Chapter Two

Richie hadn’t committed to the sale yet, but Marty had seen enough buyers in his time to know when someone was completely taken in by a property. Richie had that faraway look in his eyes, as if he could see what the house looked like in its heyday, when it was truly a home. When Richie looked out over the acres of land, Marty knew he saw the ruin and decay, but he also saw potential. Someone like that was just what this house needed – Richie was a perfect match for this house.

The two men had spent close to an hour touring the grounds and outbuildings. Richie hadn’t seemed daunted by the mess that had once been beautiful landscaping. On the contrary, once he started walking around, his reticence faded, and he seemed excited at the prospect of cleaning the place up and bringing life to the gardens. Marty was surprised. He’d just assumed that someone with Richie’s money would have hired people to take care of that, but Richie had volunteered that working the earth was soothing for him; a kind of therapy.

When they stepped through the door into the great room, Marty could tell from the look on Richie’s face that the man had changed from browser to buyer. Marty just had to seal the deal. And pray that the haint kept to herself for the remainder of the house tour.

After the exchange in the foyer, the pair of men started the tour in earnest, heading down to the basement. Richie found the stone walls and packed dirt floors fascinating. He wondered about the masons that laid the stones and about the countless broom sweeps this floor must have seen. As he ran his calloused fingertips across the smooth, cool stone, he marveled at the workmanship and thought about the history of the house. He was amazed that a house this old was in such good shape. This house had survived when the Union and the Confederacy battled over slavery. It had seen most of the presidents of this country, and countless wars. If the walls had memories they could share, the stories would be endless. He almost wanted to tell Marty to skip the rest of the tour, but he really wanted to get up to the top floor, to look out the windows at the garden maze.

Aside from the house itself, the maze was the element of the property pulled at Richie the most. When they had come to the overgrown mass in the back of the property, he was able to enter the maze only a few yards before running into a veritable wall of leaves. The hedges were so unruly that the path was choked closed. He had never actually seen a hedge maze before, and he was anxious to get this one back to what it once was. He was sure he’d be able to see most if not all of the maze from the third floor. But, he was determined to let Marty show the house his way, in his own time. He let his mind start to wander, trying to imagine his kids, when he got around to having them, running wild through the maze.

Richie’s attention was snapped back to the tour when they entered the kitchen. He whistled as he looked around at the massive space and the appliances spread throughout the room. These clearly hadn’t been updated in a good long while, but the quality of what was here was impeccable. Pale yellow Geneva steel cabinets ringed the room about halfway up the walls. Some of the space above the cabinets would have been used to store the larger pots and serving platters. The rest of it was clear, albeit dusty, glass; casement windows that let in lots of natural light. An island divided the space neatly in half, its thick wooden top scarred from years of knife cuts. A steel rack hung suspended from bulky chains and would easily hold three dozen pans. The eight burner stove sat next to deep double-sinks, all of which were the same pale yellow as the Genevas. The walls and cabinetry all glowed softly in the afternoon light. There were fixtures overhead that would brighten the space even more, but it was nearly perfect the way it was.

Richie listened as Marty went on about the kitchens – there were two, one down here, and a smaller one upstairs connected by a dumbwaiter. Richie smiled, imagining David demanding to be raised and lowered by that pulley system. He shook his head. He’d have to remember to tell D that it was broken. Marty showed Richie the laundry area, added in the 1950’s, the root and wine cellars, and the storage areas before finally leading him back to the staircase where they would climb back up to the main living floor.

Before they headed upstairs, Marty directed Richie’s attention to a small door tucked under the stairs.

“What’s this?” Richie asked, “more storage?”

Marty chuckled. “Not quite. This is an historic home,” he said proudly. “Inside that little crawlspace, there is another panel leading to a bigger space – nearly a full sized room. Did you notice that the root cellar did not seem to span the length of the kitchen?”

Richie crouched down and peered inside the crawlspace. Sure enough, at the back of the space was another knob, all but hidden in the shadows. He crawled in, heedless of the dirt he was grinding into the knees of his jeans. He grasped the knob and pulled, having to put some muscle into it. Almost reluctantly, the door gave way, and Richie swore under his breath. “Marty, do you have a flashlight?”

“As a matter of fact, I do have one in the car. I won’t be but a minute.”

Richie nodded absently, and crawled through to the larger passage. The room was pitch-black, and Richie did no more than stand up and feel his way along the wall to find a place to lean. He waited anxiously for a light.

A few minutes later, Marty returned with two large flashlights. He crouch-walked through into the hidden room, and handed one to Richie. “This, sir, is one of the very few Southern homes to have been part of the Underground Railroad.”

“Whoa,” Richie said, shining his light around.

“Yes.” Marty cleared his throat and tucked his thumbs into his suspenders like an old-time orator. “When schoolchildren are taught about the railroad, they’re taught more myth than truth – not that it’s bad. But really, there were very few places in the South where a slave could find respite on his or her journey North. This was one of maybe a half-dozen such places in the whole of this great state. Most of the safe havens were in the North, and even then, most Northerners, though anti-slavery, were not receptive to what they called ‘fugitives of the South’.”

Richie was playing his light around the room. The walls, floor, and ceiling were dense, packed earth, and there were holes here and there, both carved out of the walls and into the floors. Richie imagined that the wall-caves were for candles or perhaps a place for the runaways to store their meager belongings. The floor holes, he assumed were toilets of some sort and cringed at the thought of what these people had gone through.

Richie searched his school-days memory and turned to Marty. “Were there signs, you know, to flag this for the slaves? Like a lantern in the window or white bricks along the chimney – something like that?”

Marty shook his head and chuckled. “No, though folks around here did know that the family who lived here at the time didn’t believe in keeping slaves. No, it was really word-of-mouth. Folks were real cautious though. The family that lived here was well-loved by the community, but one couldn’t be too careful.” Marty cut himself off before he went on too much about the history of the family who lived here during the Railroad time. He had to remind himself that he didn’t have this Yankee’s signature yet.

Richie nodded and started for the crawlspace door. “Let’s get on with the rest of the tour. I’ll have plenty of time to explore and dig into the history later.”

Marty smiled at Richie’s tell. Another satisfied customer.

After closing the doors and dusting off their hands, the men made their way up the staircase back to the main level of the house. Richie was turning over in his mind everything he’d seen so far. This house had a ton of history and amazing stories. What that room downstairs alone must have seen... Richie shivered involuntarily, and fleetingly wondered if it was the same breeze from earlier.

The young woman was pacing nervously back and forth across the scarred maple floors of the great hall. She hadn’t meant to be so angry at the men’s intrusion, but she had forgotten for a moment that they could not see her. Any self-respecting Southern woman would have taken umbrage at the intrusion into her home, but she had forgotten for a moment that she was no longer technically a Southern woman and this was no longer her home. It was easy for her to think of herself in the present tense, as she still walked and thought and apparently talked; though with nobody to talk to in the last several decades, she hadn’t heard her own voice in a good long while. It had been even longer since someone else had heard her voice. She wondered if the Yankee would be able to hear her if she tried harder. Perhaps he would; after all, he appeared to have felt her anger. When she heard the men’s footsteps approaching, she hurried to sit at one of the windows to see what would happen next.

Marty led Richie through the main floor of the house. They went through the butler’s kitchen to the formal and receiving parlors, the library, dining room, conservatory, billiard room, and ended in the grand hall, where Richie rubbed at his arms. This chill was still there. Where was it coming from? It didn’t feel like just a breeze, but it had to be, right? It was summer for Christ’s sake. Nothing else made any sense; but this felt different from just a summer breeze. He thought back to the room in the cellar.

Surely not everyone who sought refuge here found it, he thought. Maybe...naw it couldn’t be.

Richie looked around and finally up and his eyes widened with delight at the pressed tin ceiling. The craftsmanship was just amazing. He could feel his fingers itching to trace the patterns, and would have to make sure a ladder was on the list of purchases that needed to be made.

He took in the moldings, the wood paneled walls, and the massive stone fireplace and hearth. He mused that he could recline in the fireplace and there would still be room at his feet for his guitar. He barely had to duck to stick his head into the flue, and made a note to have it cleaned, and to see if the chimney needed to be straightened.

“Marty, what did they use this room for?” he asked, as he continued his circuit around the room, trailing a hand gently across the walls. The space was enormous, spanning the entire depth of the house, and taking up fully one-half its length. Set into the middle of the back wall was a set of extra-wide French doors that led out to the lawns. Almost the whole length of the room was waist-to-ceiling windows, with generous seats built under them. The cushions would all need replacing, but Richie could imagine himself sitting in a sunbeam, playing his guitar while a gentle honeysuckled breeze streamed in through the open doors. He smiled to himself – he always was a romantic.

Marty answered, “Oh, balls and celebrations. There would be music and dancing, and hundreds of people spilling out of this room onto the back porch and lawn.” He crossed to one of the wide window seats and with some effort, managed to throw up the sash. He turned back to Richie. “These windows would let the joy and laughter from this house out into the world. It was a grand time.”

The woman had tears of in her eyes. It was so long since music or laughter had a part in her existence. Hearing her home discussed so casually, as an anecdote to history saddened her. But as she remembered the music and dancing, she smiled wistfully. Maybe this time, with this Yankee, her house would be a home again.

Richie stopped in front of the window seat currently occupied by the young woman. He stared at her, she thought, as if he could see her. He reached out, and the woman held her breath. His hand passed through her cheek to touch the smooth glass. She couldn’t feel his touch, and knew he could not feel her cheek, but she drew back. When Richie lifted his hand from the glass, he stared at the condensation left behind. That shouldn’t happen. It was far too warm. Before he could say something, however, it dissipated. He shook his head and turned to his agent.

“Marty, I don’t think I need to see anymore,” he said. “I know there is much to be done here, and frankly, a large manually intensive project is just what I’m looking for.”

Richie added to his mental list of everything he would have to do. Most of the electrical and plumbing throughout the house would have to be updated. Nearly everything needed to be scraped and painted. It was gong to be a huge effort, and he couldn’t wait. He was burned out from the last couple years of touring, and was looking forward to unwinding. He was working on a solo project, but it was nearly wrapped up, and he really needed time to relax. The record would hit stores in the fall and he’d go and do the promotions and performances late in the summer, but in the mean time, he needed something to sink his teeth into that would let him just relax.

He’d have to contact the local Historical Society, newspapers, and the County Clerk’s office, and see if they could get him information about the house’s history. He hoped that there would be some old-timers around who would remember stories from their parents or grandparents about the house and times. Stories passed down through the generations fascinated him. He’d have to scour whatever archives there were for photographs of this house – if it was historical, even slightly, there should be records somewhere.

He was already onto the next steps in his mind. He decided that he’d work to get enough space renovated to live in comfortably. Once the large projects – the electrical, plumbing, and HVAC – were taken care of by the contractors, he’d complete the rest of the renovations slowly himself. His friends had all laughed at him, saying he was crazy to disappear and turn handyman. The boys in the band were all doing their own things, so they didn’t know what he was doing; but he was sure they would share the same opinions. The only people who thought he was doing the right thing were his parents. Joan and Adam had seen the stress in their son’s face and the heartache in his eyes. They knew that a monstrous project was just what he needed, something positive to focus on, and they were supportive of his decision.

Richie was excited to learn about the history of the place. He knew that it had an old soul, just as he did. “This place is speaking to me, Marty; it’s just perfect. I’ll take it.”

The woman sucked in a breath at the Yankee’s declaration and bolted from her seat, running from the room. She passed right through Richie on her way out the door, and he shivered.