We’re home.
Dave thought we were nuts. Dave was our realtor. “We” comprised my husband, my best friend, our oldest daughter, and me, but mostly meant me. Dave thought I was nuts. We pulled up the curved drive, walked into the house, and I announced, “We’re home.”
It wasn’t perfect. There were cracks in the plaster, odd bumps and ridges in the oak floors, and the garden was a frozen wasteland, but it was everything I’d ever dreamed. The first floor fireplaces were carved from black marble veined with red-brown streaks. The front doors were flanked by miniature Corinthian columns. There were tiny mother-of-pearl call buttons installed for the legion of s