Even in the shade of the double row of centuries-old sugar maples in formation across the front yard, the white clapboard seemed to glow. But the most amazing feature was a massive forty-five-paned arched Palladian window smack in the center of the second floor.
“It’s gorgeous,” Brent said. I knew that he was appreciating entirely different features than I was. Being from the South, he was probably staring at the ornate balustrades and what looked to be a porch with pillars that wrapped around the back and sides. It definitely had a plantation gene somewhere in its bones.
Being more northern, I loved its elegant but simple symmetry—its four hidden chimneys built right into the boxy home, the ornate but understated carvings painted white against the white background.
With its peculiar and unique details, the house was like a perfect combination of Brent and me—both southern and northern in equal complementary measures.
“Drive up farther,” I said. “We’ll see if it’s open.” A building this beautiful had to be a museum. Nobody had a right to own it all to themselves.
As we inched forward, we realized there was a barn just to the south of it—a perfect red barn in the architectural style of Fisher-Price. The white house with the red barn, with the green manicured grass, with the orange maples…It was like something out of a Disney movie. I half expected an animatronic milkmaid to stick her head out of the hayloft door and wave at us.
This was nothing like the farms I grew up around in Wisconsin, where the house was generally an afterthought to the outbuildings, and a yard was considered to be whatever patches of grass grew up through the mud. Farms are messy, I’d learned. Really messy. When your business is dependent on inventory that shits wherever it feels like, you can’t really be a stickler for neatness.
This farm had style—loads of it. It was, if there was such a thing, a New York City farm.
“I have to see the inside of this place,” I said to Brent. He nodded his head in agreement. “Pull in the driveway.”
We both sucked in our breath at the same time.
Just behind one of the stone pillars on either side of the driveway was another sign:
REALTY USA . 518-555-3423, MICHELLE CURRAN . REDUCED.
I read it over at least three times. I was afraid to speak, in case it might break some spell and the sign would disappear. I looked over. Brent was staring at it just as intently.
Then he turned to stare at me.
There was no reason to say anything. We both knew what was coming next. Brent reached for his phone, while I found a pencil and paper to take down whatever information he relayed. He dialed the number and put the phone to his ear. I’m pretty sure his hand was shaking.
“There’s no answer,” Brent said. “Shit.”
I’d never heard Brent swear before—or “cuss” as he phrased it with his southern idiom. Being from a family who built and started their own fundamentalist church, Brent was still afflicted with a few good habits he couldn’t shake.
“Here, call the guys at the hotel. They know everything about this town,” I said, trying to disguise the desperation in my voice. I handed him the hotel’s brochure that I’d taken as I left. I knew that if we didn’t see this house today, we never would. Not only was there a good chance that I could never find Sharon Springs on a map again, but there was also the reality that the moment we returned to the city we would be sucked back into our respective whirlwinds and completely forget to click our heels to come back to the farm.
“Hi, Doug?” Brent said into the phone. “It’s Josh and Brent. We were guests of the hotel last night?” Doug apparently remembered us, and Brent continued. “We were taking the road you told us to take out of town, and we saw this house for sale—it’s white, with a red b—Yes, the Beekman Mansion.”
People call it by its name: the Beekman Mansion. As beautiful as it was, I