The House (11 page)

“Lord, Sarah, I don't know,” the older woman said honestly. “Any house you look at, big or small, is only worth what someone is willing to pay for it. It's an imperfect science at best. And the bigger the house and the more unusual, the harder to predict.” She smiled then, and took a sip of her cappuccino. She needed it. It had been an incredible morning, for them both. Sarah was dying to tell Phil. “There sure are no comparables on this,” Marjorie continued with a grin. “How do you assess a house like that? There's absolutely nothing like it, except maybe the Frick in New York. But this isn't New York, it's San Francisco. Most people will be scared to death of a house this size. It will cost a fortune to restore and furnish it, and it would take an army of people to run it. No one lives like that anymore. The neighborhood isn't zoned for a hotel, or a bed-and-breakfast. No one will buy it as a school. Consulates are closing their residences, and renting apartments for their staff. This is going to take a very special buyer. Whatever price we put on it will be an arbitrary number. Sellers and brokers always talk about offshore buyers, an important Arab, or maybe Hong Kong Chinese, maybe a Russian. The reality is that someone local will probably buy it. Maybe someone from the high-tech world in Silicon Valley, but they have to want a house like this and understand what they're getting. …I don't know…. Five million? Ten? Twenty? But if no one wants to deal with something like this, the heirs may be lucky to get three, or even two. It could sit here, unsold, for years. It's impossible to predict. How anxious are they to sell it? They may want to price it for a quick low-ball sale, and get rid of it as is. I just hope the right person buys it. I fell in love with it,” she said honestly as Sarah nodded. So had she.

“Me too.” She had left the photograph of Lilli sitting on the front seat of her car, terrified to hurt it. Something about the young woman in the photograph seemed magical to her. “I'd hate to see the heirs just dump it for very little money. The house deserves to be treated with more respect than that. But I haven't met with any of them yet. I've only heard from one of them, and he lives in St. Louis, Missouri. He's the head of a bank there, he's not going to want a house here.” From what Sarah knew, none of them would. They all lived somewhere else, and since they didn't know Stanley, there was no sentiment involved in it for them. Even he hadn't been sentimental about the house. Far from it. For them, as for him, it would be about the money. And surely none of them would want to restore a house in San Francisco. It made no sense for them. She was sure they would want to sell the house quickly, and as it was.

“We could try to put a coat of paint on it, and clean it up a bit,” Marjorie suggested. “We probably should. Polish the chandeliers, get the boards off the windows that have been boarded up, throw away the tattered curtains. Wax the floors, oil the paneling. But that won't bring the electricity back to life, or the plumbing. Someone will have to build a new kitchen, probably in those main-floor pantries. It'll need a new elevator. There's some real work to do, and that costs money. I don't know how much they'll want to invest in selling it. Maybe nothing. I hope the termite reports are good.”

“He replaced the roof last year, so at least that's done,” Sarah explained, and Marjorie nodded, pleased.

“I didn't see any evidence of leaks, which is surprising,” Marjorie said matter-of-factly.

“Can you give me a number of estimates? A price for selling it as is, another to clean it up slightly. Maybe a price someone could get if it's restored.”

“I'll do what I can,” Marjorie promised her. “But I have to be honest with you. We're in uncharted waters. It could sell for twenty million, or as low as two. It all depends on who we get, and how fast the heirs want to sell it. If they want to dump it, they'll be lucky to get two. It could even sell for less. Most buyers will be scared to death of a house like this, and the problems they'll find once they start the project. The exterior looks good to me, which is good news, although some of the windows need replacing. Dry rot, that's pretty common, even in a new house. I had to replace ten windows in my own house last year.” The stone exterior appeared to be solid and in good condition. The garages in the basement were accessible, though the driveway had been built for the narrow cars in the twenties and would have to be widened. There was no question in either of their minds, there was a lot of work to do. “I'll try to get you some answers, and some ballpark figures by the end of the week. There's an architect I'd like to call, to get his impression of what's involved here. He and his partner specialize in restoration. He does good work, although I'm sure he's never tackled anything like this, either. Although I know he's done some work on the Legion of Honor Museum, which is comparable at least. And he studied in Europe. His partner is a woman, and she's very good, too. I think you'll like them. Could we take them through the house if they're not too busy?”

“Anytime you like. I have the keys. I'll make myself available to you. I really appreciate your help with this, Marjorie.” They both felt as though they had been in a time warp all morning, and had just been dropped back into their own century. It had been an unforgettable experience.

The two women left each other outside Starbucks, and Sarah headed back to her office. It was nearly one o'clock by then. She called Phil on her car phone as she wended her way downtown, still feeling dazed, and glancing at the photograph of Lilli on the seat next to her. She reached Phil on his cell phone. He was on a lunch break from the deposition and in a rotten mood. Things weren't going well for his client. They had come up with some surprise evidence against him that he hadn't told Phil about previously. He had lost two earlier sexual harassment suits in Texas, before moving to San Francisco. That made Phil's client look like hell.

“I'm sorry,” Sarah said sympathetically. He sounded stressed out of his mind, and ready to kill his client. It was another one of those weeks. “I've had the most incredible morning,” she said, still excited about it, and on a high from all they'd seen. Whatever the heirs decided to do with the house, Sarah was grateful to have seen it first.

“Yeah? Doing what? Inventing new tax laws?” He sounded sarcastic and dismissive. She hated it when he was like this.

“No. I went through Stanley Perlman's house with the realtor. It's the most beautiful place I've ever seen. Like a museum, only better.”

“Great. Tell me about it later,” he said, sounding harassed and anxious. “I'll call you tonight after the gym.” He clicked off before she could say good-bye, or tell him anything about the house, or the photograph of Lilli, or the history she'd learned about the house from Marjorie. It wasn't Phil's kind of thing anyway. He was interested in sports and business. Historical houses had never been of interest to him.

Sarah parked her car in the garage at work, and gingerly put the photograph of Lilli in her purse, careful not to damage it, or ruffle the edges. Ten minutes later she was sitting at her desk, took it out, and stared at it again. She knew that somewhere in her lifetime she had seen this photograph, and she hoped that wherever Lilli had gone when she disappeared, she had found what she was looking for, or escaped what she'd been fleeing from, and that whatever had happened to her, life had been kind to her children. Sarah propped the photograph up on her desk, debating about whether to show it to the heirs. The face that looked across her desk at her was unforgettable, full of youth and beauty. Lilli's face, like Stanley's warnings to her over the years, reminded Sarah that life was brief and precious, and love and joy were fleeting.

Chapter 6

By Thursday, Sarah had heard
from all of Stanley's heirs save two. They were the two elderly cousins in New York, who were in nursing homes. She finally decided to call them herself. One was the subject of a conservatorship and had severe Alzheimer's. Sarah was referred to the man's daughter. She explained to her about the reading of Stanley's will, and the bequest he had made to her father. Sarah explained to her that the money would presumably be held in trust, depending on the probate laws in New York, and would pass on to her and whatever siblings she had, whenever her father died. The woman cried, she was so grateful. She said they were having trouble paying for the nursing home. Her father was ninety-two years old, and unlikely to last much longer. The money Stanley had left had come in the nick of time for all of them. She said she had never even heard of Stanley, or a cousin of her father's in California. Sarah promised to send her a copy of the portions of the will that applied to her, after the official reading, assuming there would be one. The man she had spoken to the previous week, who had called her from St. Louis, had assured her that he would come to San Francisco, although he too had never heard of Stanley. He sounded vaguely embarrassed about it, and given his position as a bank president, Sarah had the feeling he didn't need the money.

The second heir who hadn't responded to her said he was ninety-five years old, and hadn't answered her because he thought it was some sort of joke someone had played on him. He remembered Stanley well and said they had hated each other as children. And then he laughed loudly. He sounded like a character, and said he was stunned that Stanley even had any money. He said the last time he had seen or heard from him, he was a crazy kid, heading for California. He told Sarah he had assumed he had died by then. She promised to send him a copy of the will, too. She knew she would have to be contacting him again to ask how he wished to dispose of the house.

By late Thursday afternoon, the reading of the will had been set for the following Monday morning, in her office. Twelve of the heirs were coming. Money had a way of making people willing to travel, even for a great-uncle no one knew or remembered. He had clearly been the black sheep of his family, whose fleece had become white as snow, as a result of the fortune he had left them. She was unable to tell any of them how large an amount it was, but she assured them it was a sizable sum. They would have to wait to hear the rest on Monday morning.

Her last call of the day was from Marjorie, the realtor, who asked if Sarah would mind meeting the two restoration architects with her at the house the following day. She said it was the only day and time they could make it. They were leaving for Venice that weekend, to attend a conference of restoration architects. For Sarah, the timing was perfect. It would give her more information to share with the heirs at the reading of the will on Monday. She promised to meet Marjorie and the architects on Friday afternoon at three o'clock. She was going to make it her last meeting of the day. She would go home after that, to start her weekend. It would give her time to unwind and relax, before Phil showed up several hours later, after the gym. She had hardly spoken to him all week. They had both been busy. And he had been in a rotten mood every time she spoke to him. Opposing counsel had made mincemeat of him and his client in the depositions. She hoped Phil's mood would improve dramatically by Friday night, or it was going to be a very unpleasant weekend. She knew what he was like when he was losing, at anything. It wasn't pretty. And she at least wanted to spend a decent weekend with him. For the moment, she wasn't optimistic.

Marjorie and the two architects were waiting for her at the house when Sarah showed up promptly at three o'clock on Friday. Marjorie said they had been early, and not to worry about it. She introduced Sarah to both of the people with her. The man was tall, pleasant-looking, and had hair as dark as Sarah's, with gray at the temples. He had eyes that were a warm brown, and he smiled during the introduction. He had a firm handshake, and an easy manner. He was wearing khaki slacks, a shirt and tie, and a blazer. And he looked as though he was somewhere in his early forties. There was nothing exciting about him. He wasn't excessively handsome, and he looked competent, interested, and easy going. She liked his smile, which seemed to light up his face and improve his looks. He had a nice personality, one could tell instantly, and she could see why Marjorie liked working with him. Even after the exchange of a few words, one had the sense that he had a sense of humor, and didn't take himself too seriously. His name was Jeff Parker.

His partner, on the other hand, was exactly the opposite of everything he was. Where he was noticeably tall, at least as tall as Phil, if not taller, Sarah noticed, she was tiny. His hair was dark and subdued, hers was bright red, her eyes were green, and she had creamy skin with a smattering of freckles. He was smiling as Sarah approached. She was frowning. She looked irritable, difficult, and angry. He was pleasant, she wasn't. She was wearing a bright green cashmere jacket, blue jeans, and high heels. He seemed modest in his appearance, she was showy, and chic in an offhanded sexy way. He looked classically American with his blazer and khaki pants, and Sarah realized the moment the woman spoke to her that she was French, and looked it. She had style and a certain panache about the way she'd put herself together. She also seemed to exude a kind of testiness, and looked as though she were annoyed to be there. Her name was Marie-Louise Fournier, and although her accent was noticeable, her English was impeccably fluent. She made Sarah feel instantly uncomfortable, and seemed to be in a hurry. Jeff was relaxed, interested in the house, and looked as though he had all day to be there. Marie-Louise looked at her watch several times as Sarah unlocked the house, and said something to Jeff in French. Whatever he said back to her in English in an undertone seemed to reassure her, but she still looked almost angry to be there.

Sarah wondered if it was because she knew they were unlikely to be asked to do the work. They were there only for a consultation. Marjorie had warned them that the house was more than likely going to be sold in its existing condition. Which meant to Marie-Louise that they were wasting their time at the meeting. Jeff wanted to come anyway. Everything Marjorie had told them about the house fascinated him. He loved old houses like this with a passion. Marie-Louise didn't like wasting time. To her, time was money. Jeff explained to Sarah that they had been partners, privately and professionally, for fourteen years. They had met at the Beaux-Arts in Paris while he was studying there, and had been together ever since. He explained with a smile that Marie-Louise was an unwilling hostage in San Francisco, and went back to France for three months every year. He said somewhat humorously that she hated living in the States, but stayed there for him. Her eyes flashed as he said it, but she didn't comment. She looked about Sarah's age, and had an incredible figure. Everything about her seemed prickly and unfriendly in the extreme. But even she looked mollified as Sarah led them into the house, and she and Marjorie gave them the tour of all they'd seen and discovered earlier that week. Jeff stood at the foot of the grand staircase in awe, staring up at the three-story-high vaulted ceiling and the incredible chandelier. Even Marie-Louise looked daunted by it, and said something about it to her partner in hushed tones.