“The owner in Hong Kong hasn’t responded to them yet. Maybe he doesn’t want to rent.”
“That’s just as well,” she said, referring to the high floor again. He almost told her about the huge empty mansion he had seen that morning, but they moved on to other subjects, and then he forgot. But he thought about it again in bed that night, and wondered what it looked like inside. Feeling ridiculous for doing so, he called the realtor in the morning and, just as a matter of interest, asked her the price. There was something so unusual and compelling and discreetly beautiful about the house. When she quoted him what it was listed for, he was startled.
“It would probably cost you a fortune to run it, but I think the bank would take even less than that. There’s been talk about an auction, but they’re afraid a commercial buyer would tear it down. The land alone is worth more than that.” She had quoted a price that was less than any of the apartments they’d seen that were for sale, although he didn’t want them. Real estate prices were high in San Francisco. Their loft in Tribeca was worth ten times the asking price of the Butterfield Mansion. It was a steal.
“What kind of shape is it in, inside?”
“I have no idea, but I can ask. Do you want to see it?” She sounded surprised. It was everything he had said he didn’t want. He wanted brand-new, modern, an apartment, not a house, and had said he didn’t want to buy. All of which was true, but the old abandoned house was gnawing at him.
“I don’t suppose there’s much point seeing it, except out of curiosity. My wife would kill me.”
“You can lowball it if you like the house,” the realtor said, lowering her voice and ignoring his comment about Sybil.
He almost didn’t need to lowball it, the price was already so low. They could fix it up and sell it for considerably more when they left San Francisco. Thinking about it that way made it sound more like a business deal than a folly. “Maybe I will take a look at it, just for the hell of it,” he said, intrigued.
“I’ll call you back.” She hung up and called him five minutes later, having gotten the keys from her manager and confirmed that the bank still had it on the market. She knew that it was a property they’d been anxious to get off their hands for some time. “I can show it to you at noon, if you want.” He felt foolish but agreed to meet her there, and arrived at the front gate promptly by cab.
Walking through the house was like time travel back to the beginning of the twentieth century. The home was antiquated, but spectacularly beautiful and elegantly built inside, with carved moldings, a wood-paneled library, gorgeous parquet floors, and a ballroom that reminded him of Versailles. It looked like a museum, or a small hotel. It was in surprisingly good shape. There was no evidence of damage or leaks. And there was a long row of bells in the kitchen that the numerous servants had responded to in its days of grandeur a century ago. The reception rooms on the main floor were very large in scale, and all of the family bedrooms were on one floor, with small sitting rooms and dressing rooms and enormous bathrooms for each bedroom. There was a floor of guest rooms and additional sitting rooms, all with spectacular views and marble fireplaces, like the main bedrooms, and an entire level of maids’ rooms on the top floor. An enormous family could have lived there, with an army of servants to attend them. Blake wandered up and down the grand staircase, going through the house again, and saw that the kitchen had been modernized at some point, although it still needed some updating.
“What an amazing house,” he said in awe after he’d seen everything for a second time.
“Do you want to make an offer?” she asked bluntly. He stood silently, staring up at the elaborate ceilings as he thought about it, and noticed that the chandeliers were all gone and would need to be replaced. Due to its size alone, the house would be a decorating challenge to furnish.
“I think I will,” a voice he didn’t recognize as his own said softly. “Even if we never live here, it would be an incredible investment. If you put a coat of paint on the inside, and take the boards off the windows, for the right price, it would be a remarkable house to have.” He wasn’t sure if he was trying to convince himself or the realtor, and he decided not to tell Sybil for the moment. There was no way he could explain it to her and do it justice, and it was everything she didn’t want. But in a bold move, he cut the bank’s price almost in half, like betting on a roulette wheel in Las Vegas, just to see what would happen. He was sure he wouldn’t get it, but it was fun to try. Based on square footage and location alone, it was an incredible deal, if they accepted his offer.
The realtor had the forms to him in his office an hour later, and he signed them. It seemed almost like a lark he couldn’t take seriously, given his absurdly low offer for a house no one wanted, and then he forgot about it and spent the rest of the day in meetings. He didn’t get back to his desk again until six P.M., and found a message from the realtor. It just said to give her a call, and he did before he went back to his hotel, certain that he would hear that the bank had turned down his offer. He wasn’t sure if he hoped they would, or not.
“The Butterfield Mansion is yours, Mr. Gregory,” the realtor said in a solemn tone, and it took a moment for her words to sink in. “The house is yours,” she repeated. “The bank accepted your offer. They want to close in two weeks, after your inspections,” which had been his only contingency.
“Oh my God,” he said, and sat down with a stunned expression, trying to think of what he was going to tell his wife. He had bought a twenty-thousand-square-foot 1902 mansion with a ballroom, on an acre of land. And fighting a wave of panic, when he thought of how Sybil would look when he told her, he started to laugh. He could still get out of it, based on the inspections, if he wanted to. But he didn’t. He had no idea why, and it made absolutely no sense, but he had fallen in love with the house. He wondered if he was having some kind of midlife crisis. First, he had taken the job in San Francisco, and now he had bought a hundred-and-fifteen-year-old mansion. This was definitely not the rented modern apartment Sybil had in mind.
He walked back to his hotel, musing about what had possessed him. But whatever the reason, or the madness, now they had a house to live in. And the price he had paid for it was so low that it would hardly make a dent in their savings. At least Sybil couldn’t be angry at him for that. And once painted inside, the Butterfield Mansion was going to be a remarkable home for them, at least for the time being, even if they sold it later for a profit. Now all he had to do was convince Sybil of that. Buying it had been the easy part. Selling it to her was another matter entirely. But it might be fun to live in a house that large for a couple of years. “The Gregory Mansion,” he said to himself out loud and then he laughed.
Chapter 2