If These Walls Could Talk by Bettye Griffin Page A

thousand dollars—forty thousand less than the smallest new homes they’d seen. She could hardly believe the price—this same house in New York would probably be over two hundred thousand. They could manage just fine with a two-bedroom house. Lorinda and Simone could continue to share a bedroom, especially since the bedroom in this house had considerably larger dimensions than the room they shared in their Manhattan apartment. The house, built in 1928, had three working fireplaces, one in the living room and in each of the bedrooms. A sly smile formed on Veronica’s lips as she entertained the possibilities of having a fireplace in her bedroom. She’d buy one of those bearskin rugs and lay it down a couple of feet away from the fire, and she and Norman would make love on it on a cold night, heat from the flames and from within keeping them warm.... Mmm.
    A pull on her hand from Simone, eager to show her something, jolted her out of that pleasant thought. The house had plenty of other appealing features. An abundance of windows kept the house light, yet it felt well insulated from the brisk early-November weather. The kitchen and bathrooms had been modernized, and the wall-to-wall carpeting still looked new. The house had just one full bath upstairs, but it was accessible from the master bedroom through a pocket door, as well as from a regular door to the hall. The current owners had added a powder room under the stairs. And it had a full, finished basement. Veronica pictured a family room down there, with one of those rectangular flatscreen TVs and big, comfy chairs.
    â€œI like it,” Norman said.
    â€œBut it does seem to be missing something. I can’t put my finger on it.”
    â€œI know what it is. It’s not furnished, like the models at the new developments, filled with expensive furniture and fixings we can’t afford. But it’s immaculate, and it’s large enough, and it’s affordable.” He turned to Lorinda and Simone. “What do you think, girls?”
    â€œI like it,” Lorinda said.
    â€œOur room is real big,” Simone added.
    â€œOnly one thing concerns me,” Norman said. “I didn’t see any black families on this street. It makes me worry a little about how the neighbors will react.”
    â€œWe know there are black people in town, so if there aren’t any on this block I’m sure there’s some on the next block,” Veronica said.
    â€œI’m going to ask the agent.”
    She sighed. “Oh, Norman. I think you’re making too much of this race thing.”
    â€œIt’s important, Veronica. We know nothing about this community or its people, and I don’t want any fanatics burning a cross on our front lawn or throwing bombs through our windows. This isn’t Washington Heights.”
    The Realtor, a middle-aged white woman, knocked discreetly as she entered the house, having given them time to walk through it and discuss it among themselves. “It’s a great house, isn’t it?” she asked proudly, like it was her own home being offered for sale.
    â€œWe like it very much, but we were wondering,” Norman began, “what’s the racial mix of this neighborhood?”
    â€œAbout the same as the general population. Mostly white, with a small percentage of blacks and Latinos. A lot of families are moving here from the city because they’re priced out of the market there. Plus, we have better schools, cleaner air. . . .”
    â€œAnd this probably isn’t a preferred terrorist target,” Veronica said flatly.
    â€œI’d have to agree.” The Realtor looked at them curiously. “Were either of you affected directly by the attacks?”
    â€œNo, we were lucky,” Norman said. “The medical center where we both work is within walking distance of our apartment. It made for a long walk, about twenty blocks, but at least it was doable. A lot of folks