The Year of Pleasures Read Free

stately trees and saw what looked like a FOR SALE sign in the middle of the block. And indeed it was that. I pulled over to the curb next to a white wooden sign reading HENCKLEY REALTORS , a phone number stenciled neatly below. The house was a beautiful Victorian, complete with a wraparound front porch. It looked empty: There were no curtains, I could see no furniture or artwork through the windows, and the dying grass was longish. My heart sped up; this was exactly what John and I had fantasized finding when we planned our trip. I sat for a long minute in the car, hesitant to get out. I knew if I loved the house, I’d buy it, and I was afraid, suddenly, to follow through on what I’d thought I was so sure of. If John were here, he would be the stable force against which I could play out my daring and my spontaneity; now I wondered if this whole trip had been such a good idea after all. “Don’t do
anything
for at least six months,” one woman had told me. But another had said, “Get right back into the swing of things. You’re not twenty, you know.” Then she’d all but covered her mouth and added, “I didn’t mean that like it sounded.”
    I decided to go up and ring the doorbell. If the house was empty, I’d have a peek through the windows. If it wasn’t . . . well, I’d think of something. I turned off the engine and checked myself in the visor mirror. I didn’t look deranged, as I feared I might: I could feel my overeagerness knocking about inside me. I thought surely I would look at least somewhat exophthalmic. But no, I looked normal: a fifty-five-year-old woman with clear green eyes that were just the slightest bit asymmetrical and a nose that was just the slightest bit crooked, traits I’d wept over in high school but had come to accept, even love, because John had. I was a redheaded, freckle-faced woman in need of a haircut but wearing decent clothes and diamond studs, a gift from John on our fifteenth anniversary. They were not so large as to be gross, but I thought they would signal to the Realtor that I had some money. That seemed important. I anticipated him being annoyed having to show a house of this size and quality to a single woman—my opinion was that when it came to women being taken seriously, the world had not advanced so very much.
    When I got to the door, I saw that the house was indeed empty. I looked around to make sure no one was watching, then moved cautiously over to a large front window to peer inside. What I saw took my breath away: egg-and-dart molding, a fireplace with a carved mantel, polished wooden floors in a tiger oak pattern. The stairs curved around to go up; at the landing was a large stained-glass window in the striking form and colors of Frank Lloyd Wright. I pulled my cell phone out of my purse and noticed that my hands were trembling—out of fear or out of eagerness, I wasn’t sure—but I dialed the number on the sign and prayed that someone could show me the house,
now.
    I asked the receptionist who answered for a Realtor—in fact, was Mr. Henckley there? I asked. I wanted the owner of the company. I thought that was probably the way to do it. “This is
Mrs.
Henckley,” the woman said, “and I am the Realtor. The only one.”
    “Oh!” I said. “I’m sorry, I thought you were the receptionist.”
    She laughed. “There’s no receptionist here! It’s just me and the cat. What can I help you with?”
    I took in a breath. “I’d like to see a house you have listed. It’s a white Victorian—”
    “Oh, the Samuels place. Three-eleven Maple?”
    I looked at the number beside the door. “Yes, that’s it. I’d like to make an appointment to see it.”
    “Well,” she said, “how about now? Do you want to see it right now?”
    I nodded vigorously, then realized what I was doing. “Yes!” I said. “Please. That would be great.” I sat down on the top step. “I’ll just wait right here. I’m right here on the front porch.”
    “It’ll take me