My husband Frank dug a trail to the front door. The snow was about two feet deep. When we pulled up, we were shocked to see that nothing had been shoveled — not even a thin path to the door.
When the realtor arrived, he told us the key was in the back of the house.
“Oh great,” Frank said. “I think I have a shovel in the trunk of the car. Let me get it.”
It was a cold March day. In the valley, winter starts early and leaves late. A week earlier we had driven around looking at homes for sale. Standing in front of this one then, we were sure we couldn’t afford her. When I called to inquire, the realtor told me we could make an offer.
“She’s been empty for two years now,” he said. “I think anything you offer would be fine.”
We arrived at the back door where the realtor opened the key box and retrieved the key. He unlocked the door and we stepped inside.
The house was cold and empty. We stood in the kitchen. A fireplace was to the left and a professional chef’s kitchen to the right.
“There’s a pantry here,” the realtor said. “Original to 1840 when the house was built.”
“Incredible,” I said as I looked inside, marveling at all the space and the old woodwork.
We walked into a large formal dining room and then into a parlor. Across the hall was a library with floor-to-ceiling built-ins.
I suddenly felt a chill and turned, thinking I saw a shadow move across the hall. Old houses have memories and some of them have presence. I felt uncomfortable now, and Frank began pointing out the uneven floors.
“Structural issues,” he said. We walked through the rest of the house. Upstairs there were four big bedrooms and two baths. I stood at the window of the master bedroom and saw a creek across the way.
“There’s a separate apartment above the kitchen,” the realtor said, “with a Juliet balcony.”
We walked through it, marveling at the view through the balcony’s French doors.
Eventually we walked back downstairs and left through the kitchen.
“A chef owned her,” the realtor told us. “I sold it to her, and now maybe to you.” He smiled. “Make an offer.”
We were standing out front by our car when we noticed a man walking toward us. He was tall and thin, about eighty years old, wearing a jacket decorated with Celtic symbols. His hair was long and white.
He walked up and asked, “Did you buy her?”
Frank smiled. “Not yet.”
“I’m Colin,” he said, turning to face me. “I saw you from my window. You look like my mom did when she was young. That was many years ago… when I was young too.”
He pointed across the way. “I live there.”
“Will you live here?” he asked.
“I’m not sure,” I said. “My husband and I have to talk about it.”
“Did you know the owner?” I asked.
“Oh, I don’t go in there,” he said, “but yes, I know her. She lives on the other side of town now with her husband.”
Frank and I looked at each other.
Colin turned and looked across the way. “There’s my wife, Angela.”
We looked and saw a short woman with gray hair walking toward us from the stone house across the way. She stood just over five feet tall with a sturdy frame. There was a warmth about her, and she was smiling as she approached.
Colin turned to her and said, “I think they’re going to buy the house.”
She smiled. “That’s great.”
We quickly introduced ourselves.
“Well, I hope we’ll be neighbors soon,” she said.
“Yes,” Colin added. “We hope to see you here.”
Frank smiled and shook his hand. “We should be going.”
Colin and Angela turned and headed back to the stone house across the street.
Before we got into the car, the realtor asked if we had an offer for him. Frank gave him a ridiculously low one. The realtor smiled.
“I think they’ll accept that,” he said. “I’ll call you later.”
We got back in the car.
“Wow,” I said. “Do you think they’ll really take that?”
“Who knows,” Frank said. “Let’s get something to eat.”
At the diner my phone rang.
“Who’s that?” Frank asked.
I looked down at the phone. “It’s the realtor.”
I answered.
“Carol,” he said, “I’ve got some good news for you. They’ve accepted your and Frank’s offer.”
Nonesvazquez 
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