accompanies the ability to write large checks. “Historic houses have no meaning,” she said, “once they’re moved off-site.”
“Jesus wept,” said Mary Liz.
“You could create a site,” the man persisted pleasantly.
Charlotte shook her head. “That’s Epcot. Only worse, because people confuse it with the real thing. Reconstructions like that make people think that they can choose whatever they want.”
There was a silence. “I’m Clare Porterfield,” I said. “My family lives on the other side of the alley.”
“Oh,” Charlotte brightened, “the Hayes-Giraud house? Terrific.The carriage block. It’s so correct. That’s the way it should be done. Respect for the original context.”
The man said, “I’m sorry, I should have introduced myself. Tyler Henry. Ty. I’m with the bank.” We shook hands. His palm was smooth and dry. His clothes—blue shirt, khaki pants—were casual, but in the way of an office worker on a Friday rather than a person who makes his own schedule. I was pretty sure he wasn’t an Islander.
“What if a house isn’t moved,” I asked, “but a parking lot goes in next to it. And a high-rise. Until there’s nothing left of the original context. Then what?”
“Well,” Charlotte said, “it’s not ideal, but at least it isn’t fake.” She frowned. She must have understood that I was talking about the Carraday house. It hadn’t happened yet, but it could. “Things can’t always be pretty, whatever the tourists want. The past wasn’t always nice.”
“The tourists want condos,” said Mary Liz.
We heard raised voices, the sound of a number of people coming our way.
“Here comes the goddam expert,” Mary Liz said.
It’s interesting to watch the very rich play the role of host. Everything about them, about their lives, is already so overstated, it doesn’t take much to push the situation into parody. But Will, with his air of detachment, of mild surprise, got it right.
He was wearing a white shirt with the cuffs turned back and linen trousers that were just wrinkled enough to look comfortable. As always, there was a crowd with him. Every so often, someone would get close enough to touch his arm or bump his shoulder, as if by accident. I knew what they were thinking. You can’t change the circumstances of your birth, and few would be able to achieve for themselves what Will had. But he made them believe in good fortune, and they hoped a little of it would rub off.
Will took my hand in both of his, the way he had done earlier. He looked approvingly at Ty and me. “Excellent. I see you two have met.” He turned to Mary Liz. “We’re going to do the fireplace and the study, then we’ll see how everyone’s holding up.”
She nodded. “You go on,” she said, as though she had just then decided not to accompany them. I knew that since her accident Mary Liz couldn’t move without help; surely most of the guests knew this too.
She’d been around horses from childhood, ridden in barrel races at state and county fairs, then gone on to compete against professional cowgirls and try her hand at saddle broncs. For her wedding to Will, she wore a fitted satin dress with a fishtail train. A picture in the hall showed the toes of her boots poking out in front like little brown animals. It had been almost thirty years since her horse fell on her and she lost the use of her legs.
Will turned to me. “I’m afraid this will be old hat for you.” He gestured toward the drawing room in a way that managed to suggest both pride in the old house and disarming personal modesty.
“Of course not,” I said. And in fact I wanted to hear him tell Stella’s story, to provide the details that were missing from the guides and tourist brochures. To give substance to the scenes of Stella’s courtship that I had imagined growing up.
I suppose all children dream at some time of running away. For me, the desire had been persistent, acute. Stella gave me hope. When I was
“Jesus wept,” said Mary Liz.
“You could create a site,” the man persisted pleasantly.
Charlotte shook her head. “That’s Epcot. Only worse, because people confuse it with the real thing. Reconstructions like that make people think that they can choose whatever they want.”
There was a silence. “I’m Clare Porterfield,” I said. “My family lives on the other side of the alley.”
“Oh,” Charlotte brightened, “the Hayes-Giraud house? Terrific.The carriage block. It’s so correct. That’s the way it should be done. Respect for the original context.”
The man said, “I’m sorry, I should have introduced myself. Tyler Henry. Ty. I’m with the bank.” We shook hands. His palm was smooth and dry. His clothes—blue shirt, khaki pants—were casual, but in the way of an office worker on a Friday rather than a person who makes his own schedule. I was pretty sure he wasn’t an Islander.
“What if a house isn’t moved,” I asked, “but a parking lot goes in next to it. And a high-rise. Until there’s nothing left of the original context. Then what?”
“Well,” Charlotte said, “it’s not ideal, but at least it isn’t fake.” She frowned. She must have understood that I was talking about the Carraday house. It hadn’t happened yet, but it could. “Things can’t always be pretty, whatever the tourists want. The past wasn’t always nice.”
“The tourists want condos,” said Mary Liz.
We heard raised voices, the sound of a number of people coming our way.
“Here comes the goddam expert,” Mary Liz said.
It’s interesting to watch the very rich play the role of host. Everything about them, about their lives, is already so overstated, it doesn’t take much to push the situation into parody. But Will, with his air of detachment, of mild surprise, got it right.
He was wearing a white shirt with the cuffs turned back and linen trousers that were just wrinkled enough to look comfortable. As always, there was a crowd with him. Every so often, someone would get close enough to touch his arm or bump his shoulder, as if by accident. I knew what they were thinking. You can’t change the circumstances of your birth, and few would be able to achieve for themselves what Will had. But he made them believe in good fortune, and they hoped a little of it would rub off.
Will took my hand in both of his, the way he had done earlier. He looked approvingly at Ty and me. “Excellent. I see you two have met.” He turned to Mary Liz. “We’re going to do the fireplace and the study, then we’ll see how everyone’s holding up.”
She nodded. “You go on,” she said, as though she had just then decided not to accompany them. I knew that since her accident Mary Liz couldn’t move without help; surely most of the guests knew this too.
She’d been around horses from childhood, ridden in barrel races at state and county fairs, then gone on to compete against professional cowgirls and try her hand at saddle broncs. For her wedding to Will, she wore a fitted satin dress with a fishtail train. A picture in the hall showed the toes of her boots poking out in front like little brown animals. It had been almost thirty years since her horse fell on her and she lost the use of her legs.
Will turned to me. “I’m afraid this will be old hat for you.” He gestured toward the drawing room in a way that managed to suggest both pride in the old house and disarming personal modesty.
“Of course not,” I said. And in fact I wanted to hear him tell Stella’s story, to provide the details that were missing from the guides and tourist brochures. To give substance to the scenes of Stella’s courtship that I had imagined growing up.
I suppose all children dream at some time of running away. For me, the desire had been persistent, acute. Stella gave me hope. When I was
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