The Ivy House (A Queensbay Novel)

Phoebe Ryan could feel the real estate agent eyeing her as she surveyed the house. “It has charm,” Sandy Miller said. “Perhaps if you added a fresh coat of paint, cleaned out the backyard…”

“Hmm.” Phoebe just made a noise, wishing the woman would be quiet and let her think. She was still bleary-eyed from the time difference. She had left Los Angeles yesterday morning, landed in New York, hit the lawyer’s office, rented a car, and finally found her way just after dark to the Connecticut shore. She had checked in at the Osprey Arms, the only hotel in town, and after a bland salad and a glass of wine, had curled up on the big four-poster bed and cried herself to sleep.

Now, less than twenty-four hours after she’d left California, she was getting her first view of it. Ivy House was a short walk up from town, at the end of a little lane that jutted off from the main road, commanding a prime piece of property on a bluff overlooking Queensbay Harbor.

Phoebe breathed in deeply. She could smell the fresh tang of salt, see the white caps that flecked the blue-green surface of the water, hear the gulls cawing as they wheeled around the clear sky. It was beautiful, and she could already see herself here, watching the boats come and go, enjoying the sunset while sipping a glass of wine. At least that’s how she had imagined it back in Los Angeles.

But if Queensbay Harbor and town were New England charm personified, Ivy House was not. It was the eyesore, the black sheep in the town’s collective spic-and-span family. It was Victorian in style, seeming taller than it was wide, with a steep slate-covered roof, pointed gables on either side, and a tall, thin square tower topped with the classic widow’s walk. A deep porch wrapped around the front, and a black iron picket fence separated the house from the street.

Paint peeled, the porch sagged, shingles were missing. Weeds choked the front yard, and the iron fence was rusted through. The flagstone path was uneven and while there had once been an extensive garden, now everything was wildly overgrown. The plant that had given the house its name covered one side almost completely, even the windows. Everything about it screamed genteel decay and Phoebe took a moment to ruminate about the prospect of fully renovating the place. It wasn’t as she had imagined it. But then, things seldom were.

Phoebe had only glanced toward the side yard, but she could see stuff. Some old wicker furniture, perhaps a refrigerator, plastic jugs, maybe even a beer keg. It was hard to imagine the late, great Savannah Ryan having anything to do with this place. The thought of her grandmother threatened a fresh onslaught of tears, but Phoebe forced them away.

“The major appliances are all there,” Sandy said and then corrected herself, “I think.”

“Electricity? Water, heat?” Phoebe asked. If she focused on the details, the little things, she could avoid thinking about the big things. She closed her eyes briefly, ready to sense the possibilities. That was her gift, a vivid imagination, a mind that saw things in pictures, one that could turn those pictures into reality. She envisioned the house as Savannah had described it to her, as it had been, when the sun set across the expanse of the harbor and the backyard, with the sloping lawn leading to the sandy bluff.

“You’ll have to have all the utilities switched to your name, but I have the numbers for you to call. Shouldn’t take more than twenty-four hours for it all to come on once you do,” the agent assured her.

Phoebe nodded, ready to walk up and into the house. She put a foot on the first step to the porch, tested it with her weight, and was pleased to find that it was solid. Good bones, she thought. All the house needed was some TLC.

“Here are the keys,” Sandy said, dropping them in Phoebe’s outstretched hand. Phoebe closed her hands over them tightly, afraid perhaps that it wasn’t true, that the house wasn’t hers.

“I did a walk-through after the tenants left and there are some scrapes and scuffs and a hole in the wall. They left it broom clean, though, if you want, I can give you the name of a local cleaning service I use. In my opinion, you’d be better off gutting the place first.”

“Gutting it?” Phoebe tried to keep the horror out of her voice. How could you consider destroying a masterpiece like this? The house was living history and she could already feel herself falling in love. Visions of fairy lights in the trees, the setting sun, a table set up outside, and some friends to share it with. Still, she shouldn’t get too attached yet. Her home, her life was three-thousand miles away. Imagination couldn’t always overcome reality.

“Oh, well,” Sandy blinked, then resettled her oversized sunglasses more firmly on top of her head. “I mean, you’ll see. As I said, everything’s perfectly sound, but things haven’t been updated in a while.”

Phoebe smiled. All the better, she thought. So many people ruined old houses by trying to update them too much, trying to drag them kicking and screaming into the modern world, while not respecting their expert craftsmanship and clean, simple lines.

“I like old houses,” Phoebe said. “They have character.” In California, old was a relative term, but here she was dealing with a jewel built in the nineteenth century, before planes, cars—electricity, even. It would need to be respected, cherished. And more so because it had belonged to Savannah.

Sandy was about to say something when her phone rang. Holding up a finger, she checked the screen and then excused herself to take the call.

Relieved to be alone, Phoebe moved up the porch, imagining how it would look with some fine old wicker rockers, instead of those hideous, rusty folding chairs. She stood in front of the door. It was the original: a fine wood-paneled door, painted a bright blue. Cheerful, but to her trained eye, a little too bold. Something softer, duskier would suit. She tried to peer through the sidelights on either side, but they too were original and the glass, wavy from age, made it difficult to see inside.

She put the key in the lock and turned. The lock was stiff from disuse, but she wiggled until finally it opened. Perhaps there wasn’t much cause to lock your door here and that thought pleased Phoebe immensely, who lived in the city and always made sure to triple-lock the door.

Swinging slowly back, the door opened with a scream on its hinges, a slow, protracted squeal. It was a sunny day, but as Sandy had mentioned, there was no electricity and the sun only just touched the interior.

Phoebe took a step in, smelling mustiness and dampness, the scent of a closed-up house. Her eyes poked through the gloom and she was finally able to see.

“Oh, my…” she said out loud.

“I told you.” Sandy had come up behind her, her phone call done. “In my business, it’s what we call a tear down.”

The agent left and Phoebe let herself have a full-blown moment of panic. She managed to breathe despite the filthy atmosphere and explored the rest of the house. She took the sight of the inside in stride, telling herself it was what she should have expected. After all, considering the way Savannah had handled her affairs, it was a miracle there was anything left for Phoebe at all. And this was more than she could have hope for, she decided, as she reminded herself of the house’s basic sturdiness.

Unfortunately, despite what Sandy had said, the house had been subjected to a number of redos throughout the decade, the latest of which had left lots of linoleum, probably covering the original, wide plank-wood floors; peeling wallpaper; and mirrors, lots of mirrors.

The paint colors throughout were faded or jarring or both, as though the rooms had been painted by someone color-blind or using the clearance colors from the local home improvement store. Definitely both, Phoebe thought as she opened the door to a smallish room, the dining room perhaps, and took another look.

The rest of the house wasn’t much better—it was dusty and dirty, and the tenants had left piles of things, from old bedding to stacks of newspapers, in various places. A few of the windowpanes were broken and had been covered up with pieces of cardboard.

Finally, she found herself outside in the backyard, taking in the view. There was a flagstone terrace out here, with a fire pit, ringed by a low rock wall, perfect for enjoying cool spring nights and watching the water. A strong breeze blew through the trees and she wandered down to the edge of the bluff. A picket fence ran along it, and there was a set of stairs going down to the beach. She looked over it. Apparently, this was the only thing the tenants had decided keep in good repair, the beach access, because here and there were pieces of new wood on the stairwell. This was what Sandy had meant when she said it was a million-dollar view.

Carefully, she made her way down to the beach, stopping when she got to the bottom. The shore was a mix of sand and rock, and there was a large driftwood log pulled up around what looked like the remains of a fire. She sat on the log and breathed in, the smell of the charred wood assailing her senses.

The sun was getting warm and she needed to think, figure out what to do next. The water, the sand, and the sun were working their magic. Already, less than a day out of the city and she felt calm, rested. The sadness of Savannah’s death, the stress of dealing with her estate, and that big looming question—
What do I do now
?—seemed to fade away. Phoebe took a deep breath, her grandmother’s words coming back to her:
Enjoy the moment.
All that mattered was that it was sunny and she was enjoying the view.

She tried not to think about the wreck that was looming, both figuratively and literally, above her head. Ivy House was a disaster. It would take a small fortune to fix it up, that much was clear, and Phoebe didn’t know if she had it in her. Either physically or financially.

The agent had already dropped hints. Despite its decrepit condition, it would attract some serious buyer interest. Just because of its “historical significance.” Phoebe had almost burst out laughing at that one. A torrid love affair wasn’t exactly world peace. Savannah and Leland had been more infamous than famous, but that still didn’t stop legions of people from obsessing over them. All the more now since they were both dead.

But Phoebe was a Hollywood girl. She knew that the public’s obsession with the life of movie stars was never quite rational. Any little thing, be it a prop or a costume piece, could be fought over by a serious collector. And now, if now, the chance to own the actual house that had been the love nest for the “Romance of the Century” became available, Phoebe knew she’d have more offers on her hands than she could handle.

Phoebe was still taking it in. She had thought that Savannah had sold the house years ago after Leland’s death. Instead, she had kept it, renting it out year after year. Despite the fact that Savannah could have used the money, she had not sold the house. She had left it, mostly intact, for Phoebe. What had Savannah been thinking, leaving Phoebe with a wreck of a house three-thousand miles away from her home?

I’ll just have to figure it out as I go
,
 
Phoebe thought to herself, her natural optimism returning as she trekked back up the steps. There was always a way to salvage a disaster.