windows and let some fresh air in.”
None of them answered, but Madeline and Avery were wearing the same kicked-in-the-gut look that Nicole felt on her own face. They hadn’t made it past the foyer and already it was clear that the old lady had a lot more wrong with her than blotchy skin.
Above them hung a rusted iron chandelier choked with dust and trailing cobwebs. Beneath their feet the wood floors were scratched and scuffed and stained with lighter spots where furniture must have once stood. A wooden staircase angled up to the second floor, gap-toothed with missing spindles, its surface chipped and peeling. The once-white walls were speckled with yellow age spots and amoeba-shaped stains.
John Franklin took a spot beneath the chandelier and began pointing out the home’s features as if they weren’t all gasping for breath while trying not to breathe, and beginning to feel like even bigger victims than they’d been when they arrived.
According to their “tour guide,” the central hallway stretching to the back of the house was a classic Mediterranean Revival feature as were the wide arched openings that ran along both sides. It all sounded quite lovely except that the whole place smelled like that rolled-up bathing suit—dank and sodden. Despite the open front door, the large fixed glass on the landing, and the vast number of uncovered windows, the bright sunlight outside seemed no match for the accumulated layers of dirt and grime.
Madeline, the hausfrau in the white capris, ran a hand over a squared knob of the banister and came away with a palm full of dust and grit, which she stared at woefully.
“What a shame,” Avery, whom she’d mentally christened the little blonde with the big bust, said. “I don’t know how anyone, even Malcolm Dyer, could neglect a house like this.”
Nicole wondered if Malcolm had ever actually set foot here or had simply purchased it to add to his investment portfolio. He’d started buying up estates and properties shortly after he’d made his first million—a milestone they’d celebrated together and of which Nicole had been exceedingly proud. For children who’d been evicted from as many places as they had, owning anything was huge. Owning homes as large and larger than this had been a validation of just how far her little brother had managed to come.
“Yes, it’s a fine old home,” the Realtor said as if their surprise had been of joy. “And as you’ll see a large portion of it has been renovated. It just needs a little tender loving care.”
“More like hospitalization,” Nicole said. “Or a team of paramedics.”
Relentlessly positive, John Franklin led them through the downstairs with its large rectangular rooms and ceilings beamed with Florida cypress, pointing out the architectural details with great delight. They toured the formal living room with fireplace, the study/library, the salon, the formal dining room, a lounge with an elaborately tiled bar, Moorish decor, and torn leather banquettes, then speed-walked through a kitchen that had clearly been modernized in a blaze of Formica—sometime in the 1970s.
He gestured toward an open-air loggia that stretched between the kitchen and the waterfront salon. The French doors that spanned the back of the house would have undoubtedly provided a fabulous view if they hadn’t been quite so caked with grime and salt. Nicole tried to make out the detached garage and pool and beyond that the narrow pass, where the bay and Gulf met, but it was like being inside a somewhat murky aquarium; everything outside the glass was vague and out of focus.
Franklin continued his monologue as he led them through another archway and up the back stairs, but Nicole was too numb to process anything besides the fact that this house was in no condition to be listed for sale. Her partners’ faces reflected the same mixture of horror and disappointment.
Upstairs was more of the same. They found the escaped birds’ nest in a
None of them answered, but Madeline and Avery were wearing the same kicked-in-the-gut look that Nicole felt on her own face. They hadn’t made it past the foyer and already it was clear that the old lady had a lot more wrong with her than blotchy skin.
Above them hung a rusted iron chandelier choked with dust and trailing cobwebs. Beneath their feet the wood floors were scratched and scuffed and stained with lighter spots where furniture must have once stood. A wooden staircase angled up to the second floor, gap-toothed with missing spindles, its surface chipped and peeling. The once-white walls were speckled with yellow age spots and amoeba-shaped stains.
John Franklin took a spot beneath the chandelier and began pointing out the home’s features as if they weren’t all gasping for breath while trying not to breathe, and beginning to feel like even bigger victims than they’d been when they arrived.
According to their “tour guide,” the central hallway stretching to the back of the house was a classic Mediterranean Revival feature as were the wide arched openings that ran along both sides. It all sounded quite lovely except that the whole place smelled like that rolled-up bathing suit—dank and sodden. Despite the open front door, the large fixed glass on the landing, and the vast number of uncovered windows, the bright sunlight outside seemed no match for the accumulated layers of dirt and grime.
Madeline, the hausfrau in the white capris, ran a hand over a squared knob of the banister and came away with a palm full of dust and grit, which she stared at woefully.
“What a shame,” Avery, whom she’d mentally christened the little blonde with the big bust, said. “I don’t know how anyone, even Malcolm Dyer, could neglect a house like this.”
Nicole wondered if Malcolm had ever actually set foot here or had simply purchased it to add to his investment portfolio. He’d started buying up estates and properties shortly after he’d made his first million—a milestone they’d celebrated together and of which Nicole had been exceedingly proud. For children who’d been evicted from as many places as they had, owning anything was huge. Owning homes as large and larger than this had been a validation of just how far her little brother had managed to come.
“Yes, it’s a fine old home,” the Realtor said as if their surprise had been of joy. “And as you’ll see a large portion of it has been renovated. It just needs a little tender loving care.”
“More like hospitalization,” Nicole said. “Or a team of paramedics.”
Relentlessly positive, John Franklin led them through the downstairs with its large rectangular rooms and ceilings beamed with Florida cypress, pointing out the architectural details with great delight. They toured the formal living room with fireplace, the study/library, the salon, the formal dining room, a lounge with an elaborately tiled bar, Moorish decor, and torn leather banquettes, then speed-walked through a kitchen that had clearly been modernized in a blaze of Formica—sometime in the 1970s.
He gestured toward an open-air loggia that stretched between the kitchen and the waterfront salon. The French doors that spanned the back of the house would have undoubtedly provided a fabulous view if they hadn’t been quite so caked with grime and salt. Nicole tried to make out the detached garage and pool and beyond that the narrow pass, where the bay and Gulf met, but it was like being inside a somewhat murky aquarium; everything outside the glass was vague and out of focus.
Franklin continued his monologue as he led them through another archway and up the back stairs, but Nicole was too numb to process anything besides the fact that this house was in no condition to be listed for sale. Her partners’ faces reflected the same mixture of horror and disappointment.
Upstairs was more of the same. They found the escaped birds’ nest in a
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