“It’s the Butterfield Mansion,” the realtor answered as she drove past the stop sign, and Blake turned around to gaze at the house behind them. It was an impressive building, in a European style, but appeared abandoned despite its grandeur.
“Who lives there?” he asked, curious about it.
“No one, not in a long time. They were an important banking family at the turn of the century, when the house was built over a hundred years ago, before the 1906 earthquake. They lost their money in the Great Depression, and sold the house. It changed hands a number of times after that, and a bank foreclosed on it five or six years ago. It’s been empty ever since. No one wants houses that size anymore. They’re too expensive to run, and too much trouble to staff. Eventually some land developer will buy it and tear it down. I don’t think the bank wants the bad publicity that will go with it when that happens. It would make a great hotel—it sits on quite a bit of land—but the area’s not zoned for that. So it’s just empty for now. It has something like twenty bedrooms, a million maids’ rooms, and a ballroom. We have the listing, but I’ve never been inside. It’s a piece of San Francisco history. It’s too bad no one has bought it, with all the high-tech money around the city now. The bank has it listed for a ridiculously low price, just to get rid of it, but it’s too big a headache for anyone to take on.” Blake nodded. It was easy to see that would be the case, but it had such dignified elegance, even in its untended, unoccupied, slightly forlorn state. Blake could tell that no one had loved it in a long time.
“What happened to the family who lived there? The Butterworths?”
“Butterfields,” she corrected. “I think they disappeared after they sold it. Or they died out. I vaguely remember that they moved to Europe. Something like that. They’re not part of the San Francisco social scene anymore.” It was sad to think about a family who had lived in so much elegance and splendor dying out. Blake was fascinated by the house and what she told him about it, but they drove on to see four more apartments he knew Sybil would hate, and he went back to his office south of Market, and to his hotel that night. He told Sybil on the phone that he had struck out again finding them an apartment.
“Something will turn up,” she said, trying to sound optimistic. “What about the one in the Millennium Tower?” she asked, although she felt squeamish about living on such a high floor in what she insisted was earthquake country, or even in case of a fire, with three children to walk down fifty-eight floors.
“The owner in Hong Kong hasn’t responded to them yet. Maybe he doesn’t want to rent.”
“That’s just as well,” she said, referring to the high floor again. He almost told her about the huge empty mansion he had seen that morning, but they moved on to other subjects, and then he forgot. But he thought about it again in bed that night, and wondered what it looked like inside. Feeling ridiculous for doing so, he called the realtor in the morning and, just as a matter of interest, asked her the price. There was something so unusual and compelling and discreetly beautiful about the house. When she quoted him what it was listed for, he was startled.
“It would probably cost you a fortune to run it, but I think the bank would take even less than that. There’s been talk about an auction, but they’re afraid a commercial buyer would tear it down. The land alone is worth more than that.” She had quoted a price that was less than any of the apartments they’d seen that were for sale, although he didn’t want them. Real estate prices were high in San Francisco. Their loft in Tribeca was worth ten times the asking price of the Butterfield Mansion. It was a steal.
“What kind of shape is it in, inside?”
“I have no idea, but I can ask. Do you want to see it?” She sounded surprised. It was everything he had said he didn’t want. He wanted brand-new, modern, an apartment, not a house, and had said he didn’t want to buy. All of which was true, but the old abandoned house was gnawing at him.
“I don’t suppose there’s much point seeing it, except out of curiosity. My wife would kill me.”
“You can lowball it if you like the house,” the realtor said, lowering her voice and ignoring his comment about Sybil.
He almost didn’t need to lowball it, the price was already so low. They could fix it up and sell it for considerably more when they left San Francisco. Thinking about it that way made it sound more like a business deal than a folly. “Maybe I will take a look at it, just for the hell of it,” he said, intrigued.
“I’ll call you back.” She hung up and called him five minutes later, having gotten the keys from her manager and confirmed that the bank still had it on the market. She knew that it was a property they’d been anxious to get off their hands for some time. “I can show it to you at noon, if you want.” He felt foolish but agreed to meet her there, and arrived at the front gate promptly by cab.
Walking through the house was like time travel back to the beginning of the twentieth century. The home was antiquated, but spectacularly beautiful and elegantly built inside, with carved moldings, a wood-paneled library, gorgeous parquet floors, and a ballroom that reminded him of Versailles. It looked like a museum, or a small hotel. It was in surprisingly good shape. There was no evidence of damage or leaks. And there was a long row of bells in the kitchen that the numerous servants had responded to in its days of grandeur a century ago. The reception rooms on the main floor were very large in scale, and all of the family bedrooms were on one floor, with small sitting rooms and dressing rooms and enormous bathrooms for each bedroom. There was a floor of guest rooms and additional sitting rooms, all with spectacular views and marble fireplaces, like the main bedrooms, and an entire level of maids’ rooms on the top floor. An enormous family could have lived there, with an army of servants to attend them. Blake wandered up and down the grand staircase, going through the house again, and saw that the kitchen had been modernized at some point, although it still needed some updating.
“What an amazing house,” he said in awe after he’d seen everything for a second time.
“Do you want to make an offer?” she asked bluntly. He stood silently, staring up at the elaborate ceilings as he thought about it, and noticed that the chandeliers were all gone and would need to be replaced. Due to its size alone, the house would be a decorating challenge to furnish.
“I think I will,” a voice he didn’t recognize as his own said softly. “Even if we never live here, it would be an incredible investment. If you put a coat of paint on the inside, and take the boards off the windows, for the right price, it would be a remarkable house to have.” He wasn’t sure if he was trying to convince himself or the realtor, and he decided not to tell Sybil for the moment. There was no way he could explain it to her and do it justice, and it was everything she didn’t want. But in a bold move, he cut the bank’s price almost in half, like betting on a roulette wheel in Las Vegas, just to see what would happen. He was sure he wouldn’t get it, but it was fun to try. Based on square footage and location alone, it was an incredible deal, if they accepted his offer.
The realtor had the forms to him in his office an hour later, and he signed them. It seemed almost like a lark he couldn’t take seriously, given his absurdly low offer for a house no one wanted, and then he forgot about it and spent the rest of the day in meetings. He didn’t get back to his desk again until six P.M., and found a message from the realtor. It just said to give her a call, and he did before he went back to his hotel, certain that he would hear that the bank had turned down his offer. He wasn’t sure if he hoped they would, or not.
“The Butterfield Mansion is yours, Mr. Gregory,” the realtor said in a solemn tone, and it took a moment for her words to sink in. “The house is yours,” she repeated. “The bank accepted your offer. They want to close in two weeks, after your inspections,” which had been his only contingency.
“Oh my God,” he said, and sat down with a stunned expression, trying to think of what he was going to tell his wife. He had bought a twenty-thousand-square-foot 1902 mansion with a ballr
oom, on an acre of land. And fighting a wave of panic, when he thought of how Sybil would look when he told her, he started to laugh. He could still get out of it, based on the inspections, if he wanted to. But he didn’t. He had no idea why, and it made absolutely no sense, but he had fallen in love with the house. He wondered if he was having some kind of midlife crisis. First, he had taken the job in San Francisco, and now he had bought a hundred-and-fifteen-year-old mansion. This was definitely not the rented modern apartment Sybil had in mind.
He walked back to his hotel, musing about what had possessed him. But whatever the reason, or the madness, now they had a house to live in. And the price he had paid for it was so low that it would hardly make a dent in their savings. At least Sybil couldn’t be angry at him for that. And once painted inside, the Butterfield Mansion was going to be a remarkable home for them, at least for the time being, even if they sold it later for a profit. Now all he had to do was convince Sybil of that. Buying it had been the easy part. Selling it to her was another matter entirely. But it might be fun to live in a house that large for a couple of years. “The Gregory Mansion,” he said to himself out loud and then he laughed.
Chapter 2
Blake thought about it all week, with some trepidation, and he knew that there was no way he could tell Sybil about the Butterfield Mansion on the phone. He just couldn’t. He couldn’t convey the beauty of it to her, even with photographs, from a distance, or the fact that in the long run it made sense financially. But most of all, he couldn’t explain how spectacular it was, or once had been, without seeing her to tell her, and he felt he owed her that. He knew he had sorely tested the strength of their marriage by taking the job in San Francisco, and now he was pushing further, asking her to move their family into a home that was everything she didn’t want, although he hoped she would fall in love with it when she saw it, as he had. Something about the house had beckoned to him, and he couldn’t resist it. It seemed to be alive and have a soul. He had always been vulnerable to stray dogs and homeless children. When they’d gone to India several years before, he’d wanted to bring half the country home. But this was a house and not a person, and when he had walked through it, he had felt an inexplicable bond to it.
He had gone back with the realtor and taken hundreds of pictures on his phone, of every room and detail. And the photographs didn’t do it justice. In the pictures it appeared darker than it was, and more than anything it looked enormous. He realized that he needed to see her to tell her about it, and he took the red-eye to New York on Friday night, without telling Sybil he was coming. He wanted to surprise her. She stared at him in amazement when he slipped into bed beside her at six o’clock on Saturday morning. She smiled as she sat up in astonishment, and he was already half asleep on his pillow as he put an arm around her.
“What are you doing here?” she said, startled.
“I missed you,” he said, and pulled her down beside him, as she smiled, happy that he was home. The weekend together was an unexpected gift. She’d been planning to write an article for The New York Times about a design exhibit at the Metropolitan Museum, and her deadline for the piece was Monday, so she was busy too. All three children had plans, and Blake and Sybil would be alone for most of the weekend. She snuggled up next to him in bed, and they both fell asleep for a few more hours. The flight from San Francisco had been short, with good tailwinds, and he had slept only an hour or two on the plane. But he felt rested as he lay in bed and stretched lazily next to her when they both woke up.
“This is a nice surprise,” she said happily, as they got out of bed and she went to make breakfast for them. Andy and Caroline had both eaten already, and Caro had poured cornflakes into a bowl for Charlie and warmed a blueberry muffin to go with it, and he was sitting in front of the TV watching cartoons. And he had an iPad where Sybil downloaded movies for him, so he had plenty of entertainment. He let out a whoop when he saw his father, and then Sybil and Blake sat down to breakfast while Charlie went back to the TV.
“I have an article to write for The New York Times, but I’ll do it Sunday night after you leave. I thought you had work to do this weekend,” Sybil said as she smiled at Blake and set scrambled eggs and bacon down in front of him with the sourdough toast that he loved. It felt good to be home, although he was dreading his confession about the house.
“I did have work,” he answered her, “but I wanted to see you.” And as soon as he said it, Sybil saw something in his eyes that told her this was more than just a random visit. She knew him too well for that, and a little shiver of fear ran down her spine. What else could he surprise her with now? Had he met a woman in San Francisco and had come to tell her? He had never done anything like that, but after the surprises of the last several weeks, anything was possible.
“Did something happen in San Francisco this week?” she asked, trying to sound more confident than she felt, as she watched him carefully. There was a look on his face she couldn’t decipher, and he glanced away and seemed busy with his eggs when he answered.
“No, just a lot of meetings. I’m still trying to get up to speed.”
“Problems with your colleagues?”
“Of course not. Why would you ask that?”
“I’m just wondering why you’re here, and didn’t tell me why you were coming.”
“Am I interfering with your plans?” He sounded hurt momentarily, and he wondered if she was getting too used to not having him around. Maybe she had met someone, and wasn’t planning to move out of New York. They were both a little skittish after all their changes of plans recently, and unusual decisions.
“Of course not. This is your home, silly, and I’m thrilled to see you,” she said, but she realized now that he was nervous and acting guilty. And she wanted to know why as soon as possible. “I just get the feeling that there’s some reason why you came home, other than the pleasure of my company.” She looked straight at him as she said it, and he didn’t answer for a minute. He knew he couldn’t put off admitting it to her for much longer, and he didn’t want to. He had come home to confess, and now he had to.
“I do have something to tell you,” he said hesitantly, “and I wanted to do it in person.” She braced herself for bad news, and he pulled his cellphone out of his pocket and laid it on the table, so he could show her the photographs after he told her.
“Are you in love with someone in San Francisco?” she asked him in a strangled voice, and Blake was horrified at the suggestion.
“Are you crazy? Of course not. I love you.” He leaned over and kissed her. “But I did something this week that I didn’t expect to. It sounds a little nuts, but trust me, it isn’t. In the long run, it will make perfect sense.” It was the same thing he had told her about the job, and she was beginning to wonder what was happening to him. He had never surprised her like this before, and it was an odd show of independence that made her uneasy, but at least he had said it wasn’t another woman. She sat waiting expectantly, and Blake took a breath and leapt in. “I bought a house this week. It just happened. It’s hard to explain. I don’t know what came over me. I saw it and fell in love with it, and I hope you and the kids will too. It’s a fantastic house.” He looked serious and wasn’t smiling, and she suddenly remembered a house they’d once seen in Paris during a vacation there. It was a 1920s Chinese pagoda that had been on the market forever in a good neighborhood, and he had decided it would be fun to own a pagoda in Paris. But he normally wasn’t impulsive, and had come to his senses immediately and never bid on it. Reason had always won out with him, except lately.
“What kind of a house, and why didn’t you tell me?” They had always operated as an equal partnership, which was one of the things she loved about their marriage. Now he was going off half-cocked in all directions, without consulting her.
“I didn’t think they’d accept my offer. I just did it as kind of a wild gamble, and it was hard to explain it to you over the phone. I made a ridiculously low bid on it, and they took it, which I
never expected. I paid so little for it, and if we spruce it up a bit and throw a coat of paint on it, we could make a hell of a lot of money on it when we leave.” Sybil was frowning. This did not sound like good news to her, particularly if it needed “sprucing up” and a “coat of paint,” and he was trying to convince her it was a great investment. It sounded like a hard sell to her.
“What’s wrong with it? Why is it so cheap, and how much was it, anyway?” She wondered if he had lost all perspective about money, working with two young billionaires, but when he told her what he had offered for the house, even she was amazed that he could buy anything for so little, and knew it had to be in terrible shape. And the last thing she needed in San Francisco was a major decorating project. She wanted their two years there to be carefree and easy. As far as she was concerned, they weren’t going to stay longer, the apartment in Tribeca was still their home, and their apartment in San Francisco would be only temporary, which was why she wanted to rent there and not buy, and even rent furniture, or fill in the gaps at IKEA. She was not setting up a permanent home in San Francisco, and now he had bought a house there.
“There’s nothing wrong with it,” he insisted. “It’s just unusual, and it’s a piece of San Francisco history,” he told her gently, with explanations that sounded weak, even to him. He was hoping he could sell her on it and convince her it was a good idea. “It looks like the Frick,” he added, as he reached for his cellphone and pulled up the pictures to show her as she stared at him.
“The Frick? You mean that size or that style?” She was horrified at the mention of it, even if it was one of her favorite museums.
“Both,” he said honestly, as he held up one of the best photographs he’d taken of the exterior. It seemed very grand in the photo and Sybil stared at it with her mouth open.
“Are you crazy? It looks like the public library. How big is it?” She got right to the point and he flinched as he answered.
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