“Look at this,” Keri said, handing me the classifieds:
Elderly lady with large Avenues home seeks live-in couple for meal preparation, light housekeeping, and yard care. Private quarters. Holidays off. Children/infants welcome. 445-3989. Mrs. Parkin
I looked up from the paper.
“What do you think?” she asked. “It’s in the Avenues, so it has to be large. It’s close to the shop and it really wouldn’t be that much extra trouble for me. What’s one extra person to cook and wash for?” she asked rhetorically. She reached over and took a bite of my toast. “You’re usually gone in the evenings anyhow.”
I leaned back in contemplation.
“It sounds all right,” I said cautiously. “Of course, you never know what you might be getting into. My brother Mark lived in this old man’s basement apartment. He used to wake Mark up in the middle of the night screaming at a wife who had been dead for nearly twenty years. Scared Mark to death. In the end he practically fled the place.”
A look of disbelief spread across Keri’s face.
“Well, it does say private quarters,” I conceded.
“Anyway, with winter coming on, our heating bill is going to go through the roof in this drafty place and I don’t know where the extra money will come from. This way we might actually put some money aside,” Keri reasoned.
It was pointless to argue with such logic, not that I cared to. I, like Keri, would gladly welcome any change that would afford us relief from the cramped and cold quarters where we were presently residing. A few moments later Keri called to see if the apartment was still vacant and upon learning that it was, set up an appointment to meet with the owner that evening. I managed to leave work early and, following the directions given to Keri by a man at the house, we made our way through the gaily lit downtown business district and to the tree-lined streets leading up the foothills of the Avenues.
The Parkin home was a resplendent, red-block Victorian mansion with ornate cream-and-raspberry wood trim and dark green shingles. On the west side of the home, a rounded bay window supported a second-story veranda balcony that overlooked the front yard. The balcony, like the main floor porch, ran the length of the exterior upheld by large, ornately lathed beams and a decorative, gold-leafed frieze. The wood was freshly painted and well kept. A sturdy brick chimney rose from the center of the home amid wood and wrought-iron spires that shot up decorously. Intricate latticework gingerbreaded the base of the house, hidden here and there by neatly trimmed evergreen shrubs. A cobblestone driveway wound up the front of the home, encircling a black marble fountain that lay iced over and surrounded by a snow-covered retaining wall.
I parked the car near the front steps, and we climbed the porch to the home’s double door entryway. The doors were beautifully carved and inlaid with panes of glass etched with intricate floral patterns. I rang the bell and a man answered.
“Hello, you must be the Evanses.”
“We are,” I confirmed.
“MaryAnne is expecting you. Please come in.”
We passed in through the entry, then through a second set of doors of equal magnificence leading into the home’s marbled foyer. I have found that old homes usually have an olfactory presence to them, and though not often pleasant, unmistakenly distinct. This home was no exception, though the scent was a tolerably pleasant combination of cinnamon and kerosene. We walked down a wide corridor with frosted walls. Kerosene sconces, now wired for electric lights, dotted the walls and cast dramatic lighting the length of the hall.
“MaryAnne is in the back parlor,” the man said.
The parlor lay at the end of the corridor, entered through an elaborate cherry-wood door casing. As we entered the room, an attractive silver-haired woman greeted us from behind a round marble-topped rosewood table. Her attire mimicked the elaborate, rococo decor that surrounded her.
“Hello,” she said cordially. “I am MaryAnne Parkin. I’m happy that you have come. Please have a seat.” We sat around the table, our attention drawn to the beauty and wealth of the room.
“Would you care for some peppermint tea?” she offered. In front of her sat an embossed, silver-plated tea service. The teapot was pear-shaped, with decorative bird feathers etched into the sterling body. The spout emulated the graceful curves of a crane’s neck and ended in a bird’s beak.
“No, thank you,” I replied.
“I’d like some,” said Keri.
She handed Keri a cup and poured it to the brim. Keri thanked her.
“Are you from the city?” the woman asked. “I was born and raised here,” I replied. “But we’ve just recently moved up from California.”