The Next House

As a real estate addict, no sooner had we bought a small place in northwestern Connecticut than I began courting other houses. I even added a layer to my obsession with domiciles: backstories.

Enter 84 Bunker Hill Road, Salisbury, CT., what the listing describes as a diamond in the rough. The owners are deceased. They were, according to Legacy.com, Thomas “Tom” Haines, born and raised in New York City together with his older sister Minxie and younger brother Alex. After St. Paul’s and Yale and he met Stephany Warick, a student at Vassar. They married. He worked in finance, she “pursued her passion” in fine arts, raising two sons while honing her watercolor skills. They had four Jack Russell terriers, Jigger, Maggie, Rumpus, and Skirmish. Apparently, they loved to throw and attend parties and were exceptionally spiffy dressers.

I was excited to tour Tom and Stephany’s place, fangirling over photos taken on a sunny day when it was still furnished, awash in preppy John Cheever energy. The drive over, the walk up the front steps, like a drumroll; the door opened, and… nothing. The house was a gaping hole where a living tooth had once been.

Me being me, I swallowed my disappointment and complimented the built-ins. I genuinely like our realtor, who brings us snacks, plus the listing agent did his goofy avuncular best to sugarcoat a teardown. Ultimately, though, I felt duped. Not by the agents or the airless husk of a house, but my own florid imagination.

On the drive home, Sam, who had gone into the house as an indulgence, maybe hoping for a snack, felt fine. I was forlorn.  And yes, maybe this should have been an epiphany, the moment after which I would appreciate every good thing I already don’t deserve in my life, which now that I think of it, would be a lovely end to this post.  

But no. My disappointment eventually flamed out, but my imagination refuses to. Stubborn, it refuses to stop running wild to the next house I turn up at, heart pounding, to see.