by David Harp
Chapter 3
Rebecca’s Dollhouse
As they were leaving the park, Haley again asked Camille if she would stop at the pink house. Becky replied before Camille had a chance. “That’s somebody’s home. We can’t just stop and stare.”
Camille pointed to a “for sale by owner” sign as they approached. “It’s for sale Becky, and it has your name on it. Maybe this is meant to be. I think we should take a look. Come on, it wil be fun.”
“Can we Mom, Please, Please?” Haley begged.
“O.K., we’ll stop for a minute to look, but then we’re going to Tarpon Springs.”
They pulled into the long circular driveway past a large magnolia tree before stopping in front of the house.
A twenty-foot-wide stairway led to a wraparound porch that circled the entire building. The front and back decks were left open while the left side was screened. The right porch was completely enclosed by glass. The first floor was fifteen feet above the ground with heavy vegetation that made it appear as if the house was growing out of the trees. The second floor incorporated two grand turrets like a fairy tale castle. Above it stood a widow’s walk.
“Isn’t it beautiful Mom,” squealed Haley.
“I’ve got to admit, it is an impressive house. The yard is immaculate and I love the porches.”
“Hello, may I help you?” crooned a woman’s voice from the front porch. A little startled, they turned to see a very dark skinned, short and stout elderly woman peeking from behind the front door.
She couldn’t have been more than four feet tall. Her skin, eyes and hair were as black as midnight. Her voice was so melodious it tickled their ears.
“I’m Ms. Shelby,” she said. “Are you the Kings?”
Becky was startled, but decided she must have misunderstood. The woman had no way of knowing them.
“Oh, we’re very sorry to disturb you. Your home is so beautiful we couldn’t resist stopping for a peek,” Becky replied.
Ms. Shelby looked at Becky’s sister. “You must be Camille. I hope the note was clear.”
Becky glared at Camille. “What’s going on?”
Camille looked rather sheepish as she pulled a formal looking envelope from her purse. “I received this last week. It is a letter asking me to bring you here for a personal showing of the house.”
“That doesn’t make sense,” Becky countered. “How do they know who I am, that I would be in Florida, or that I’d be interested in buying a house?” Then she whispered to Camille, “This is creepy.”
Ms. Shelby began explaining, “Though you may not know the owner of the home, he knows you and knew your husband. He’s looking for a particular buyer. You are the only one who meets the qualifications. We asked Camille to invite you.”
“Why me?” Becky asked, but she didn’t wait for an answer. She glared at her sister.
“What were you thinking Camille?”
“I thought it would be fun,” Camille answered. “I didn’t think you’d come, so I decided to trick you. I’m sorry, but I’d do almost anything to have you and Haley here in Florida.”
“Please Mom, please. Can we look?” Haley pleaded.
“Please Becky, please,” Camille added with a laugh.
Ms. Shelby hopped into the sunlight as if someone had pinched her. “I’d be honored to show you the house.”
“I don’t know. We don’t want to take up too much of your time, and we should get back on the road if we hope to make it to Tarpon Springs before sunset.”
Becky could see the disappointment on Haley’s face, so she reluctantly turned toward Ms. Shelby, “Are you sure?”
“It is no problem at all Rebecca,” she responded with a wide smile. “I love showing off the place.”
Even though she looked to be in her eighties, Ms. Shelby bounced down the front steps like a teenager. She led the three ladies on a tour of the ornate gardens, the boat dock on a canal with access to the Gulf, and the caretaker’s cottage where the gardener lived.
Before taking them inside the home, Ms. Shelby explained that the house was anchored on sixteen concrete steel-reinforced piers, making it one of the most hurricane resilient structures built in 1975. She paused to offer a brief history of the property which was custom built for J. Alfred Weston, an ultra-wealthy businessman from Connecticut.
“‘The’ J. Alfred Weston?” Becky enquired.
“Yes,” Ms. Shelby replied. “Is that a problem?”
Becky appeared surprised. “No, but I met him many years ago when we were working on an archaeological site here in Florida. Mr. Weston was a very intense man, aloof and unapproachable. I can’t picture him living in a house like this.”
“J. Alfred is anything but aloof and unapproachable,” Ms. Shelby laughed. “I’ve known him since he was six years old when his father died. Even that horror couldn’t defeat the rambunctious little boy who grew up to be a gregarious, handsome young man. Sadly, even more tragedy has taken a toll on him, but don’t let his gruff exterior fool you. He is a wonderful man.”
“What happened to him? What do you mean by tragedy?” Becky asked.
“A fairy tale that turned into a nightmare I’m afraid,” Ms. Shelby answered. “J. Alfred fell in love with a woman named Angela who was a featured mermaid at the Weeki Wachee Springs attraction. This land belonged to Angela before she met J. Alfred. She lived in the caretaker’s cottage which was the only building here at the time. The two of them were married after an intense romance. They moved to Connecticut, but kept the cottage as a winter retreat. Angela gave birth to a beautiful little girl named Rebecca who grew up visiting the cabin every year. The little girl often pleaded with J. Alfred to build a full-size version of her dollhouse so they could move to Bayport permanently. Then in 1973, Angela died of leukemia at their home in New Haven.”
“Oh my god,” Becky sighed. “I didn’t know his wife had died.”
“That wasn’t the end of his misfortune,” Ms. Shelby continued. “J. Alfred and Rebecca were both overcome with grief, but still made the trip to Florida the following winter. The warm sunshine lifted their spirits, so J. Alfred hired an architect to design this house as their permanent home. It is a replica of Rebecca’s dollhouse. They made peace with Angela’s death and lived here for five years.”
“I probably don’t want to know, but what happened next?” Becky asked.
“When she was seventeen, Rebecca also died of leukemia. She’s buried in the back yard under her favorite oak tree. J. Alfred moved out and rarely returns except for occasional visits to her graveside, but he’s kept the residence as it was when Rebecca lived here.”
“Now I understand,” Becky commented. “That wasn’t long before I met him. He was probably still grief-stricken.”
Ms. Shelby placed her hand on Haley’s shoulder. “It would be a shame to let this wonderful house be remembered for misfortune. After all, the spirit of that precious little girl still lives here. He hasn’t shared his reasons with me, but I don’t think Mr. Weston intends to sell this house to anyone else. You must have made quite an impression because the sales contract has some very specific stipulations, including the buyer’s first name.”
Becky leaned toward Camille, “This is getting even creepier. There’s a ghost in the house and a tombstone out back with my name on it.” Then she turned back to Ms. Shelby.
“I don’t mean to be unpleasant, but aren’t there housing laws against discrimination toward home buyers?”
Becky took Haley’s hand as she prepared to leave, “Regardless, I’m afraid we’re wasting your time Ms. Shelby. Even if we were interested, there’s no way I can afford a house like this.”
“You’ll be pleasantly surprised by the price,” Ms. Shelby replied. “Regarding the specific conditions of sale, Mr. Weston’s lawyers made sure everything is legal. The offer is very generous. One woman even changed her name to Rebecca, but the lawyers disqualified her. Mr. Weston believes you and Haley are the perfect match for this home, an
d he is seldom wrong. Most people don’t get a chance like this, so please come with me inside.”
Becky was skeptical but felt outnumbered. “I guess there’s no harm in looking” she said reluctantly.
She, Camille, and Haley followed Ms. Shelby through the front door. They stood speechless, viewing the magnificent panorama. A hand-carved wooden staircase framed the east side of the enormous room. Maybe it was the intoxicating fragrance of the flowers, but Becky felt a pleasant floating sensation.
A forty-foot-long window bathed the space in sunlight, while two stunning chandeliers hung from a twelve-foot ceiling. Luxurious rugs, museum quality paintings, and antique furnishings were meticulously placed throughout.
Everything in the house was distinctive, from the dishes to the linens to the art on the walls. There were six bedrooms, four bathrooms, and two well equipped kitchens.
As impressive as it was, their favorite part of the house was the widow’s walk, a small deck on the roof with an unobstructed view of the Gulf.
“Ms. Shelby, I don’t know that I’ve ever seen a more beautiful home. It is like a fairy tale,” Becky said.
Ms. Shelby could sense Becky’s softening attitude.
“This was a wonderful family home. J. Alfred believes you and Haley can bring it back to life. Please say you’ll give it a chance by spending the night. I’ll explain details of the proposed sale over supper.”
Becky started to decline with a shake of her head, but before she could say a word Haley and Camille were both begging to stay. Alarm bells were going off in Becky’s mind.
This is too good to be true. There must be a catch or the house is haunted. How does Mr. Weston know so much about us? Am I getting caught up in the moment, acting irrationally?
Despite her fears, Becky recognized the opportunity. It was an adventure and despite having just met her, she trusted Ms. Shelby.
Becky took a deep breath, smiled, and said, “We would love to stay.”