The first time I drove past my Victorian lady on a quiet tree-lined street in rural New England, my heart skipped a beat. I turned the car around immediately. It was 350 miles north of Baltimore, where I lived and worked, but I had been secretly longing to put down roots there, near my childhood hometown. The dilapidated house was built by a jeweler around 1880, but she no longer looked like a jewel box: Her paint was peeling, her footings were rotting, squirrels hid in her attic, and her foundation had visible holes! Still, I marveled at her vast wraparound porch, tall windows with wavy glass, and steep roof lines.
“For sale by owner” was barely legible on a sign taped to a newel post; the price, unapproachable. But I parked and knocked on the door. A slight, handsome woman opened it. We talked for a few minutes, and she invited me in. To my right was a large fireplace with a crackling fire, flanked by four majestic leaded-glass windows with built-in bookcases
