Surviving America's Decline and the Progressive Agenda: An Indictment Against the Good Salt

By Mila Christine Bourdon

After more than a decade in the Middle East, Grace Winders returns to the States only to find the warnings of her friends in Riyadh correct. This wasn't the robust America she'd left. This one was in decline with its unprecedented debt, lawlessness at the highest levels of government, lack of well-paying jobs resulting in a burgeoning underclass eking out a living on entitlements, its military weakened and influence around the globe diminished, its cities polluted by drugs and street gangs, the proliferation of sanctuary cities allowing illegal aliens pouring into the country freedom from the law, terrorist activity on our own soil, and political correctness making many of these changes possible. Dispirited by her angst-ridden experiences here, she fingers the country's liberal element and its progressive agenda as the cause of her woes. People like her just didn't seem to count in their new America eschewing both capitalism and the ideas of the founding fathers. Grace's story offers a voice in the conversation to those whom America's dogmatic left would forever silence.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Jan 3, 2019
• ISBN: 9781642982688

Book preview

Chapter One

2010

Descending the cobblestone walk on Worthington Hill, Grace glanced about her. If things were as bad as people at the compound in Riyadh said, she didn’t see it here. Canopied doors and window heads in storefronts showed no neglect. Dittoes for century-old row houses on both sides of the street, from their mansard roofs and tiny dormers to their shuttered bay windows. The farmers market at the bottom of the hill too. Just over the railroad tracks, its sweet multi-gabled roof still lent Traverse Mills a fairytale look. Her friends were wrong – about this place anyhow. What’s more, they were back now. Her turn had finally come to cash in on the American dream. That’s what really counted.

Their decision had come down to the town’s low crime rate and best of amenities in not far-off Wheeling—the place to settle behind them; now it was all about the house. Since flying out, she’d pictured herself in one of the town’s elegant Victorians. She’d have it—whether Georgian, second empire, or vernacular. All the better if they found one built by an early entrepreneur who’d made his fortune navigating the Ohio River. That’d silence a few wagging tongues in Cape May. To be sure, it’d make settling here worth it.

In any case, the open sign in the window at Squires Realty came as a warning to move on. They’d agreed to put off house hunting until the Winderses returned to watch the twins. While two days ago that’d made perfect sense, at the moment the cramped quarters at her in-laws represented somewhat an inconvenience. Plus, residing as a guest in his childhood home, Tom seemed all too content. In a quandary, she crept to the window and peeked through the open blinds. Right away she spotted just the ticket. The stack of booklets at the elbow of a woman hunched over a puzzle had to be property listings. It’d only take a second. She could just go in and get one.

After readjusting the strap of her Moroccan bag over her left shoulder, Grace yanked on the door’s brass handle. The coins sewn to her bag tinkling, she stepped inside and ambled toward the woman’s desk. The tinkling surrendered to the loud beat of her heels on the travertine floor; she began to feel conspicuous. As it happened, she soon saw the futility in that. Waiting before the desk for the woman to pencil her third letter in a sudoku, she finally coughed.

Oh, the woman blurted, jerking herself upright. Are you here to see the broker?

Grace pointed to the booklets. Are those property listings? she asked.

To her dismay, the worker spun her chair toward the back of the agency and shouted, Pam, there’s someone here to see you.

The clack of high heels drew Grace’s attention to a buxom middle-aged woman with frosted hair emerging from an office. As the beaming real estate broker in a Jones of New York suit approached, Grace regretted not just demanding the listing.

Welcome, the hazel-eyed woman announced in a husky voice. Looking for a new home? Thrusting before Grace her right hand flaunting ruby nails and a flashy diamond ring, she added, Well, you’ve come to the right place.

Reaching for her hand, Grace considered her own appearance. She looked dowdy in her cargo pants and denim jacket. And her sole adornment besides her wedding band, her unpretentious Conover heirloom ring on her little finger, did nothing to improve on that. If the real estate broker represented the standard for dress in affluent Traverse Mills, she’d have to measure up.

I’m Pam Squires, the woman stated as though with pride. And you are?

Grace cleared her throat. Grace, she muttered. Grace Winders. We will be looking for a home, but my husband’s not available today. Motioning to the desk with her eyes, she added, I just stopped by for a property listing.

To her vexation, the woman stretched her right arm around Grace’s shoulder. While guiding her deeper into the agency, she stated, Well, you couldn’t have come at a better time. We just happen to have some excellent buys at the moment.

Ill at ease and cradled by the larger woman whose telltale clothing revealed a habitual smoker, Grace recalled her plan to be a part of things in the Ohio town. Chucking her aloofness was one thing, but sacrificing her personal space was clearly another. Fact was, she’d never expected to meet anyone like Pam in the whole Midwest, let alone a small town in Ohio. At the same time, she found her flamboyance rather unattractive—something she wouldn’t want to emulate.

Winders, you say? Pam inquired. After removing her arm, she took a step back and locked her gaze on Grace. You wouldn’t be a local Winders, would you?

My husband, Tom, grew up here, she replied.

Tom . . . Tom Winders, Pam muttered. Staring into space as though digging through her memory banks, her eyes abruptly lit up. My brother graduated with a Winders . . . think in ’85.

Tom had, indeed, finished high school that year. About to tell her so, Grace just smiled when Pam started in again.

Tom . . . oh, yes . . . of course, she rambled on. Then you’re related to Masham, the commissioner. Brothers . . . or was it cousins?

Brothers, Grace replied.

Okay, I see how you fit in, Pam said. "Thought Masham told me Tom’s somewhere on the other side of the world. By all accounts, he did real well for a small-town boy. Real smart. Graduated at sixteen and got a scholarship to some Ivy League school in PA. Think it began with a W or . . . Let me think. Had something to do with finances."

About to interject Wharton into the conversation, Grace noticed Pam’s knit brows. And then the woman’s inquiring gaze met hers.

So tell me, Grace, Pam said, how did you and Tom hook up?

Grace read her thoughts. Pam was alluding to Tom’s first marriage to a local girl. Checking the time on her watch, she replied, I need to get a move on, Pam. As she started for the door, she added, I need to get to the Verizon Store for new phones. And then I was hoping to . . .

My, that’s gorgeous, Pam interrupted.

Grace cursed her starchy upbringing. Good manners were so drilled into her psyche early in life she had no choice but to be polite. Turning around, she eyed the real estate broker with curiosity.

Your bag, Pam said.

From Morocco, Grace involuntarily muttered.

So that’s where he’s been hiding all these years, Pam exclaimed. After coming to Grace’s side, she placed her left arm around her shoulder. Why don’t you have a seat over here, sweetie? she asked. While guiding her to a leather couch just beyond the desk, she added, I’d love to hear all about Morocco.

Grace eyed the couch; it looked comfortable. And the marble-top coffee table before it was littered with magazines and a tin of cookies. Truth was, there was no real hurry to get back. Tom and the girls were in Wheeling with Masham and his brood hunting for bikes. They’d probably be all day. She had plenty of time to shop, even stop at the Antiquarian for an old book. In any case, she’d face that uphill walk back to the Winderses’. But this wasn’t right. They’d promised. Surely she’d find a property listing at the farmers market.

Her watch drawn to her face, she said, That’d be lovely, Pam. But this isn’t a good time.

No matter. With Pam’s coaxing and offer of a cappuccino, she removed her jacket and sat down.

Preparing the foaming drink at a bar across the room, Pam said, So tell me, dear. What kind of a home are you looking for?

Grace smiled. The Victorians here are splendid, she said. But I haven’t seen the first For Sale sign.

Pam chuckled. You noticed, did you? They are out of this world. People come from all over to see them, including the best of architects. But you’re right. There are none for sale at the moment. These old families hang on to them. It’s hard to get one—well, one in good shape anyhow. We’ve just razed a few that weren’t kept up. But listen. I have just the thing to help narrow your search. Just give me a minute.

The cappuccino in her hands, Grace watched Pam stroll across the room and grab a booklet from the stack on the desk. Eager to have a look, upon the broker’s return, she set her drink down and reached for it. That proved foolhardy. As Pam spent the next minute flipping through the booklet from one page to the next, Grace finally withdrew her hand. If she had the perfect house in mind, she’d wait.

Here it is, Pam finally said. Turning to Grace, she continued, Now our property magazine lists homes from Steubenville to Martins Ferry. I want to draw your attention to our ad for Captain’s Cove. It’s our newest subdivision . . .

The term subdivision implied track homes to Grace. They were anything but her cup of tea. But taking the magazine open to the ad inside the front cover, she dutifully eyed it. Listening with one ear as the woman further described the subdivision, she gazed at homes on the next page.

. . . And all three schools are within walking distance too, Pam went on. That means a . . .

Aware of Pam’s sudden silence, Grace glanced up. The broker’s look suggesting her annoyance was one thing. But she couldn’t believe it, when seconds later the woman’s hand suddenly immobilized hers over the magazine. Frustrated, she eyed the glittering diamond before her.

Generally speaking, Grace didn’t give a hoot about the behavior of other people. For the most part, keeping them at arm’s length worked for her. But on occasion, that view inspired the perception that she’s weak, that she deserves their disrespect. With such a laissez-faire treatment of others and brought up to be mannerly, she’d never learned to put people like Pam in their place. Thus, while she wanted to rip her hand loose, she only fumed in silence.

It seemed to take an eternity, but Pam finally removed her hand. Now, you take your time, she stated. I’ll be back in a few minutes to see how you’re doing.

Relieved to be alone, Grace thumbed through the magazine hosting an assortment of homes. She soon conceded, Pam knew her stuff. Acquiring a Victorian in the area was unlikely. Prepared to abandon her search, she flipped the last page just to make sure she didn’t miss anything. Her strategy of focusing on small ads interspersed among larger offerings for land development taking up most of the page paid off. She soon came across an ad for a brick home overlooking the river. With no photo to accompany it, she considered its tower, slate roof, and cupola—all signatures of a Victorian. Elated, she squinted at the name of the listing agency in tiny print. Confused to make out Squires Realty, she wondered. Had Pam listed it?

Sipping on her cappuccino, she pictured in her mind’s eye the home said to rest on five acres. A scalloped picket fence might be just the thing, and they’d get ponies for the girls. She’d plant a vegetable garden behind the house like her mother’s in New Jersey. Torn from her reverie by the clack of Pam’s heels, she glanced at the broker stepping out of her office.

Watching her snuff out her burning cigarette in an ashtray atop a filing cabinet, she blurted, You’ll never guess, Pam.

Find one? Pam asked in a rising tone. Way to go, Grace.

On the river, no less, Grace stated with pride.

Excited when Pam sat down next to her and took the magazine, her spirits sank when the woman barely glanced at the page and contorted her face.

You sure can pick ’em, she mumbled under her breath.

Excuse me? Grace asked.

You don’t mean this one, do you? Pam asked.

Grace glanced downward. Pam’s ruby fingernail lay smack dab on the ad. That’s it, she said. Sounds a lot like my childhood home in Cape May, New Jersey.

Pam’s half smile suggesting a problem, she wondered whether it’d already been sold. Perhaps that’s why she’d never mentioned it.

Let me break this to you gently, Grace, Pam stated. First of all, it’s not in Traverse Mills.

Grace thought they’d already established that. Anyhow, the right house not too far from town was okay. Curious as to its location, she asked, And?

It’s on the road to Steubenville, Pam stated point-blank.

Grace grimaced. She wouldn’t live in a town with a reputation approaching that of Chicago’s or Detroit’s. Well, that’s what Tom’s parents told her, anyhow.

And while the ad sounds great, it’s an eyesore, Pam continued. Trust me, I’ve been there a time or two. It’s really old and for the most part beyond repair. No one’s lived in it for years, so it suffers from serious neglect. The foundation’s crumbling, the pipes leak, and the kitchen . . . well, it’s a disaster. In my opinion, it should’ve been razed long ago. Fact is, I hate to waste your time even driving over there.

When it came to a weak foundation, Grace got that. But closing the door to the only Victorian for sale in the entire area seemed a tad hasty. How about some facts? Says who it’s crumbling? An appraiser? Anyhow, if it’s so bad, why was it listed? Pensive, she heard Pam assert something about homes in that same subdivision.

. . . If you’re from Cape May, she said, you’ll love Captain’s Cove. Terraced lakes, very affordable, and the neighborhood’s great. Two pools, tennis courts, and a golf course. Say, does your husband golf?

Grace smiled. Actually, he does, she replied. And so do I from time to time, but . . .

If you buy there, Pam interrupted, that amenity comes with it, club membership and all.

Then, as though teasing, she cast Grace a look of endearment and tilted her head. It’s a gated community, she said in a rising tone, our model neighborhood.

I’m sure it’s lovely, Grace whispered. But I have my heart set on an older home, where pocket doors, transoms, and pantries are standard.

Maybe this will help, Pam said. "Ever seen The Money Pit? They could’ve filmed it from this place."

Grace grinned. She had seen the movie. Moreover, as a teen she’d witnessed her parents’ endless outlay of money to restore the Victorian they’d bought near the marina in Cape May. But when it was done, everyone congratulated them on the finished product. Their eyesore had become the focus of local pride.

Yeah, you have to be careful, she murmured. I’d ask my father to come out and . . .

I have an idea, Grace, Pam said. Rising to her feet, she continued, Maybe there’s a newer listing on the Internet. It’ll only take a minute. In the meanwhile, you think a little more about what you actually need in a house. I’ll be right back.

In Pam’s absence, Grace considered her father’s guidance about tasteful old homes. Built by affluent people, they were solid. Thus, a weak foundation didn’t stack up. By the time Pam returned, she’d made up her mind to see the home in the ad. To be polite, however, she graciously entertained her Internet listings. The first, a cute bungalow in town, was way too small; while the second, a boxy Shaker, struck her as too plain. Pam’s immediate proposal to drive to the Shaker home before visiting the subdivision elicited Grace’s consternation. What about the house in the ad? That’s what she wanted to see. She’d have to say something. But that meant being careful. This wasn’t all about her. Pam might actually be a family friend. And getting on the wrong side of the only realtor in town didn’t strike her as being too smart.

Twisting her pinky ring, she cleared her throat. Pam, she whispered, I’d really like to see the house on the river. When Pam just gazed at her, she added, If you don’t mind, of course.

After sighing, Pam finally replied, Fact is, Grace, the owner hasn’t even quoted a price yet. And he’s hard to get ahold of during the day. Tell you the truth, he’s a demanding man. I just hate ruffling his feathers. Tell you what. I’ll call him this evening and get back to you. In the meanwhile, how about . . .

When Pam got up as though there was nothing else to say on the subject, Grace suspected she just didn’t want to sell this house. Maybe the commission wasn’t worth it. And just maybe she didn’t need a buyer with no interest in that dumb subdivision. With that very thought, however, it dawned on her that she didn’t need such an inattentive realtor either. She had the listing, for God’s sake. Watching Pam step away, she reached for her jacket.

Thanks much, Pam, she said. But I think I’ll be on my way.

When Pam turned around and squinted at her as though confused, Grace stood up.

We can find this place on our own, I think, she said. My husband knows the area after all.

It was as though her words struck the woman dumb. Pam’s eyes like saucers before she abruptly marched off, Grace realized she’d just uttered the very words no real estate broker wanted to hear. Could she have been more thoughtless? Sure she could do nothing to repair her unintended insult, she saw Pam turn around before the door to her office.

As I say, she declared, with the owner’s consent. I’ll be back in a minute.

This was a lot for Grace to process. Confused as Pam stepped inside her office, she shook her head. On the one hand, Tom was right. She needed to speak up more. But she’d been mean, insulting a woman she only believed was giving her the runaround. How dumb was that? Of course, now things rested not on Pam but on the owner. And that was okay.

Seated again on the couch and treated to whispers emanating from the broker’s office, Grace eyed her door. Pam had failed to completely close it. No matter. She couldn’t make out anything she said. When five and then ten minutes flew by, however, she grew suspicious. Things obviously weren’t going her way with the crabby homeowner. Frustrated, she sighed, only to hear Pam’s voice loud and clear.

I told you, she blurted with force. But you wouldn’t listen.

Grace gaped at the office door. What had she gotten herself into? Obviously, something was really wrong with her pick of homes. And then all those months of haggling over where to settle flooded into her mind. So anxious to be back in the States, they’d too hastily decided on Ohio. She’d overlooked Tom’s unspoken but obvious consideration for settling in Traverse Mills: the presence of his family. He’d never been comfortable with her relatives. They both knew that. Moreover, she’d wanted to live near her family. But Tom balked at the staggering cost of a home in Cape May. Never mind that in Riyadh they’d squirreled away a good bit of his salary. Problem was, she always gave in to Tom. So while she’d agreed that Traverse Mills was the better choice for this reason and that, the truth was, she’d settled for it. As much as she didn’t like to admit it, her rival sibling, Jack, might’ve been right terming Ohio flyover territory, home to Appalachian hillbillies.

Eyeing her empty cup on the table, Grace scowled. Clearly she’d been foolish stepping foot into the agency. What was she waiting for? Leave, she told herself. But just then she heard the jangling of keys. And then Pam reentered the room.

Ready to go? she asked.

Chapter Two

I  knew they were here somewhere, Pam said.

Grace tilted her head toward the backseat. The New Balance walking shoes Pam held up for her review made her wonder. Maybe the state of the property really was an issue. Good thing she wore her old loafers.

Once Pam changed out of her heels and slid into the front seat, Grace watched her toss a pack of Marlboros onto the console. She assumed they’d be on their way when she dropped a bottle of Perrier into the drink holder and started the Lexus with the push of a button. But then Pam started fiddling with the GPS.

Must be far away, she mused. On the other hand, she said she’s been here before. Hmm. Oh, stop, she told herself. This isn’t something she wanted to do. Show some gratitude.

Indeed, backing out of the car’s space seconds later, Grace glanced to her left. I really appreciate you calling the owner, she said.

Forget it, hon, Pam said. Turning left into the alley behind the agency, she added, It’s all in a day’s work.

When close to the end of the alley, the voice in the GPS told them to make a left turn onto Main Street. Grace eyed the screen. They’d have to get a GPS in their new car. In fact, Tom had shown her an ad of a Lexus in Riyadh. This is the car he wanted.

I take it the seller was glad, she said. With Pam’s immediate squint, she added, For showing the house, I mean.

Well, of course, Pam replied, "especially these days. Some don’t even get a nibble. So far 2010’s been just as bad as 2009. You’ll find out. Just getting a loan is tough. And then many end up in foreclosure. Ever seen the Cryer? Full of sheriff’s sales."

Grace didn’t read the local paper. Tom did that for her. In any case, she wondered what foreclosures had to do with anything. The seller was either glad or not. Not about to press the issue, she drew her own conclusion. Whatever he’d said, it’d upset Pam. She just didn’t want to discuss it. And what was she talking about? Foreclosures in Traverse Mills? Of course, there were those homes down by the mills. Tom’s father, Richard, called the neighborhood a ghetto. No telling what was going on there.

Yeah, overseas we heard about people defaulting on their loans, she said. Not to mention the lack of oversight when it came to Freddie Mac and Fannie Mae. Something about Dodd-Frank too. What a mess. Of course, people can’t find jobs. My father-in-law told me unemployment in Steubenville’s nearly 15 percent. Well, companies are moving out of the country. And everybody said NAFTA would be a good thing.

Well, there’s no excuse for people in Traverse Mills, Pam countered. Our grain mills are strong. But look how many houses our banks take back. It’s people, plain and simple.

The night before, Richard, in fact, mentioned America’s growing underclass, so many people on public assistance.

Things must’ve changed since I left the country, she said. It sounds like Americans just don’t care anymore . . . well, not everyone, of course.

Contemplating the financial ruin of the country, she pulled a tube of mints from her bag. Once she removed the foil from the top, she extended it to Pam.

I’d work five jobs if I had to, she said.

If Bush hadn’t made it possible for people who can’t afford it to qualify for loans, we wouldn’t be in this mess, Pam replied. After popping a mint into her mouth, she added, Well, he’s gone now.

That puzzled Grace. The way Tom explained it, Jimmy Carter had started us down that road with his Community Reinvestment Act. And Clinton had supported it. And then came the ACORN shakedowns. Anyhow, Republicans didn’t care about people. Everyone knew that. So why give Bush credit? The initiative may have been implemented during his term, but the Dems pushed for it.

Kudos, she mused, to whoever did. Looks like we’re becoming a nation of haves and have-nots. Appointing blame, though, struck her as a mistake. Talking about politics in Ohio was also likely a losing game. It was a battleground state, after all, full of diehard conservatives and left-wingers living side by side.

Close to the village limit businesses gave way to the occasional home and fields of golden soybeans. Tom told her the beans would soon be combined. In her mind’s eye she imagined a zipper pull separating a gigantic yellow sweater into two parts. Transforming the brilliant yellow bit by bit into a lackluster brown, the man on the combine would ruin the sweater. Sadly, he’d see only progress.

In seven-tenths of a mile, turn left onto Martins Ferry-Steubenville Road, the voice stated.

Close to the T-road, Grace caught sight of the river. Under the bright sun, the water sparkled. Once they turned, however, the river disappeared behind a tangle of trees, triggering her anxiety about the distance to the house. To her surprise, they’d barely driven a quarter of a mile down the road when the voice chimed in with Arriving at address on right. Grace eyed with doubt the forested area outside her window. There were no homes here.

Assuming Pam had just punched in the wrong address, it made sense when she pulled off the road and put the car in park. But when she disabled the navigation system altogether, Grace cast her a querulous look. If this was the right spot, she had some explaining to do. A home here could only have a Traverse Mills’ address. On the other hand, where the heck was it? Seconds later, she had her answer as Pam leaned over the steering wheel and began squinting into the distance. They were, indeed, in the right spot. And the woman resembling a hawk searching for prey had, for some reason, given her a false impression. To be sure, there was something about Pam she didn’t quite get.

Without a mailbox, it’s going to be touch and go, Pam said.

Assuming she was looking for a driveway, Grace leaned forward and gazed through the windshield.

Tall weeds and foliage choking the right side of the road made a driveway impossible to see.

There it is, Pam muttered.

Grace cast her a querulous glance. Where’s what? she asked.

Way back, Pam said, pointing up and to the right. Above the grass and trees. See the chimneys?

Following her outstretched hand, Grace indeed spotted a speck of red peeking through a moss-covered projection. After finding to its right a second projection, and then a third and fourth, she quit counting chimneys as the cupola came into view. Assuming a bit of gray just below it the roof, she then noticed a dark spot. She’d seen that at her parents’ home. Imagining missing slate and mold in the interior, she slumped back into her seat and sighed.

You’d be forever cleaning that up, she grumbled to herself.

As I say, Pam said, you can do a whole lot better than this. What do you think? Want to move on?

Grace stretched her lips wide. I don’t know, she mumbled. We’re here now. And if I don’t see it, I’ll always wonder. I see what you’re saying, though.

With her reply, Pam put the car in drive. After they turned right into a rut-ridden gravel driveway, Grace bounced in her seat, while low-slung tree branches scraped the windows and sides of the car. Imagining the paint on the car scratched, she soon found herself thrust forward as the Lexus came to an abrupt halt.

Frustrated as Pam rocked the car back and forth in vain, she glanced to her left and cried, Let me get out. I’ll push.

Her gaze on the driveway ahead, Pam complained, You see why I don’t like coming here? Just what I need. Another realignment. Then she turned to Grace and added, Tell you what. You go ahead.

When opening her door, it smacked against a rotted tree trunk. Grace wondered what else stupid she could do to upset her hostess. Angry at herself, she squeezed through the narrow opening between the door and trunk and stepped out of the car into a tangle of brush. Surrounded by the croaking of frogs, she gently closed her door behind her. Amazed to see no scratches on the paint, she gazed downward. Just as she thought. The front wheel was lodged in a deep rut. She’d have to push from the front bumper. Barely did she place her hand on the bumper when Pam floored it. The wheels spinning in place, it took only a second push and the Lexus backed up and out of the rut.

As Pam backed the car to the road, Grace turned her attention to the house. The whole roof now visible, she ignored the glaring patches of missing tiles and fixed her gaze on the ornate cupola. It looked perfect. Plus the windows and balcony on the second story just below looked intact. Eager to see the lower part of the home hidden behind tall grass, she glanced behind her. Stepping around ruts in the driveway in her stylish suit and clunky shoes, Pam finally looked up.

No need to wait for me, sweetie, she called. Go for it.

Taking her suggestion, Grace started forging her way through shoulder-high grass toward the house. Stumbling time and again over downed branches and an occasional anthill, she told herself to ignore burs and wild raspberry thorns snatching at her hands and clothing with her every step. But then she heard a crackling sound. And then another one. Tom had mentioned rattlesnakes in Southeastern Ohio. Some were venomous. Frozen in her tracks, she slowly glanced behind her only to recognize her error.

Setting out in the path she’d just forged, Pam held high her keys and Marlboros in one hand and her Perrier in the other. When finally at her side, the broker took the lead, Grace followed her out of the clogged morass onto a pavestone walkway before the ground floor now in full view. While Pam ascended the porch steps, she focused on the front door. Aside from the black box clipped to its knob, it flaunted skylights on either side. Was that beveled glass stained?

Her view blocked when Pam stepped before the door. Grace assumed she needed the key in the box. When instead she teased a cigarette from her pack of Marlboros and lit up, she eyed her with curiosity. With the cigarette pressed between her lips while she attended with both hands to the black box, Pam looked particularly coarse. Grace’s mother had talked about women like Pam. They thought they could mask traits cultivated over a lifetime with jewelry, clothing, or some other device. It was like putting lipstick on a pig, she said. It was still a pig. Prompted by her mother’s advice, Grace knew she and Pam were worlds apart. Of course, she’d recognized that from the broker’s first effervescent utterance.

Turning her attention to the Italianate scrolled brackets and cornices supporting the eaves, Grace smiled. They weren’t just intact, they were gorgeous. Dittoes for the round-headed windows both downstairs and up adorned by hood molding. On hot summer days, those blinds would block the evening sun in the west. In a matter of minutes, she attributed the home’s dilapidated appearance for the most part to the roof. Well, those dingy white pillars interrupting broken porch railings on the second floor were an issue too. But they’d be easily fixed. In her opinion, the home amounted to a victim of neglect crying out for proper care. Besides, it’d cost a mint to build a house like this. Even her father would say that.

Door’s open, Pam called.

Heeding Pam’s warning to mind the weak floors, Grace stepped over the threshold into a foyer and the wretched odor of a home long vacant. Prepared for a dismal experience elsewhere in the house, she peeked into the next room. An imposing winding staircase suggested she was wrong, to come closer. There was more. Much to Grace’s delight that, indeed, proved to be the case. The spacious living room spoke for elegance from the staircase’s balustrade supported by carved white spindles, the stained glass window at the top, the fireplace with a carved white mantel, and the ceiling set off by crown molding. Urged forward by Pam while mesmerized by the exquisite floral design in the ceiling’s center, she reluctantly stepped through an arched doorway into the next room. That proved a little disconcerting. Colorful light dancing at her feet immediately made suspect sheets spanning the length of wall before her.

Pretty dumb hiding windows in a solarium, she mused.

To expose the stained glass behind the sheets, she proceeded across the room and reached for a wad.

Grace, no, Pam cried.

Her admonishment too late, the sheets and rods supporting them crashed to the floor. Dust spewing into the air, Grace chided herself for being so careless. Just the same, the panels of glass before her, each boasting a unique pastoral scene, made it all worth it. Surely they weren’t Tiffany.

My god, she blurted, who’d hide these?

While Pam gulped down Perrier to quell her coughing jag, Grace eyed with guilt the sheets at her feet. But it was as though Pam read her mind.

Leave them, Grace, she muttered in a very raspy voice. Let’s move on.

In the living room again, Grace set her gaze on the fireplace. Struck by its position on an inner wall, she headed to the adjacent room.

Wait ’til Mother sees this, she said.

The other side the room, in fact, impressed her for more than the see-through fireplace. Surrounded by a nose-high white mantel flaunting carved elephants, tigers, and bears and flanked by shelves to the ceiling, it was a work of art. And the tower also came off this room. Much larger than it appeared from the outside, it boasted two small windows facing the front yard. The double doors leading from the room to a porch on the north side of the house didn’t escape Grace’s attention either. Tom’s idea of a home office a distinct possibility, she stepped toward a door on the opposite wall.

Assuming a closet behind it, she blurted, This may well work.

What’s that? Pam asked.

Reaching for the doorknob, Grace replied, This place is an enigma.

An enigma? Pam asked.

Grace grinned. What else can I say? The exterior needs intervention, I admit, but the interior’s fabulous. Any idea who built it?

At her remark, Pam took Grace by the upper arm and guided her out of the room. An old family, she said. And let’s not be too hasty. You haven’t seen the kitchen yet.

Again, Grace mused. A realtor talking the house down. Following Pam through a door at the south end of the solarium, however, she had second thoughts. The kitchen cupboards pulling away from soot-stained walls weren’t the only problem. Antiquated appliances and the filthy porcelain sink only added to the room’s ramshackle state. Though repulsed by the filthy stainless steel counters, she used them for support while navigating the buckled floor.

Any idea what a new kitchen costs these days? she jokingly asked.

Dream on, Grace, Pam said. Wait ’til you see the kitchens at Captain’s Cove.

Ignoring her remark, Grace eyed beyond the stove a door with a crystal knob. Is that the pantry? she asked. At Pam’s quizzical look, she pointed to the door. Just behind that stool.

Pam cast her a querulous look. Pantry? she asked. It’s the door to the basement. Now, this may sound hard to believe, Grace. But I’ve been through dozens of old homes. They don’t all have a pantry. Here, I’ll prove it.

After Pam pushed the rickety stool aside and grabbed the knob, Grace just knew she was wrong. And seeing that the door didn’t budge with Pam’s tug, she tried it herself. Frustrated after several tugs, she yanked so hard on the knob that the wooden door shook against the frame.

Grace, Grace, Pam warned, let’s not damage it. It’s probably just locked.

Grace eyed the keyhole below the crystal knob. Nobody locked a door to the basement.

After singling out a long, tarnished key with a large hook from her ring of keys, Pam dragged the rickety stool back to the door and sat down. But her attempt to insert the hook into the keyhole failed. Ready for the next key, she peered up at Grace. Sweetie, I have to get back to the agency by three o’clock. Maybe you could expedite things by seeing to the dining room on your own. Pointing to a door on the far wall, she added, Let’s be quick. I’m hoping to squeeze in a drive through at Captain’s Cove.

That again, Grace mused. I’d like to at least see the bedrooms, she said.

Next visit, Pam said. That’s if you really want to come back here. Let’s just shoot for the dining room and maybe the basement.

Just find the daggone key, Grace mused. A crumbling foundation is pivotal after all.

As luck would have it, once in the dining room, she noticed the folding doors at the far end of the room. She’d seen them from the living room. Sure enough, after bypassing nose high wainscoting and a fireplace embellishing the outside wall, she gazed through a block of glass in the doors at the see-through fireplace. Ready to take a few liberties, she glanced behind her. Sorting through her ring of keys, Pam looked busy. Chuckling to herself, she parted the doors with care and seized her freedom.

Upstairs in an atrium surrounded by several doors, she began opening them in quick succession. Blinds over windows allowing her only a dim view, she eyed first the antiquated bathroom before inspecting the large mirror bedrooms, each with a fireplace and balcony, one faced the front yard, while the other faced the river. With no time to lose, she then entered a small room between a recessed linen closet and laundry shoot. Confused to see a mattress on the floor, she eyed with curiosity several cans next to it.

Are those beer cans? she asked herself.

For a better look, she stepped to the sole window in the room and gently tugged on the blind. Startled by its immediate and noisy race to the top, she gazed upward as it came to a halt with a loud bang. Eyeing with dread the twisted blind, she told herself to flee before Pam saw another example of her handiwork. But she couldn’t leave it like that.

So she gently tugged the blind back down only to notice the gash across its middle. Downright perturbed, she sighed. And then she let it go. Ignoring it this time as it raced back up, she found herself gazing out the window before her. As it happened, that moment proved pivotal. Glimpsing for the first time the view behind the house, she nearly gasped. Much closer and wider than she anticipated, the river looked enchanting with sunlight dancing on the water. The palms of her hands pressed against the filthy pane she recalled her happy childhood near the ocean. Sensing a kinship with this home, that she needed it as much as it needed her, she dismissed her concern for the dumb blind. At peace with herself, she returned to the atrium.

Intrigued by a darkened staircase on the other side of the last door, Grace clutched the rail on her right and descended the steps to a foyer at the back of the house. Enabled by sunlight entering the oval window in a door to the outside she followed grime from the doorknob to the top of the steps. Repulsed, she questioned Pam’s words about a vacant house. That reminded her. It was time to get back to the kitchen.

Of two other doors off the foyer, the first led to a room joining Tom’s potential office, so she tried the narrow door under the stairs. Recognizing the solarium, she made her way to the kitchen and Pam. Still sorting through her keys, she didn’t look thrilled.

I was looking for you, she stated.

Sure she’d been found out, Grace just smiled. No luck with the door, I see, she quipped.

Guess I’ll have to get the owner’s key, Pam stated. That’s if you insist on coming back here.

Indeed, Grace wanted to come back—and with Tom.

While Pam returned the key to the box on the front door, Grace stood on the porch, eyeing the treacherous grass all the way to the road. She’d warn Tom about those ruts in the driveway too.

Let’s swing through Captain’s Cove on our way back, Pam said. You should keep . . .

Pam lost Grace with her chatter about what she should do. She could keep that cove place.

Chapter Three

Out of breath at the top of Worthington Hill, Grace regretted declining Pam’s offer for a ride. And she still had a few more blocks to reach Cordelia Avenue. Finally rounding the corner, she gazed at the Winderses’ house four doors down. Masham’s red Cherokee still stood before the garage where he left it that morning. But Richard’s extended RAM truck next to the side porch meant they’d beat her home. And she had dinner to prepare. Picking up the pace just as the first bike whizzed full speed ahead down the driveway, she recognized Zara. Under a navy helmet and her dark braids flapping in the wind, she led the pack forming up behind her. When her older twin slowed down to turn right onto the sidewalk at the bottom of the driveway, Grace knew she’d been spotted. As all five kids made a beeline toward her, she finally saw Vicky. Bringing up the rear, her smaller twin with long blond locks pedaled a bike way too big for her.

Accompanying the kids to the house, Grace listened to Zara’s account of their demanding day in Wheeling. Selecting just the right bicycles had proved a serious affair. The computer on the handlebars of their new Treks was her idea totally; she just knew her younger sister would one day appreciate the excellent device measuring time and distance. Vicky, by the way, bore responsibility for the wire basket and lights that their unselfish father had also insisted on buying each of them.

Grace questioned Tom’s thinking. The bikes were way too sophisticated for seven-year-olds. Anyhow, he didn’t negotiate with the girls. When he said no, it not only meant no, it also meant he’d have none of the endless bickering she tolerated. Of course, she knew. The cunning miniature replica of her father, Zara, had conned him just like she often conned her. In any case, before going inside, Grace praised the kids for their impeccable taste in bikes. A moment later, however, in the kitchen removing the defrosted chicken from the refrigerator, she considered her time at the Verizon Store. She’d bypassed the more expensive Droids and iPhones on the shelves.

The thighs and drumsticks in the Crock-Pot and the diced potatoes soaking in a pan of salted water at the back of the stove, she started on the green beans and bacon. Once done, she’d show Tom the new cell phones. In fact, she’d concentrate on them before mentioning the house. That ought to mitigate her breach of their agreement. The beans and bacon casserole in the oven, she grabbed Tom’s phone and the property magazine.

From the doorway to the den, she observed the two brothers. While Masham sat on the couch reading the Wheeling paper, The Intelligencer, Tom snoozed in his father’s La-Z-Boy rocker. So much for her plan. About to come back later when the newspaper scrunched, she glanced at Tom’s brother.

Hey, Grace, Masham said, didn’t see you come in.

Hey, Masham, she replied. Eyeing his paper, she added, anything new in there?

Nah, he said. Same old rubbish, the broken economy and high unemployment. But Tom and I did our part. Think we made their day at the bike store.

Grace chuckled. Stepping toward Tom’s chair, she quipped, I noticed. Nothing but the best for the Winderses.

At Tom’s side, she gazed downward. He looked handsome with his graying temples. For sure she’d gotten the better one. After setting his phone on the table next to his chair, she opened the magazine to the ad and folded it lengthwise.

Leaning over to insert it between his thumb and fingers, she whispered, Brought you something.

Unprepared for her suddenly wide-eyed husband to grab her, she dropped the magazine and fell on top of it. The ad scrunched under her, she giggled as Tom kissed her face and neck. But then she remembered where she was. Getting up, she glanced at the couch. None to her surprise, polite Masham hid behind his newspaper. If their outward display of affection bothered him, she’d never know. In fact, she wondered why she gave him any notice at all.

The stark differences between the two brothers had often bothered Grace. On the one hand, Masham looked as dignified as his Christian name with a silent h sounded. But he lacked Tom’s loving nature. She couldn’t think of a single time he’d displayed any affection toward his pretty wife, Maggie. Of course, they had three kids. That said something. But slight in build compared to his more muscular and dark-haired younger brother, sandy-haired and blue-eyed Masham looked and even seemed to model himself after their prim-and-proper father. Tom, on the other hand, the sole beneficiary of their mother’s good looks and affable nature, didn’t hold back when it came to his feelings for her. She much preferred that.

The crumpled magazine smoothed out, she handed it to Tom and pointed to the ad. Once he turned on the lamp next to him and donned his glasses, she awaited his response. As a lock of his hair fell over his forehead as it often did while he read, she thought he looked upset.

I just dropped in for a listing, she said. The next thing I knew . . .

Why this house? Tom interrupted.

The implication in his question that he didn’t give a fig about their agreement, she sat down on the arm of his chair.

Well, for starters, it was the only Victorian for sale, she said.

While patting her hand, Tom said, Hold that thought. Then he glanced at the couch. The spinsters live on Martins-Ferry, don’t they, Masham?

Lowering the paper to his lap Masham knit his brows. You mean Abigail and Eleanor? he asked. They used to. They’re both gone now, you know. What’s that?

Gone? Tom asked. Both of them? Funny, Mom never mentioned it. While stretching the magazine to his brother, he added, In the middle. The house on the river.

Heartened by the men’s interest in the house, Grace watched Masham peruse the ad.

Sure sounds like it, he quipped. It’s hard to tell with no picture. Of course, it’s pretty run-down.

Grace stretched her lips wide. Ye of little faith. Trust me. Its got its redeeming qualities. Turning to Tom, she whispered, So what’s this about spinsters?

Distant cousins, he said. The wealthy side of the family.

Grace remembered. Pam had mentioned something about an old family. But that’s all she said.

I have to say, Tom continued, if this is their place, the timing couldn’t be better. It’s a classy place. Well, so it seemed years ago.

While the brothers reminisced about their childhood excursions to their great aunts’ home, Grace stepped to the window at the base of the steps to the second floor. After parting the curtains, she spied all five kids playing near the garage. Returning to the men, she sat back down on the arm of Tom’s chair. At the first break in their conversation, she patted his hand.

Since you’ve been there, maybe you remember the room with the tower, she said. It seemed perfect for a home office.

Tom knit his brows. You went there? he asked.

Grace rolled her eyes. Only after kicking up a fuss, she replied. The saleslady had her own agenda. Pushing homes in some subdivision, the last thing she wanted to do was take me to this place.

Don’t tell me, Masham said.

Grace looked at him. Pam Squires, she replied. Do you know her?

At her pronouncement of the surname, both men looked at each other and burst out laughing. Clueless as to their meaning, Grace glanced at the clock on the mantel. She needed