elegant, expensive home with the relaxed comfort of a
mountain retreat—Harland knew he could make his dream a reality.
Finding the right architect proved more
difficult than he anticipated. Richard Sharp Smith had died years earlier. He
would have been Harland’s top choice. Instead he resigned himself to working
with lesser beings and eventually the plans were completed. But only after two
of the top architects in town had abandoned the project, unwilling to bend to
Harland’s demands for features out of character with the design styles they
created.
Harland insisted on the best craftsmen to
build his house, only those most in demand. For the door, one person stood
alone at the top of the list. Leland Howard. It would have to be Leland Howard,
even though getting that man to sign on would be an act of sheer will
triumphing over plodding stubbornness.
ELEVEN
2004
Darcel Grimes’ voice drifted from the television into the
kitchen where Tate busied herself preparing dinner. She typically listened
every evening to the six o’clock news on Channel 13, the local ABC affiliate,
to keep in touch with the outside world.
“Plans to demolish a
derelict mansion in the Montford historic district have neighbors taking sides
as to the best use of the prime location on Chestnut Street.”
Tate stopped cutting
vegetables and dashed into the living room just in time to see a shot of 305
Chestnut Street illustrating the news story.
T he brief
piece highlighted the county’s plans to seize the property for non-payment of
taxes and auction it on the courthouse steps. A prominent local developer with
deep pockets appeared on camera speaking about his desire to tear down the
house and build eight small cottages on the site. The reporter interviewed two
neighbors who favored the idea and looked forward to the removal of the eyesore
which had blighted the neighborhood for decades. Another spokesman for the
local neighborhood association objected to anything diverging from the stately
single-family homes with spacious yards, which populated the area. No one, it
seemed, except Tate had any interest in saving the place.
This information could not have come at a
better time. After her initial surge of interest in saving the house, Tate had
reached what seemed like a dead end and her focus shifted back to the
renovations on Maplewood. It had been a couple of days since she’d really
thought much about 305. The story re-energized her. Tomorrow, she would dig in
again, and now she had a new starting place. She’d have to check with Holly
about the process involved in seizing and auctioning the property, but she
expected she would have to move quickly or the place would be lost.
TWELVE
1917
Mary Alice Clayton entered the world in a small cabin in
Asheville in 1878, the second of two daughters and the last child in the family
to live past infancy. A quiet girl, given to retreating into fantasy when she
was not occupied with the chores assigned to her, she asked little in the way
of attention. “Not much trouble.” When her mother talked about her youngest
daughter at all, that’s how she usually described Mary Alice.
The family lived a simple life. Mary Alice’s
mother tried to keep an organized home. Her father found work wherever he
could. They had food to eat, beds to sleep in and a roof over their heads. Mary
Alice dutifully went to school and studied reading, writing and arithmetic,
gaining the skills necessary to succeed in life. Though intelligent, she rarely
received encouragement or acknowledgment, and she excelled at nothing.
What energy Mary Alice’s parents had
available to engage in life beyond providing the basics went to her sister,
Eulah Mae. Three years older, Eulah Mae had staked out her claim long before Mary
Alice arrived.
However, the affection of their maternal
aunt belonged solely to Mary Alice. Aunt Ida visited town infrequently, but
when she did, she showered Mary Alice with
mountain retreat—Harland knew he could make his dream a reality.
Finding the right architect proved more
difficult than he anticipated. Richard Sharp Smith had died years earlier. He
would have been Harland’s top choice. Instead he resigned himself to working
with lesser beings and eventually the plans were completed. But only after two
of the top architects in town had abandoned the project, unwilling to bend to
Harland’s demands for features out of character with the design styles they
created.
Harland insisted on the best craftsmen to
build his house, only those most in demand. For the door, one person stood
alone at the top of the list. Leland Howard. It would have to be Leland Howard,
even though getting that man to sign on would be an act of sheer will
triumphing over plodding stubbornness.
ELEVEN
2004
Darcel Grimes’ voice drifted from the television into the
kitchen where Tate busied herself preparing dinner. She typically listened
every evening to the six o’clock news on Channel 13, the local ABC affiliate,
to keep in touch with the outside world.
“Plans to demolish a
derelict mansion in the Montford historic district have neighbors taking sides
as to the best use of the prime location on Chestnut Street.”
Tate stopped cutting
vegetables and dashed into the living room just in time to see a shot of 305
Chestnut Street illustrating the news story.
T he brief
piece highlighted the county’s plans to seize the property for non-payment of
taxes and auction it on the courthouse steps. A prominent local developer with
deep pockets appeared on camera speaking about his desire to tear down the
house and build eight small cottages on the site. The reporter interviewed two
neighbors who favored the idea and looked forward to the removal of the eyesore
which had blighted the neighborhood for decades. Another spokesman for the
local neighborhood association objected to anything diverging from the stately
single-family homes with spacious yards, which populated the area. No one, it
seemed, except Tate had any interest in saving the place.
This information could not have come at a
better time. After her initial surge of interest in saving the house, Tate had
reached what seemed like a dead end and her focus shifted back to the
renovations on Maplewood. It had been a couple of days since she’d really
thought much about 305. The story re-energized her. Tomorrow, she would dig in
again, and now she had a new starting place. She’d have to check with Holly
about the process involved in seizing and auctioning the property, but she
expected she would have to move quickly or the place would be lost.
TWELVE
1917
Mary Alice Clayton entered the world in a small cabin in
Asheville in 1878, the second of two daughters and the last child in the family
to live past infancy. A quiet girl, given to retreating into fantasy when she
was not occupied with the chores assigned to her, she asked little in the way
of attention. “Not much trouble.” When her mother talked about her youngest
daughter at all, that’s how she usually described Mary Alice.
The family lived a simple life. Mary Alice’s
mother tried to keep an organized home. Her father found work wherever he
could. They had food to eat, beds to sleep in and a roof over their heads. Mary
Alice dutifully went to school and studied reading, writing and arithmetic,
gaining the skills necessary to succeed in life. Though intelligent, she rarely
received encouragement or acknowledgment, and she excelled at nothing.
What energy Mary Alice’s parents had
available to engage in life beyond providing the basics went to her sister,
Eulah Mae. Three years older, Eulah Mae had staked out her claim long before Mary
Alice arrived.
However, the affection of their maternal
aunt belonged solely to Mary Alice. Aunt Ida visited town infrequently, but
when she did, she showered Mary Alice with
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