She loved the way the house was laid out–you could run a line of string or a gun sight down the length of the house and take straight aim from front to back. All the doors and windows in a line.
It was an old house. Older than air conditioning and world wars, built on the old homestead and only later moved into town when the town itself was so new that builders dug cisterns beneath their pier and beam foundations and lodged furnaces in the ground beneath their central corridors to warm the bedrooms and the kitchen–the heart of each house.
Cartwright led the way even though technically it was her ancestral home. He did not say much one way or the other until he came to the guest bath with its original porcelain tub and pink tile surround.
He was her father’s age and when he saw the bathroom he let out a gentle whistle–reminds me of my grandmother’s bathroom!
Mine too, she quipped, mine too.