can’t paint if people won’t leave you alone.”
They left the office, and Rose followed through on her promise. It wasn’t true that she didn’t have the dirt; every time she sold a house, its owners gave her a complete history of the house in question and the immediate vicinity. Rose knew who had slept with whom, who had gone crazy, and who had done “odd things” in every part of Port Arbello for the past fifty years. But she never passed the information on to clients. Instead, she stuck to her business. Where other real-estate people pointed out the house where they’d foundold Mr. Crockett hanging in the attic, Rose pointed out the fact that the school was only two blocks from the property she was showing. Consequently, she got the sales.
She ushered the Stevenses quickly through the first two houses on her list. They were noncommittal, and she didn’t push the properties. Then she turned onto the Conger’s Point Road.
“Any relation?” Carl Stevens asked as he read the sign.
“We are the last of the Congers,” Rose said, doing her best not to sound pretentious, and succeeding. “Unless I manage to produce a son, there soon won’t be any Congers at all on Conger’s Point Road.”
“I think it would be wonderful to live on a road that was named after you,” Barbara said.
Rose nodded. “I have to say I sort of get a kick out of it. From what I can gather, this road used to be practically the family driveway. My husband’s family used to own practically everything between the town and the Point. But that was a hundred years ago. It’s been built up for years. We still live on the Point, but the road passes us now. Sort of symbolic: The road used to end at our doorstep, but now it passes us by.”
“You’re a philosopher,” Carl said. “Which side of the Point is the property that we’re going to?”
“This side, but barely. As a matter of fact, if I can sell it to you, well be neighbors. The Barnes place adjoins ours. But don’t worry, the houses are a quarter of a mile apart, and there’s a strip of woods, a field, and some water between them. The Barnes place is on the mainland; we’re out at the end of the Point Here we are,” she finished. She braked the car and turned in to the long drive that led to the old house. She heard Barbara suck in her breath, and wondered how long an escrow they’d want.
“My Lord,” Carl said. “How big is it?”
“Not as big as it looks,” Rose said. “It’s an oddhouse, but I think you’ll like it. Besides, if you don’t, you can always change it. The first time I saw it, it struck me that an architect should have it. No one else could make it livable.”
“What’s wrong with it?” Barbara asked.
“Nothing, really,” Rose said. She was parking the car in front of the building now, and she pointed to what appeared to be a pair of long, enclosed galleries, one above the other, that ran the length of the house. “See those?”
“Don’t tell me,” Carl said. “Let me guess. You go in the front door, and there’s an entry hall that goes straight through the house. On each side of the entry hall there’s a staircase, and the two staircases meet above the front door. From there, a hall extends the length of the house in both directions.”
Rose nodded. “That’s it exactly. With another hall on the bottom floor. It gives the place the feeling of an immense railroad parlor car. Every room has one door onto the hall. There’s an incredible view of the ocean, but only from the far side of the house. And I don’t have any idea at all of what to do about it. That’s one of the reasons I brought you out here. Even if you don’t buy it, I can get some ideas on what to do with it in case somebody else does.”
They went into the house and explored it room by room, first the lower floor, then the upper. Rose, following her instincts, did little more than identify the use to which the Barneses had put each room. Finally they were
They left the office, and Rose followed through on her promise. It wasn’t true that she didn’t have the dirt; every time she sold a house, its owners gave her a complete history of the house in question and the immediate vicinity. Rose knew who had slept with whom, who had gone crazy, and who had done “odd things” in every part of Port Arbello for the past fifty years. But she never passed the information on to clients. Instead, she stuck to her business. Where other real-estate people pointed out the house where they’d foundold Mr. Crockett hanging in the attic, Rose pointed out the fact that the school was only two blocks from the property she was showing. Consequently, she got the sales.
She ushered the Stevenses quickly through the first two houses on her list. They were noncommittal, and she didn’t push the properties. Then she turned onto the Conger’s Point Road.
“Any relation?” Carl Stevens asked as he read the sign.
“We are the last of the Congers,” Rose said, doing her best not to sound pretentious, and succeeding. “Unless I manage to produce a son, there soon won’t be any Congers at all on Conger’s Point Road.”
“I think it would be wonderful to live on a road that was named after you,” Barbara said.
Rose nodded. “I have to say I sort of get a kick out of it. From what I can gather, this road used to be practically the family driveway. My husband’s family used to own practically everything between the town and the Point. But that was a hundred years ago. It’s been built up for years. We still live on the Point, but the road passes us now. Sort of symbolic: The road used to end at our doorstep, but now it passes us by.”
“You’re a philosopher,” Carl said. “Which side of the Point is the property that we’re going to?”
“This side, but barely. As a matter of fact, if I can sell it to you, well be neighbors. The Barnes place adjoins ours. But don’t worry, the houses are a quarter of a mile apart, and there’s a strip of woods, a field, and some water between them. The Barnes place is on the mainland; we’re out at the end of the Point Here we are,” she finished. She braked the car and turned in to the long drive that led to the old house. She heard Barbara suck in her breath, and wondered how long an escrow they’d want.
“My Lord,” Carl said. “How big is it?”
“Not as big as it looks,” Rose said. “It’s an oddhouse, but I think you’ll like it. Besides, if you don’t, you can always change it. The first time I saw it, it struck me that an architect should have it. No one else could make it livable.”
“What’s wrong with it?” Barbara asked.
“Nothing, really,” Rose said. She was parking the car in front of the building now, and she pointed to what appeared to be a pair of long, enclosed galleries, one above the other, that ran the length of the house. “See those?”
“Don’t tell me,” Carl said. “Let me guess. You go in the front door, and there’s an entry hall that goes straight through the house. On each side of the entry hall there’s a staircase, and the two staircases meet above the front door. From there, a hall extends the length of the house in both directions.”
Rose nodded. “That’s it exactly. With another hall on the bottom floor. It gives the place the feeling of an immense railroad parlor car. Every room has one door onto the hall. There’s an incredible view of the ocean, but only from the far side of the house. And I don’t have any idea at all of what to do about it. That’s one of the reasons I brought you out here. Even if you don’t buy it, I can get some ideas on what to do with it in case somebody else does.”
They went into the house and explored it room by room, first the lower floor, then the upper. Rose, following her instincts, did little more than identify the use to which the Barneses had put each room. Finally they were
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