Luke’s curved, turning into Bruce’s street, Leroy, it crossed the line—and so did I. With a few steps, I was no longer in the officially designated historic district. This particular area of the West Village was not considered protected.
Inappropriate demolitions, alterations, or new construction could legally occur at the whim of the property owner. The Greenwich Village Society for Historic Preservation, founded in 1980 to safeguard the architectural heritage and cultural history of the Village, had been working to change this, and extend the historic district protections.
My steps slowed as I neared the address Bruce had given me. The house was a charming Federal-style with two full stories above ground, topped by dormer windows, indicating a usable attic. Basement windows were also visible below the short flight of railed steps leading to the high stoop and shiny green front door. To the left of that entrance, at street level, was a rustic little door of rough wood. Directly above that small door was a small window.
“The horse walk,” I murmured aloud, watching my warm breath create a pearl gray cloud in the frosty air. I didn’t see this feature too often, but this home was archetypal Federal just as Bruce had said. The horse walk was simply a secondary entrance that provided access to a rear yard—during the 1800s, there would have been a stable in the back or even a second, rear lot house.
Clearly, this property was a choice one, and even though it was beyond the historic boundary, it certainly appeared to deserve landmark status.
I stood for I don’t know how long, watching the snow fall on the place, enjoying the refined simplicity of its lines, the straightforward elegance of its faded bricks and newly painted white-framed windows, and I could almost see it becoming a home—each wide ledge displaying a flower box in summer, a single candle in winter, a wreath on the door every year at Christmas.
Suddenly, the brass lamp fixtures flanking the house’s entrance came brightly to life and the green front door opened.
The light from inside created a silhouette of the man standing in the doorway. The dark shape moved forward, peering onto the sidewalk from the stoop above me.
“Joy?” called Bruce sharply. “Is that you?”
“It’s me,” I called back. His mistake was understandable, given my attire—the same bulky bright yellow and black parka he’d seen Joy wearing earlier today. I even had the hood up.
“Oh, thank God,” said Bruce after hearing my voice. He stepped forward and descended the snow-covered steps. I could see him more clearly now. He wore faded jeans, a black cableknit fisherman’s sweater with a crew neck, and steel-toed workboots. God, he looked good.
He stopped in front of me. “For a second there, I was worried something was wrong and you sent Joy to tell me,” he said softly. “What’s with the pregnant bee parka?”
I shrugged. “I just couldn’t take the whining anymore—hell hath no complaint like a daughter forced to look uncool—so I simply swapped her winter coat for mine.”
He smiled. “And you don’t care how you look, I take it?”
“It’s a very warm coat, thank you very much. And it’s really not that silly, is it?”
“Not if you like honey.”
“In that case, you give me no choice.” I bent down, scooped up a handful of wet snow, and made a big, icy ball.
Bruce folded his arms across his black sweater and raised an eyebrow. “You’re not actually thinking of throwing that at me.”
“Try me.”
“A snowball fight is a serious step, Ms. Cosi.”
“Just make one more crack about this coat. I dare you.”
“Only if you give me a peek at your stinger.”
I cocked my arm. “You’ve got three seconds.”
Bruce turned and beat it up the stairs. I let fly, nailing him right in the back of the neck.
“Ow! Damn, that’s cold!”
I laughed, walking up the steps to join him. “Never underestimate a former softball player’s ability to hit her target.”
He was laughing by now, too—and a little bit darkly, but I didn’t suspect why.
“Come on in, then…and get that arctic gear off,” he said.
I unzipped and unhooded as he closed the door—and then, from behind, he struck.
I never saw it coming.
He rubbed the icy ball against my cheek first, then dropped it right down the back of my sweater.
“Bastard! Ahhhh! That’s cold!”
“Yes, it is, and I should know,” he said with a laugh as I jumped around his foyer.
“How the hell did you manage that?” I demanded.
“I scooped snow off the outside handrail as I was coming in.