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Authors: Mary Waters-Sayer
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to the side, clearing the space between them.
“This is why I do not like the man and woman to be separate.” He sighed. “It cannot work. All this is based on the meeting with your husband.”
He leaned back in his chair. “We start at the beginning, then. Why don’t you tell me what you want.”
What did she want? What were they going to fill the house with? They didn’t need more things. She didn’t want the new textured wallpaper on the walls. She didn’t want to replace the old marble or, even worse, to carpet the timeworn wood floors. She didn’t want to paint it in the latest colors or to stuff it full of furniture—things that would fill up the beautiful space, curtains that would obscure the views. She wondered when they had started to need so much stuff.
Part of it was the money. They had made such a massive leap in the last few years that she was uncomfortable with the amounts of money that the project demanded. But it wasn’t the money alone. She loved the space, the smooth white walls topped with frothy moldings; the enormous windows looking out over the tree-lined street or onto the large, overgrown wisteria-and-rose-filled garden; the vast expanses of distressed wood and worn-smooth marble. The idea of covering it up was anathema to her. She liked it naked. She liked the possibilities.
The feeling was even stronger since she had gone through her mother’s possessions. It all ended and what were you left with?
She looked back at him mutely for a moment. “That’s rather a broad question.”
“It’s often helpful to start with something you love,” he suggested. “Something beautiful that gives you joy. Something that reminds you of things you don’t want to forget. Something of value to you. A piece of art, perhaps?”
Kat thought of her bare walls and smiled.
After a moment, he continued. “I think I may have something you would be interested in seeing. As we have only just found it, I didn’t have it to show your husband when he was in previously.”
He rose and made his way to an oversize credenza at one end of the room. The more time she spent in the office, the more aware she became of its contents. Things that had been invisible at first. It was as if her eyes were becoming accustomed to the view. Adjusting themselves to its brilliance. The room, which had first appeared spare, gradually became populated. She noticed a collection of African masks that hung on one wall, their smooth, mute faces watching her impassively. On his desk were framed photos of two blond children. In front of the sea. Behind birthday cakes. In public-school uniforms.
“Your children?”
He glanced back at her. “As they used to be. They are older now. Klaus is at university. Liff is engaged to be married.” He hesitated. “It is what it is to be a parent. Always looking backwards. You have children, yes? Your husband said.”
“One child, yes.” She smiled.
Opening a drawer, he carefully lifted out a sheet of oversize yellowed paper and carried it gingerly to the table. As he spread it out in front of her its age was immediately obvious. The delicate parchment was nearly translucent under the bright light.
“The original drawing of your house. Courtesy of the National Archives.”
The hand-drawn diagram glowed softly. Its age and imperfections clouded just below the surface. She took in the simplicity and clarity of the lines. With the exception of scale and orientation, there were no annotations on the page. Here was the form, unadorned. This she recognized. She leaned closer, reading the graceful curling lettering within each of the rooms. Drawing room. Dining room. Principal staircase. Servants’ hall.
“Drawings from this period contain much less detail,” Sir Charles explained. “There was a common knowledge of standards and techniques at the time, so less instruction was necessary.”
Kat pointed decisively to the gleaming drawing in between them. “This is what I
“This is why I do not like the man and woman to be separate.” He sighed. “It cannot work. All this is based on the meeting with your husband.”
He leaned back in his chair. “We start at the beginning, then. Why don’t you tell me what you want.”
What did she want? What were they going to fill the house with? They didn’t need more things. She didn’t want the new textured wallpaper on the walls. She didn’t want to replace the old marble or, even worse, to carpet the timeworn wood floors. She didn’t want to paint it in the latest colors or to stuff it full of furniture—things that would fill up the beautiful space, curtains that would obscure the views. She wondered when they had started to need so much stuff.
Part of it was the money. They had made such a massive leap in the last few years that she was uncomfortable with the amounts of money that the project demanded. But it wasn’t the money alone. She loved the space, the smooth white walls topped with frothy moldings; the enormous windows looking out over the tree-lined street or onto the large, overgrown wisteria-and-rose-filled garden; the vast expanses of distressed wood and worn-smooth marble. The idea of covering it up was anathema to her. She liked it naked. She liked the possibilities.
The feeling was even stronger since she had gone through her mother’s possessions. It all ended and what were you left with?
She looked back at him mutely for a moment. “That’s rather a broad question.”
“It’s often helpful to start with something you love,” he suggested. “Something beautiful that gives you joy. Something that reminds you of things you don’t want to forget. Something of value to you. A piece of art, perhaps?”
Kat thought of her bare walls and smiled.
After a moment, he continued. “I think I may have something you would be interested in seeing. As we have only just found it, I didn’t have it to show your husband when he was in previously.”
He rose and made his way to an oversize credenza at one end of the room. The more time she spent in the office, the more aware she became of its contents. Things that had been invisible at first. It was as if her eyes were becoming accustomed to the view. Adjusting themselves to its brilliance. The room, which had first appeared spare, gradually became populated. She noticed a collection of African masks that hung on one wall, their smooth, mute faces watching her impassively. On his desk were framed photos of two blond children. In front of the sea. Behind birthday cakes. In public-school uniforms.
“Your children?”
He glanced back at her. “As they used to be. They are older now. Klaus is at university. Liff is engaged to be married.” He hesitated. “It is what it is to be a parent. Always looking backwards. You have children, yes? Your husband said.”
“One child, yes.” She smiled.
Opening a drawer, he carefully lifted out a sheet of oversize yellowed paper and carried it gingerly to the table. As he spread it out in front of her its age was immediately obvious. The delicate parchment was nearly translucent under the bright light.
“The original drawing of your house. Courtesy of the National Archives.”
The hand-drawn diagram glowed softly. Its age and imperfections clouded just below the surface. She took in the simplicity and clarity of the lines. With the exception of scale and orientation, there were no annotations on the page. Here was the form, unadorned. This she recognized. She leaned closer, reading the graceful curling lettering within each of the rooms. Drawing room. Dining room. Principal staircase. Servants’ hall.
“Drawings from this period contain much less detail,” Sir Charles explained. “There was a common knowledge of standards and techniques at the time, so less instruction was necessary.”
Kat pointed decisively to the gleaming drawing in between them. “This is what I
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