was waiting for Vanessa and Brian and their kids, for buyers with the courage and energy to show the house the love it needs.
The house is the first thing Vanessa thinks about when she wakes up in the morning and the last thing before she falls asleep at night. It is like a love affair. She can’t wait to move in, to furnish it, to have a kitchen and a dining room and—
She reminds herself to be patient. But still, she can’t help going to the house, more often than she probably should, just to see what’s happening, how things are coming along.
Of course, it’s never going as fast as she hopes. Everyone says: Renovations take twice as long and cost three times as much as you expect. But every tiny sign of progress fills Vanessa with joy.
Today she arrives to find more cracked paint removed from the staircase, exposing the beautiful wood underneath. An incremental improvement, but a step in the right direction. The house smells awful. It’s full of toxic fumes from the industrial-strength paint remover.
But the woodwork is beautiful. And she loves it.
Vanessa tells herself she’ll only stay a little while and then go back to work. Brian will feed the kids and put them to bed if he has to. He’ll understand. He knows how much she loves the house.
She walks from room to room, then sits on the bottom step of the staircase that leads from the front hall. It’s not the most comfortable place, but it’s the only spot there is to sit.
That’s when she hears the doorbell ring—amazing!
She didn’t know the bell worked.
She looks up to see a woman and a very pretty little girl in a bright purple jacket.
They’re standing on the top step.
Staring at her, through the window.
28
Ruth
Granny Edith and Grandpa Frank’s neighbors never liked me. They still eye me with suspicion. No matter how often they see me with my grandparents, they act as if I’m a stranger come to steal their money. So Daisy and I are careful to walk on the other side of the street.
I can see my grandparents’ brownstone from the corner the way you might notice a cool guy at a party. Not necessarily the handsomest guy, but the one you want to see.
At last we’re across from the house. Does Daisy sense my happiness? She can’t help it.
My feet know the front steps, their height and depth. I could climb them blindfolded, but climbing stairs with your eyes shut isn’t something I want to teach Daisy. Plus I would miss seeing the banisters and the stone urns in which Granny plants pansies and nasturtiums every spring.
The front door has a decorative pattern of cast iron over glass, so you could say there are bars on the door, like Rocco’s mom has in Mexico. But these never seem like bars. They’re more like a maze through which I can always find my way.
I’ve forgotten my key, which is strange. I never do. I need it for when I come in late at night. When my grandparents are watching TV, they don’t always hear me ring the bell. And they’ve finally begun to listen to me about keeping the door locked, for safety.
But today it’s early, so they’ll be closer to the front of the house, though Granny Edith may have the vacuum running, which she does so often that it’s a wonder the house ever gets dirty enough to clean.
I ring the bell. It’s hard to see through the windows, which are always dusty, no matter how much I tell Granny Edith to hire someone who can get to the places she can’t reach.
If I move to the edge of the steps and lean over as far as I can, I can just see inside. There’s a ladder and tarps on the floor and all the way up the stairs. Could my grandparents have started renovating without me? A shiver of . . . something . . . icy cold travels from one shoulder blade to another.
At last a young woman answers. She’s wearing jeans and a sweater, the kind of sporty clothes that have that infuriating way of signaling that her outfit may look casual but really it’s expensive. It’s a look I aim for and can pull off pretty well, but never as well as this woman does. I aim for the look of the weekend guest heading out to Montauk, but women like her own the Montauk house. They’re the hostesses who