Sterlla’s been guiding me through a maze of streets the way Vergil led Dante through the earth and then depsrted at the Mount of Purgatory.
It seemed fitting in an ironic sense, because I’m looking for a Beatrice who can guide me through the celestial realms to Paradise…
And that just doesn’t look like it’s happening—at least, with Stella.
But just when I’m musing about abandoning Stella as a realtor and giving up the quest for a house, the girl intrudes with a suggestion that makes me suspect she had that in mind all the time.
“Well maybe, just maybe, I’ve got the dream for you,” she says finally, “since you’re so bound and determined to spend big bucks.”
“That’s me,” I chuckle wryly.
“Hey, Big Spender,” she laughs.
We pull up in front of a huge Arts and Crafts style house with an imposing façade. It’s an unusual design in that the front gable extends high over the roof—a device used in medieval times to prevent winds from lifting roof tiles.
I whistle softly. “This is impressive.”
“Wait until you see the gardens, Theo—the grounds back onto a ravine—it’s really lovely. I think this house has the kind of character you’ve been looking for.”
I’m thinking the same thing. I keep staring at the triple chimneystacks that tower high above the slate roof. It certainly does have character.
She takes me on a tour of the house and grounds and it’s everything I’ve been hoping for.
Inside its walls, I feel peaceful and serene. The house is calling to me. It seems time itself stands still here, locking in the ambiance of the Thirties, and shutting out the harsh world outside.
It’s magnificent.
“The house has an interesting provenance,” she remarks casually as we return to the car.
I’m so enthralled with the property that I’m barely listening. I stop to look back and admire it again. The rain has just ended and the slate roof tiles are shining in the sun.
“What kind of provenance?” I ask off-handedly.
“It was owned by Blythe Summers – the poet – she lived here from 1921 until her death in 1975. Have you heard of her?”
Her words roar though my brain. Blythe and I have a history of sorts. That’s why Stella’s casual revelation shakes me. She has no way of knowing about my passion for the beautiful deceased poetess.
And the mere thought of living in her house leaves me breathless at the prospect of channeling her spirit.
“Blythe Summers? You’ve got to be kidding,”
I say it calmly, trying to feign nonchalance, but Stella doesn’t miss much and she can tell I’m excited.
“What’s going on, Theo? You act as if you knew her but surely you’re much too young for that.”
“No, no, it’s nothing like that. It just so happens she’s one of my favorite poets. Besides, I’m interested in the house.”
Her face lights up. “You are?”
“I am,” I smile.
We put in an offer the afternoon and by evening the house is mine.
