At last the house’s musty, rancid odor yields to the sweet scent of latex paint mixing with breezes gusting in the newly opened windows. Nailed and painted shut for decades, the windows were thoughtfully positioned to catch the slightest stir of air, coming from the bay to the west, the ocean to the east, and the bay and ocean when the wind turned southeast. Clearing northwest winds blew through the utility room, and, if you wanted them, northeasters blustered in the office-bedroom window. Pliers, mallets, screwdrivers, and more than a few broken panes later, you could smell a wind shift. The house has started to breathe. When I drape the blue-rose fabric across the bay windows in the parlor I know exactly what Mrs. Jefferson would think. Longer, dearie. I prefer my skirts tea length, if you know what that means these days. I go out and find the last five yards of the fabric on the remnant table exactly where I’d left it weeks before. It’s enough so that the swags reach below the windowsills.
What do You think about The House At Royal Oak (2010)?
