a nondescript beige. For the update, Junie suggested a color that falls somewhere between a muted mauve and lavender. Junie’s psychic ability may be questionable, but her color sense is extraordinary. Now the front porch is spruce green, the shutters black, and the considerable amount of trim is a warm cream or soft rose. The effect is charming without drawing negative attention to itself on a street with a mix of residential and commercial buildings.
The tired, overly disciplined evergreens were dispensed with last month to be replaced by a variety of blooming shrubs and beds of perennials. Junie always wanted to tend a garden, and now she’ll have one. Once the forsythia and Japanese magnolias that will block out the parking area have grown tall enough she has plans for a patio with a fountain in the back. She envisions an annual summer tea on the lawn for her best customers, and many additional happy hours with her granddaughters.
Junie will love being the proprietor of a quilt shop, and she’ll love living here—if Lucy and I can only make it happen. The problem is that we never planned on doing anything as extensive as this project, so we quickly reached the point where our own efforts weren’t enough. We were knowledgeable and talented enough to do simple flips, and we even assembled a list of contractors in our price range who were capable of doing required rewiring and plumbing. But despite following every lead, we have yet to find a crew who can install a kitchen, build attractive shelves and counters for merchandise, and change the basic configuration of the rooms upstairs, which will be Junie’s apartment.
The first team we hired installed a bathroom countertop backwards, so the backsplash nestled against our belly buttons. The second framed in a closet on the wrong side of what would be Junie’s bedroom so that the biggest window could be curtained by caftans and poodle skirts.
Two more failures followed these, both companies recommended, both incapable of swinging a hammer without
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