For a moment I fear I’ve somehow said the wrong thing. But then he nods and says, “I used to.”
I smile. “I don’t think the rules have changed.”
He nods again. For another long moment, he doesn’t move. At last, he pulls out his chair and sits down. He stares at the chess set for another beat.
You can lead a horse to water—
Before I can finish the thought, my father reaches out, opens the box, and begins to set up the game.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Jasmine: A flowering shrub or vine in the olive family with milk-white, star-shaped blossoms whose sensual, spicy, peach-and-vanilla scent inspires feelings of love
On Sunday afternoon I drive my truck into San Francisco, Gully on the bench seat beside me. Adam’s house turns out to be a somewhat down-at-the-heels Victorian in a quiet neighborhood just north of Golden Gate Park. I find a parking spot on the street and then study the house as I walk up to it. It’s painted a pale shade of blue with peeling white and gold-leaf trim. An arch of gingerbread spindlework spans the entryway, and big bay windows hold wavy, imperfect old glass. Gully and I take the steps up to the large front door. When I press on the old-fashioned black doorbell, Gully tilts his head, listening, as the bell rings through the house.
A moment later, Sophie opens the door. She smiles briefly, shyly, at me and then more boldly at Gully, who responds by sniffing her as though he’s trying to inhale her, his entire body trembling with delight. Gully likes everyone, but it’s clear he especially likes Sophie.
Adam appears behind her, smiling at the sight of his daughter playing with Gully. “Thanks for coming,” he says, lifting his eyes to meet mine. “Come on in.”
I step inside and steal a glance around. The walls of the entry hall are covered in unevenly faded wallpaper. The wood floor is worn and seems to slope slightly downward toward the rear of the house, as though encouraging you to step farther inside. The curving stair railing that rises up beside the steep staircase is missing several balusters, but it’s beautifully, intricately carved—I’m not sure I’ve ever seen anything quite like it.
“It has a real Ms. Havisham vibe, doesn’t it?” Adam asks with a grimace. He’s looking around, too, as though trying to see the house through fresh eyes.
I laugh. “No,” I say. “It’s wonderful.” I mean it. The house feels inviting and warm and one-of-a-kind. I look down at my boots. “Should I take my shoes off?”
“Don’t bother. This whole place is a work in progress—a little dirt here and there is the least of my worries.” He seems to hesitate for a moment before asking, “Can I get you something to drink? Or do you want a tour? If you’re in a hurry, we can just head straight out to the yard. I don’t want to keep you.”
“I’m not in a hurry,” I tell him. “I’d love a tour.” I hold Gully’s leash out to Sophie and ask her if she wants to take him out to the yard.
She nods, grasping the leash in her small hand, and they set off down the hall toward the back of the house.
Adam leads me into the living room. “This is one of the few rooms I’ve renovated since we moved in,” he explains.
There’s a long, dark sofa—somehow both sleek and soft-looking—and a couple of chairs arranged near a fireplace. One of the chairs holds a collection of stuffed animals—mostly dogs, I note—that must belong to Sophie. The walls of the room are painted a rich, saturated blue-gray. The rounded ceiling is a creamy shade of white that emphasizes the room’s height. A large window, flanked by long drapes, looks out over the street.
The room seems a harmony of opposites—it’s Victorian and contemporary, luxurious but unpretentious, both informal and elegant. It’s a room, I think, where you could eat popcorn while wearing pajamas or sip prosecco in an evening gown—or sip prosecco in your pajamas.
Adam tells me that the home is a Queen Anne Victorian built in 1902. His brother’s wife, Faye, a real estate agent, brought it to his attention when it came on the market a year ago, and he couldn’t resist the project—though he admits he’s been tackling the work at a far slower pace than he’d intended. So far, in addition to the living room, he’s renovated Sophie’s bedroom and bathroom. I’m not at all surprised to learn that he has focused on Sophie’s rooms ahead of his own.
“Is your woodshop here, too?” I ask.
He nods and leads me across the hall, through a door, and down a narrow set of stairs into a long garage where the air is thick with the warm, industrious, woodsy fragrance of fresh sawdust. His truck is parked near the front of the garage, but the back is filled with a variety of woodworking and carpentry tools, all neatly in their places along a wall. There are books, too, set in stacks along shelves, a long pinboard of photographs of houses and details of cabinetryand woodwork, and an old radio. Below the surprisingly soft wash of the overhead light and placed almost reverently on a long table, the gate to the cottage garden awaits his attention.
“The amount of space down here was a big selling point for me,” Adam tells me. “I do a lot of my work on-site, but it’s nice to be able to work on projects at home, too.”
My father, I think, would be grateful for a room like this. But what it really makes me think of is my mother’s studio—a snug space where creativity and expertise can stretch and grow and sing.
As we walk back through the house, Adam lists the projects he plans to tackle when he finds the time—refinish the floors, repair the banister and ceiling medallions and millwork, new electric, new paint, new wallpaper…
I like listening to him. Both humility and confidence mingle in his voice when he speaks about his work. I like how he talks about the house as though it’s a living thing.
“Listen to me,” he says with a self-deprecating groan when we reach the very eighties-looking kitchen at the back of the house. “It’s a lot of talk for someone who has managed to renovate a mere two and a half rooms in a year.”
“I can see why you don’t feel the need to rush. The house is pretty special just the way it is.”
“I appreciate you saying that,” he says, “but you might not feel that way when you see the yard. In fact, I’m not even sure I can bring myself to show it to you. I know I gave Marjorie a hard time, but she might be right about it being dire.”
I shrug. “Let’s call it a work in progress.”
