Iarrived at the Pinckney house on South Battery after Jayne did, something I always tried to avoid when showing a client a house for the first time. I preferred to curate what they saw initially and took note of, focusing on the positive attributes so they wouldn’t notice the cracks in the mortar or wood rot in the window frames. That would happen later, after they’d fallen in love with the old house and were already willing to restore the ancient pile of lumber without a thought to the hole of debt that they were about to step into.
I’d driven my car, finally finding a parking spot four blocks away after circling the area for nearly fifteen minutes. Jayne must have walked, since she was wearing flats and her face appeared windblown. Her blond hair, pulled back into a low ponytail, had begun to frizz around the edges like a frayed rope. After stumbling in my heels for four blocks, I knew I didn’t look much better.
She stood on the sidewalk with her back to the house, her arms folded tightly across her chest, her hands in tight fists. I squinted—my glasses left on my desk as usual—thinking she might actually be smiling until I got close enough to see her clearly. The grim set of her jaw called to mind the expression of a condemned prisoner heading up to the scaffold.
“Good morning, Jayne,” I said brightly.
It was hard to understand the words that were forced from behind her clenched teeth, but I was pretty sure she’d said “good morning.”
As I fumbled in my purse for my lockbox key, I said, “Dr. Wallen-Arasi should be here momentarily—she’s always running a few minutes late. If you’d like, we can wait for her outside so she can tell us a little bit about the architecture and history of the house, or we can go ahead inside. . . .”
“I’ll wait.” Her eyes had taken on a desperate cast. She took a deep breath, letting it out slowly before speaking. “You’re probably wondering why I have such an aversion to old houses. I lived in one off and on for a few years when I was around nine until I was fourteen. With a foster family. They said it was a nineteen thirties Craftsman cottage that they’d restored themselves.”
“Was it nice?”
Her eyes were bleak when she turned them to me. “Nice enough, I guess. But I hated it. I hated the way the wooden floors creaked, and the way the wind blew under the eaves in the attic. And I really, really hated the front stairs with the thick oak balustrade. They were so proud of it, too—that balustrade. They’d found it in the barn and refurbished it so that it looked as good as new—even paid a carpenter to re-create missing and damaged spindles so you couldn’t tell what was new and what was old.” She looked behind me, across the street toward the river. “But it was still the same old balustrade. I always thought it would make nice kindling.”
I remembered sanding down the intricate mahogany balustrade in my own house and how I’d shared the same thought at the time. “Okay,” I said, making mental notes to transcribe later. “In your future house, no Craftsman style, no creaking floors, and a solid attic.”
“Just new,” Jayne said, turning around to peer through the elaborate garden gate—one I was pretty sure had been crafted by the famed blacksmith Philip Simmons. “And not located near a hospital.”
“Because of all the noise from the sirens?”
She didn’t respond right away. Tilting her head in my direction, she said, “Yes. The sirens. They can keep a person up at night.”
I was about to ask her more, but the car at the curb in front of us pulled out just as Sophie’s white Prius appeared and slid neatly into the spot. She and Jack were like parking spot conjurers, something for which I’d yet to forgive either one of them.
I watched in horror and amusement as Sophie stepped from the car, dressed in head-to-toe tie-dye in various hues of green. Even her unruly dark curls were pulled back from her face with a lime green tie-dye elastic headband. Her feet were clad in her ubiquitous Birkenstocks, these in green patent leather, her socks subscribing to the tie-dye theme.
“I hope you’re planning on sending Skye to live with me when she’s old enough to learn about fashion and the proper use of color and patterns.”
Sophie grinned. “Only if you’ll send Sarah and JJ to me when you’re convalescing from your foot surgery to repair them from the damage your shoes are causing.”
“There is nothing wrong with my feet—” I began, but Jayne interrupted by stepping forward with an outstretched hand.
“You must be Dr. Wallen-Arasi. I’m Jayne Smith, and I appreciate you coming out today.”
Sophie pumped her hand up and down. “Please call me Sophie. Everybody does.”
“For the record,” Jayne said, “I like your shoes. I don’t think I’ve ever seen patent leather on a Birkenstock before.”