"Little" Sister Pt. 05

During coffee, I pulled out my phone again. "Adele, have you ever seen this set of jewelry? It was made by Tiffany in 1898. My great-gran Sparks commissioned it." This was also the first that Elspeth had seen it, an oversight on my part. She and Adele scrolled through all the pictures in the album, including the portrait of Sheila and I wearing both sets. That brought a gasp from Elspeth. Once again, distant things came close.

Adele read my mind. "She did this for you, your graceful sister-in-law. You are much blessed. I am not familiar with such jewelry. As you have said, we believe in well made and enduring, but also functional. Such decoration is for others. I can say that the set is well given.

"I feel the same about Elspeth. She was a sweet child, but different in many ways. We tried to adjust to her desires, but it was not always easy. You are a gift to her, thus a gift to us. I would say, 'Guard her well', but that seems to be your nature.

"You are welcome here at any time. Indeed, I would be pleased to meet your sister-in-law, Sheila. She may also bring her daughter. I have a fondness for children."

Even my cum laude degrees did not carry this level of honor. I was genuinely touched.

Chapter 23 -- Working in the Sun

Before I went back to Roxbury, I needed a change of clothes. We drove up to Hooksett, gathered wardrobe and drove back. On the way south, we stopped for gas in Nashua. The station had the usual real estate books. Standing in line, waiting for the attendant, I was struck by the thought that I might be spending a lot of time in, or commuting to, Boston. Nashua was about thirty minutes closer than Hooksett, and it skipped all the Manchester traffic. On the other hand, it was over half an hour from Concord, should I need to visit the Capital. I shelved the idea for the moment, but it would return.

My new meeting was in the same bar, but almost everything else had changed. Ms. Conor was less combative, but her forces were much larger. Veronica was sober and showing it. They may have tried to keep tabs on me, because one of them asked where I had been. I told them one of the Cabots, on Beacon Hill, asked me to sleep over. They thought that was funny. When I told them I went to New Hampshire for some clothes, that was more acceptable.

I was wearing the same men's slacks and worn leather jacket, but the top was Michael Kors and the shoes were Naturalizer. My outfit was comfortable. I think one of the women picked up on it, but fuck looking poor to make a point. After a late evening with Adele Cabot, these people were not scary.

Everyone wanted to know about Elspeth. I said she was my assistant. No one pressed the issue. Elspeth looked the part by taking notes. There was a lot of discussion to make notes from. Ms. Conor, or one of her people, had done the digging I had suggested.

It took some time to get everyone up to speed, which let me browse what they were not saying aloud. The short version was that they did not believe my story, quite. However they could not figure out any other reason to explain why I was there. It was a place to start. When I had the chance, I jumped in.

"You probably have trouble believing I am here to do what I say I am here to do. First point, why bother lying? Lawyers are quite capable of threatening in other ways. Second point. This is not the kind of case that makes law firms look good to their clients. They will do what they are paid to do, but there is a nuisance value. Making this situation go away will make them look good. Hence me. I am here to see if this", waving of hands, "can all be reduced to a number on a check."

You would think I suggested four legged animals in their family tree. Insults and offers of violence were the least of the blow back. I did not care. I was watching the queen bee. Ms. Conor understood that I was being frank. It would be her job to keep everyone in line. I did not envy her that. We exchanged glances. She knew. She also knew that I understood what she had to do. There was a tiny hint of a nod. Good enough for the day.

Elspeth and I left. As we left, I pointed Veronica out to her. She and Veronica exchanged looks. When we were outside I called Sidney Rice, my contact at MBC&L. I told him that I had made contact and that they would discuss it. He wanted more detail. I told him that he could wait until I actually knew something. Elspeth asked for the phone. She told him that I was on a first name basis with Adele. That shut him up. There is nothing like friends in high places.

Four days later, I made the drive south from Hooksett, alone this time. Because of the bridge under construction, traffic in Manchester was down to a one lane crawl. Nashua was starting to look better and better. In south Boston, we met in the now familiar bar. For once I had food. The sandwich was exactly why I do not eat at bars.

Ms. Conor told me that she needed a ball park figure. Uh uh. I needed to know what she could do, before we worked on how much. We argued a bit. When I picked up my briefcase, she looked at me sideways. She asked me if I had really gone to Beacon Hill. I told her I didn't know. It was just an address on the GPS. She was frowning as I left.

Going north, I got off the main road to take a look at Nashua. It was not unlike New Jersey, rolling hills full of trees. The small-city-next-to-the-Big-City vibe was almost identical. There was history here, as with most of New England. However, most was further north, along the rivers. Recently it was a bedroom region for greater Boston. You should take a look at the street maps. The state line cuts off the sub-divisions like a knife.

What was not the same was house pricing. Compared to northern New Jersey, one could buy a lot of house for one's money. During my time in school, I was used to working six and a half day weeks. By that standard, I had a lot of down time. Poking around in the Nashua real estate market could be a nice distraction. I quickly ruled ot the lower third of Hillsborough county. That was elbow to elbow sub-divisions. I was looking for an interesting property, not glorified cookie cutter houses.

I spent the next week in the Capital, looking for business. Friday, I arranged a weekend meeting in south Boston. Since there was time, I decided to test Nashua. Before I did that, I took some time to check with my investment adviser. Setting up a business had been harsh enough already. For real estate, even an earnest payment would be outside my usual spending limits. Adele Cabot would have told me to live on the income of my income. I resolved to look for the kind of house she might visit.

Most people look for a house by starting with the school, shopping and job locations. Hence the phrase, "Location, location, location." I resolved to take a different approach. I started by looking for history. Like most riverside cities in New England, Nashua had important textile factories. They would have been the town royalty. Several of the old textile families' town homes were historical sites. Many of the factories had been torn down. Others were converted to pricey loft apartments. There was not much down that road.

Another business name came up—Gregg Lumber, Gregg & Son Planing Mill, Gregg & Son, Door, Sash & Blind Mfy, Gregg & Son, Inc. The Gregg name was still prominent in the Nashua area. One was an accountant with a downtown office. He was too busy to talk, but referred me to his widowed aunt, Edna Gregg.

We had tea and talked of the family history. She was a Dearbourn from Cambridge, MA. Her husband attended Harvard Law, while she was in secretarial school. Mrs. Gregg's next door neighbor was Nashua born and raised, so Edna invited her over. It chanced that she was also in the historical society. Before I begged off for my appointment, there were six middle aged, or older, ladies in the parlor. All with an interest in local history. Down the road it would mean something.

In the nearer term, I was starting to juggle a lot of balls. Governments move slowly, so I could take on several things at once. Unfortunately, that meant that I sometimes needed to be in three cities the same day. The road project in Manchester was the largest project, but most of the decisions were already decided. I was constantly called to hold someone's hand, but nothing of substance. Concord continued to generate requests for analysis/intervention/mediation, particularly in Pardons and Paroles. The situation in south Boston slowly evolved from getting the ducks in a row, to pricing the row of ducks.

Sometimes a message, or phone call, would do the job. Sometimes not. I kept running around, snuffing small fires. Whenever I had an hour or two to spare, I spent it with my ladies, pursuing the social history of Nashua. This networked the ladies of various societies. I had an academic interest in all of it, but it became very personal. Indeed, I was almost talked into learning bridge. Only a tight schedule saved me.

Spring turned to summer. The Manchester traffic situation was almost resolved. In Concord I sat in on four Parole and Pardon hearings. The Governor asked if I wished a position on the Parole and Pardon's board. Why would I? I was generating most of the firm's cash flow as a consultant. I sent a graciously worded refusal, which she probably expected. The forms of political dance are not unlike the forms of musical dance.

South Boston was another story. What had looked like a promising quick job, turned into a sticky morass. The first major blow came when Ariana Conor's sister tested pregnant. The pregnancy did not develop smoothly. Suddenly, Ariana had more important things to do. Given Sheila's problems with her first child, I was not about to tell her no.

Unfortunately, Ariana had done everything. Her semi-official retirement left a massive hole in the organization. Reluctantly, Veronica tried to pick up the pieces. Roni was another issue. I had not appreciated the degree to which she had gone to seed. Experts say that an alcoholic is someone who drinks enough to cause problems, but continues to drink. I thought it was a symptom. Veronica once lived on the edge, but she no longer felt comfortable there. Instead, she drank and lived on past glory. I was a reminder that she had collateral damage.

However, Veronica also had skills. I was not going to waste her on a bar stool, while my project was flushed down the sewer. The other tenants did not want to accept Veronica as spokesperson. I dragged Ariana Conor away from her sister long enough to squelch that. The records office had an old grudge against Veronica. Elspeth pulled the wrath of Beacon Hill down on that. Two of the tenants decided to break ranks and screw everyone else. I got them in a room and played the old Cheers episode. It seemed like every week I had to come in for something. The fee I would be getting was not enough for all the grief.

Summer turned to fall. October marked a lot of things. The Manchester bridge project was finally, fully complete. The South Boston Coalition finally made a formal offer to MBC&L. I would later need to defend the figure with my life. In Concord, I represented my tenth convict to the Pardons and Paroles committee. Demand was growing faster than I could handle the load. I did not want to make my fee oppressive, but something had to be done.

In my hobby life, something unexpected happened. The husband of a friend, of a cousin, of one of the ladies, in one of my circle of regulars, wanted to make an offer. Hillsborough County owned a property, which the County would prefer paying taxes. They might forgive a portion of the debts owing, if I would get the property off the deadbeat rolls.

I looked into it. The problem was money, as usual. There was a large, very old house. A sizable plot of wooded land had to be sold with the house. The block of land was covenanted as a single unit, so it was all or nothing. On top of that, it was quite difficult to get to. County roads did not reach the property boundaries. The house itself was a lengthy hike through the woods. My aching back.

Under new business, I was retained by a Nashua Alderman, Allan Morton, to run his re-election campaign. That was almost too easy. He was the husband of one of my ladies. I had already declined two similar requests in Manchester. This one I took as a favor. No good dead goes unpunished. More on that later.

Boston was looking up. MBC&L referred me to the City of Boston, for a fact finding commission. It had to do with demographic shift in south Boston, i.e. the same neighborhoods where I had interned, about a hundred years earlier. I brought Vivian (BS Statistics from MIT, PhD Sociology from Dartmouth, one of my nine wedding assistants) on staff and gave the job to her.

In spite of that, I turned my first profit. Who'd a thunk it? We had a party at my Concord office. Being in the black put everyone in a good mood. Unfortunately, the phone was still working. I took a call in my personal office. When I returned, "So, Frau Doktor, we meet again." Lars can never sneak up on anyone but me, which pisses me off.

Like so much else about the month, Lars' story had two edges. He was in country for a large scale Siemens meeting. Unfortunately, the occasion was Georg Karl's failing health. This meeting would be the first official act of Herr Karl's successor. Lars was hoping for a new assignment, which was likely.

However, the next logical step was back to Berlin, to wrap the training cycle. So it proved. Lars and I had a single night in his hotel room, before he flew back to Japan.

I wished I had a chance to show him the property.

Chapter 24 -- Cloudrest

One of the things about being born rich is that your analysis is different from other people's thinking. For example, I never considered the cost; I considered the value. Every buying decision was a "Should I?" question, not a "Can I?" question. That attitude took a hit when I considered buying the house. I was a millionaire. I had been since my trusts vested at age twenty one. A mid six figure check would put a bruise on my balance sheet. Worse, purchase would be only the first of the costs. Look up an old Tom Hanks movie, The Money Pit. Better yet, Cary Grant's Mr. Blandings Builds his Dream House .

I consciously put Dr. Richards in charge of the decision. Any way I looked at it, it was an outright gift, attached to a very reasonable land purchase. When you boiled out the excess, the offer was for a large, hand built house, almost a mansion, outbuildings and water rights. All of this was under $300,000. The land itself would be $4000 per acre. Some of the land was once harvested for timber and could be again. Centuries old maple trees grew wild. I had visions of Amish tenants growing apples and berries, with syrup in the winter.

What tipped my hand was the river frontage. The offer included a 'cable' (220 meters, 720 feet) of almost unrestricted access to the Merrimack River. There had to be some use for that. The irony was that the land was once owned by the Gregg family. They held it during their lumber days, though the main house was older. Some parts, chimneys, foundation and front facade, were from native stone, likely quarried from the property.

The rest was hand cut and hand shaped wood. The more utilitarian rooms, such as the kitchen and storage, used wide board pine flooring. The entrance, great room, parlors and main staircase used hand cut maple. No one did that. Still, the detail was not isolated. Throughout the house, better than the usual quality of wood was used. Often, more than the usual quantity was used as well. I suspected one of the Greggs was involved early on, since that whole family went into wood and finished wood products.

Regardless, it was an empty shell. There was not even glass in the windows. Forget electricity. This house predated wood stoves. Wherever a shutter had fallen off a hinge, weather damage, sometimes severe, was the result. At some point, the whole house had been cleaned and swept. Not even the usual trash was around. I would have preferred the trash. Something interesting might have been tossed.

The worst thing was that you could not get to the house. The closest road was almost half a mile away. The hiking trail meandered through dense hardwood thicket for three times that far. One fair autumn weekend, I walked that trail. In the fading light I took a ream of pictures. After dusk I laser mapped all the rooms of the house and outbuilding (workshop? wood shed? cabin?). It had a large fireplace. I gathered fallen wood and built a fire. I was never in Scouts. This seemed an appropriate place for my first experience with s'mores. Lord Almighty they were good.

In the morning, the house was obscured by dense fog. Since it looked like a cloud was sitting on it, I christened the house 'Cloudrest' (I must have been in a strange mood). It was a turning point. From that day on, I identified with the house. It was rough, and uncultured, by even contemporary standards, but there was strength. The hill on which it stood was solid granite. The foundation was stone on stone. After three hundred years, the foundation would be the least of my worries.

Close to the house, the soil was so shallow trees would not grow. This eliminated one potential problem. Yet, there was water. A spring boiled from a fissure, barely a hundred feet from the house. There were a pair of spring houses downstream. Further down, there was evidence of former beaver dams. Nearby was a thicket of apple trees, likely a family orchard gone wild. Sugar maple was everywhere. It was early for the best fall color, but the leaves were already spectacular.

The list of necessary repairs was daunting. One of the nice things about being a favored scion of an Ivy League school is access to some of best architectural programs in the world. I sent everything to Sheila, for cleanup, then on to the Universities. While I sent all the pictures to Dartmouth, Yale was my first hope. While Yale was not the preeminent program in the nation, it was very high up. I never intended to start a bidding war.

My first return call was from Dr. Hanson at Dartmouth, thanking me for the file of pictures. In quick succession I received calls from Dr. Singh, Yale's Dean of Architecture and Design and Dr. Lang, Archivist for Dartmouth's library system. Both were frothing at the mouth. With what must have been an evil grin, I referred Dr. Lang to Dr. Singh, commenting on early birds and worms.

The third call was unexpected. Harlan Lipton called to warn me of possible blow back. No kidding. I told him I would be balancing Dartmouth's Library against Yale's Architectural school. Harlan laughed so hard he dropped the phone. He then reminded me that I also ran a non-profit organization. Donations for a restoration could be solicited. He also mentioned that a video record would likely be marketable. I had not thought of that.

With all this churning in the background, I made a deal. Harlan and a local attorney worked out a number of waivers and tax advantages. Hillsborough County would clear, de-stump and gravel cover a drive to the house. I would cover the labor costs. A furniture firm was buying the cut trees. They had a side deal with the County to trim and transport the logs. At least three families were making some nice coin on the deal, but I was assured the County was breaking even, excepting wear and tear on the equipment. That's government.

On my end, I posted some of the pictures on the Beacon Light website, providing links to the Dartmouth Library page and my new Cloudrest website. In turn, Cloudrest linked to everyone and their sister's dog. Linking from Cloudrest to Beacon Light soon outpaced linkings in the other direction. Links to the Hillsborough County Historical Society outpaced the reverse link from day one. Sean was very pleased with the number of hits Digital Arts was getting.