Across from it lay a formal dining room where Deirdre tried—and failed—to picture the rocker sitting at the head of the mahogany table under the cut-glass chandelier hosting a formal meal.
“How much time would you say you spend in these rooms?” Avery asked Hightower, which just went to show that however much Avery might want to deny it, their minds were similarly wired.
Hightower shrugged. “Not much. They came this way. I never saw any reason to bother with them.”
Avery nodded carefully, giving nothing away, and Deirdre had to hide her smile. Depending on what lay on the other side of these rooms, both could potentially be turned into guest suites. Even better, Hightower had already been forced to acknowledge that he wouldn’t miss this outdated, unused room. Deirdre gave her daughter a mental high five.
They moved past the narrow stair and into a huge light-filled great room. A small L-shaped galley kitchen filled with dated cabinetry and stained Corian countertops seemed inadequate for the space. Once again Deirdre held back an approving smile when she saw Avery home in on the Wolf stove with its signature red knobs, and a massive stainless-steel hood, the only items worth salvaging.
A tackle box sat on an oak trestle table, its contents spilled out around it. Battered and flattened leather furniture surrounded a wood-burning fireplace and the massive flat-screen TV—possibly the only addition made this decade—that hung above it.
Beyond a row of cypress columns that supported another vaulted wood-beamed ceiling a pool table the size of a small country ate up a large piece of the wide plank floor. In a corner a club chair and ottoman, with fabric so faded that Deirdre couldn’t tell what color or texture it might have once been, sat next to a telescope whose barrel lens pointed out to sea. Fishing magazines littered a small lamp table and stood in teetering stacks around it. Pieces of disassembled fishing rods lay across the top of a rustic-looking bookcase fashioned from wooden crab traps.
William Hightower had turned his private tropical island home into a fishing-gear-filled bachelor pad.
It was impossible to focus on the pitiful condition of the once-fabulous space when confronted with the eastern wall of the great room, which was actually a bank of sliding glass doors that, despite their cloudy spots and pitted aluminum frames, provided a stunning and uninterrupted view of the Atlantic Ocean.
“Wow.”
“Oh, my God.”
“Incredible.”
Their comments were hushed, reverent as they took in the jewel-toned blues and greens of the ocean stretching to the horizon. Birds swooped and dove from a pale blue cloud-flecked sky to pierce the sparkling water on which beams of morning sunlight seemed to dance. In the distance a boat headed out to sea, its wake spreading a plume of white behind it like a jet leaving a vapor trail as it cut through the sky.
“Boag.” Dustin pointed at the boat, breaking the awed silence. Hightower continued to study the view with an intensity that made it clear he had not yet grown tired of, or complacent about, his surroundings.
Thomas Hightower turned away first, breaking the spell, giving them no time to step out onto the vast covered porch. “Shall we move on?”
The wrought-iron banister beneath their hands was chipped and the gouges in the pecky cypress walls impossible to miss as they ascended to the second floor. But even as they toured the laundry room and two small bedrooms and baths at the front of the house, the part of Deirdre’s brain not busy calculating space, opportunity, paint colors, furniture, lighting, window treatments, and the million other details that would be a part of the final design—even as she watched Avery sketch and scribble, undoubtedly mentally moving walls and evaluating the physical structure—returned to the stunning view.
In the master suite, which spanned the entire eastern end of the house, she noted William Hightower’s
“How much time would you say you spend in these rooms?” Avery asked Hightower, which just went to show that however much Avery might want to deny it, their minds were similarly wired.
Hightower shrugged. “Not much. They came this way. I never saw any reason to bother with them.”
Avery nodded carefully, giving nothing away, and Deirdre had to hide her smile. Depending on what lay on the other side of these rooms, both could potentially be turned into guest suites. Even better, Hightower had already been forced to acknowledge that he wouldn’t miss this outdated, unused room. Deirdre gave her daughter a mental high five.
They moved past the narrow stair and into a huge light-filled great room. A small L-shaped galley kitchen filled with dated cabinetry and stained Corian countertops seemed inadequate for the space. Once again Deirdre held back an approving smile when she saw Avery home in on the Wolf stove with its signature red knobs, and a massive stainless-steel hood, the only items worth salvaging.
A tackle box sat on an oak trestle table, its contents spilled out around it. Battered and flattened leather furniture surrounded a wood-burning fireplace and the massive flat-screen TV—possibly the only addition made this decade—that hung above it.
Beyond a row of cypress columns that supported another vaulted wood-beamed ceiling a pool table the size of a small country ate up a large piece of the wide plank floor. In a corner a club chair and ottoman, with fabric so faded that Deirdre couldn’t tell what color or texture it might have once been, sat next to a telescope whose barrel lens pointed out to sea. Fishing magazines littered a small lamp table and stood in teetering stacks around it. Pieces of disassembled fishing rods lay across the top of a rustic-looking bookcase fashioned from wooden crab traps.
William Hightower had turned his private tropical island home into a fishing-gear-filled bachelor pad.
It was impossible to focus on the pitiful condition of the once-fabulous space when confronted with the eastern wall of the great room, which was actually a bank of sliding glass doors that, despite their cloudy spots and pitted aluminum frames, provided a stunning and uninterrupted view of the Atlantic Ocean.
“Wow.”
“Oh, my God.”
“Incredible.”
Their comments were hushed, reverent as they took in the jewel-toned blues and greens of the ocean stretching to the horizon. Birds swooped and dove from a pale blue cloud-flecked sky to pierce the sparkling water on which beams of morning sunlight seemed to dance. In the distance a boat headed out to sea, its wake spreading a plume of white behind it like a jet leaving a vapor trail as it cut through the sky.
“Boag.” Dustin pointed at the boat, breaking the awed silence. Hightower continued to study the view with an intensity that made it clear he had not yet grown tired of, or complacent about, his surroundings.
Thomas Hightower turned away first, breaking the spell, giving them no time to step out onto the vast covered porch. “Shall we move on?”
The wrought-iron banister beneath their hands was chipped and the gouges in the pecky cypress walls impossible to miss as they ascended to the second floor. But even as they toured the laundry room and two small bedrooms and baths at the front of the house, the part of Deirdre’s brain not busy calculating space, opportunity, paint colors, furniture, lighting, window treatments, and the million other details that would be a part of the final design—even as she watched Avery sketch and scribble, undoubtedly mentally moving walls and evaluating the physical structure—returned to the stunning view.
In the master suite, which spanned the entire eastern end of the house, she noted William Hightower’s
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