"Hell-lo-o!" I sing in three syllables, the way that I'm apt to do when greeting houseguests.
I turn the brass doorknob and swing open the heavy door. To any passing stranger, it looks just like home. Ivy creeps up the brick facade, nasturtium spills from the window boxes, stained-glass panels glimmer above the wide oak double doors. My house is a brownstone that I never could have afforded on my own, and while it's not the most extravagant home on the street or the best kept, there is something about it that makes people stop at the bottom of its terra-cotta steps, their mouths open in lustful, longing ohhhhs. I put down the handful of silverware I was distributing and go to answer the door. "That's probably Amy and Mike," I call to Kate, who's sitting in the kitchen. I'm in the dining room, counting place settings, when the doorbell rings.Ī happy, charming, ladylike clang, it's a sound only an old house could make, which mine is.
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