“I don’t know yet. Maybe.”
The house on Linden Street was enormous compared with anything I had ever cleaned. It had been built in the 1920s, with white columns, a wide porch, a blue front door with a brass pineapple knocker, and a huge oak tree in the yard. Margaret opened the door before I could knock. She was around seventy, small and straight-backed, with short white hair, reading glasses hanging from a silver chain, gray slacks, a navy cardigan, and pearl buttons. She looked like someone who had spent her entire life expecting people to arrive on time.
“Come in, Carly.”
She walked me through the house: the long wooden hallway, living room with an old piano, formal dining room, enormous kitchen with black-and-white tile, four bedrooms, three bathrooms, and a claw-foot bathtub. TourProperties
“My husband and I bought this house in 1971. We raised our daughter Susan here. She lives in Oregon now.”
She paused.
“My husband died two years ago.”
Then she continued walking.
“The house is too big for one person.”
“Are you planning to move?”
