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    On Winding Hill Road

The house had been magnificent once, and still was, but as we came nearer it seemed to sag with neglect. Where the paint could be seen it was chipped and graying, and the old shutters hung limp from the windows, banging softly in the breeze. Aggressive arms of wild rose and blackberry twisted around the balusters and corbels, hung from the gutters, and all but covered an old stone fountain in the front yard. Feathery limbs of weedy young cedar trees crowded the house and sprouted from what had once been a lawn.

"It looks haunted," Russ whispered to me as we mounted the steps to the front door. The porch was partially screened, breezy, and wide, but I wondered if the rotted, springy boards beneath my feet would give way when we walked on them. An old porch swing stood in the corner near a couple of wicker chairs, their once white painted surfaces now peeling and gray, like the paint on the house. I walked down to the end of the porch and leaned over the railing until I could see, through the tangle of trees, the white house across the meadow, the steep gray roof with its little dormers and chimneys. I had thought it large when first I'd seen it, but now, when compared to this house, it seemed modest.

Iona unlocked the door, struggling to get it open, and for a moment it stuck. Russ stepped up beside her and wedged his boot against the threshold. There was a brief contest, and the door groaned open.

"Don't think it wants us to come in," Russ said, and when Iona wasn't looking, he made a face at me.

We wandered into the house like we were entering a cave, crouching a little as if expecting bats to rise flapping out of the shadows. It was cold, dark, dank, and musty, and the air reeked of something foul - a thick, nauseating odor of something decayed, long neglected, ill, or dead. The faded gray wallpaper was peeling and miserable. The floor creaked beneath us. But the entry hall was spacious and formal, and a generous staircase with a carved oak banister curved gracefully up to the second-floor gallery. Large double doors trimmed with wide moldings led off to rooms on either side of the entry hall, and beyond the staircase on the ground floor the hall extended to accommodate more doors opening to other rooms.

"Oh . . . this must have been something once," I said quietly, trying not to betray the strange exhilaration that had risen inside me. This house could be made beautiful again, I thought.

But Russ looked doubtful. It was an impressive-looking old house, sure, but we could actually feel the floor swaying as we walked on it. I wondered if there was anything left of the foundation - and I wondered what was wrong with the place, besides the obvious. My mind was busy, calculating and skeptical, but I was still laden with the deep emotional
sensuality left over from my dream. Practical considerations seemed to be calling from a distance.

Iona led us through the arched doorway on the left side of the entry hall into a large room with tall windows, lavish moldings, exquisitely beautiful light fixtures, and coved ceilings of crumbling plaster.

"The front parlor!" declared Iona, with a gesture of ironic graciousness. The room was jammed with furniture, cardboard boxes, piles of books, papers, dead potted plants, old gardening catalogs and medicine bottles. Everything was coated thick with dust. The dark avocado-green shag carpet was littered with scraps of paper, dried apple cores and orange peels, empty TV dinner boxes, and old receipts. Despite the high ceilings and large windows, the room was gloomy.

I went to the window and tried to move the heavy gray drapes aside. I wanted to get a sense of how the light might enter the room. But the drapes had been nailed tight to the corners of the window frame - and all the windows were similarly barricaded. It was strange.

Iona reached up to help me pry the drapery away from the window and suddenly the wood trim gave way and the whole thing came down on us, plastic drapes, hardware and all. Not a good sign. I glanced at Russ, who shook his head regretfully. We couldn't help laughing. Iona was embarrassed.

"Now I'll be sued," she said.

Sunlight came in feebly through the waxy smudged glass, dusty with the lace of velvety old spider webs, dotted with the remains of dead flies. The room was hardly brighter with the drapery off, but I could see the window was well proportioned and glazed with its original wavy glass.

"Possibilities?" Iona suggested brightly. We wandered through the house, alternately awed and appalled. Everywhere was trash and clutter; in the hallways, spilling out pf closets, piled in corners - clothing and dishes, stacks of paper, old catalogues, books and magazines. In one room there was a torn-up bird, gray feathers scattered over the ubiquitous avocado-green carpet, wall to wall. And the heavy dank smell permeated everything in the house.

We climbed the staircase to the second floor. I was nervous, dubious about the structural integrity of the place, but the treads were firm and the banister seemed solid. The place was strange, but I was excited. Beneath the dust and garbage were spacious rooms with high ceilings and elegant detailing. The house was large and of grand proportions - much more of a project than I had imagined taking on. It needed a lot of work. It was way beyond what I had envisioned.

"Possibilities," I said, reaching out with the word. I watched Russ carefully, waiting to see if he would laugh. The place, admittedly, was a mess. But he had on his poker face.

"It's being sold as is," said Iona.

"I can't imagine why," Russ murmured.

"The owner will carry financing. She'll have to. No bank would loan on the place. It's got great potential - but it's definitely a fixer-upper, isn't it?"

Which is what I wanted. I glanced at Russ. "What do you think?" I mouthed at him when Iona turned her head. Russ was looking the place over with his critical eye. His expression was grim.

I thought, well, that's it. Undoubtedly, the place will have to be condemned. Already I felt regret for what might have been.

But perhaps it would be a relief to discover my plans were absurd. Maybe I would go home to San Francisco completely disenchanted with my dream of buying a house in the mountains. Maybe when I got home, there would be a message on my machine, and his voice would startle me with its warm familiarity: Stacy, its been too long. I need to see you -

Ah, Justin. There you are.

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