HardScape by Justin Scott Read Free Book Online Page B

her workshirt into a snug cotton sweater. “What is it?”
    I told her how I’d gotten it from my mother, and complimented her landscaping and the quality of the stonework. She explained that they had owned a big place in Greenwich. “When we decided to build here, Jack said we should use the workmen we knew. I felt a little funny cutting out the local guys.”
    â€œTough call,” I agreed. “Plenty of good mechanics up here, but it’s nice to go with people you like. Who’s the architect?”
    â€œIt was Jack’s plan. I drew it, and then we paid an architect to work out the structural details.”
    â€œNice. Who did the outside?”
    â€œI did.”
    â€œReally?” I looked again. I don’t care how talented an artist is, or how stylish an interior decorator, only one in a million retain their sense of scale outdoors. The sky is simply not a ceiling. I see magnificent houses every day with dinky steps, postage-stamp terraces, misplaced swimming pools, and tennis courts fenced like zoos.
    She hurried to explain. “I had wonderful help. The masons saved me from a million mistakes.”
    I had no trouble imagining a mason making an extra effort for Rita Long. Her smile, the breeze in her hair: “Move this wall? No problem, Signora , it is only granite. Guido, per favore , the jackhammer.”
    I glanced up at the turret. The archers’ slits were authentically narrow. A few sturdy yeomen could hold off anything up to tanks. “There’s a rumor around town that you shoot deer from your turret.”
    â€œOh, God. Jack did. Once last year, during hunting season. I told him I’d shoot him if he did it again.”
    â€œSo the deer are safe.”
    â€œFrom Jack,” she laughed. “Guaranteed. Are you ready to see the inside?”
    We went in and wandered the many rooms, most of which were still unfurnished. A central staircase lit by skylights was magnificently paneled in rosewood. “Who’s the cabinetmaker?”
    â€œIt’s old. When Jack’s mother died, we ransacked her apartment. She had it done in the Nineteen-Twenties or ’Thirties. It was so gloomy there, but here the light makes it work, doesn’t it?”
    â€œSure does.”
    The kitchen was the sort you find in houses owned by people with endless bucks—the latest everything, the air vibrating with the ceaseless hum of electric motors. It was spotless, with takeout menus from Church Hill Road Shanghai Cafe and our matchless Lorenzo’s Pizza Palace on the refrigerator.
    The house did not have quite the rumored thirty-seven rooms, but there were three beautiful guest-room suites upstairs and a spectacular master bedroom with a fireplace and his and her bathrooms and his and her walk-in closets and a little attached sitting room-television room also with a fireplace. The bed was magnificent, with French-Canadian antique ironwork at the head and foot, and it would have taken a better man than I not to imagine the matchless Mrs. Long sprawled upon it, smiling through a veil of raven hair.
    I could not resist asking, “What’s down that hall?”
    â€œJust my studio.”
    â€œDo you want me to look at it?”
    She hesitated. “Sure. Just a second.” She ran ahead, and when she called, “Okay, now,” I walked into the white studio and saw she had draped the smaller easel as well as the big one.
    â€œWorks in progress?”
    â€œProgressing slowly…So? What do you think?”
    â€œI think you have a lovely house. And I’m sure I’m not telling you anything you don’t know when I say there are a limited number of buyers for such a place.”
    â€œIf you were handling the sale, what price would you ask?”
    â€œWell, I’m not handling the sale, but if I were…four million.”
    â€œAnd what would you advise me to take?”
    I hesitated. Then I asked, “Are you in