mecox shores
"It had never been about the money." That was all he wrote, that day; that beautiful sunny crisp early fall day. Neither scribbled nor neatly scribed but printed boldly, extremely out of character. He hadn't said or hinted at anything ever, we had just finished planning a new strategy to finish selecting accessories, art work and antiques for the estate.
The air had been icy inside the house when I entered. I saw the steamy echo of my greeting rise up and away from me as I passed through the wide open door. I questioned the blasting cold air hitting my ankles as I walked through the main foyer long before it had registered in my head that the front door had been ajar. "Hello?" I bellowed.
Six years of planning and just over four years of construction things had finally started to come together. I can't say there was another existing estate with any hope to compare. Nothing had been sacrificed, every detail had been attended to and not a corner was cut to design or construct this home. Even the landscaping had been a nurturing and evolving process. The estate had become a living thing not solely a mass of material, labor, and nature. If anyone would believe me I'd say the home even breathed.
His daughter and I were not that far apart in age, she only being four years younger than I was.
She was not what you'd expect being the offspring of her father. She was tall and delicate with silken black hair that she'd recently cut very short. Her skin like fine white china seemed almost translucent even during the summer months. She was reserved, rather understated and even stiff at times much unlike her father with his charming ways and room filling laughter. Her father blond, bronzed year round, sported a polished ruggedness and was always a crowd drawer with his tales and horror stories.
Her mother, his wife lived abroad between the London flat and Paris studio. An artist, who at times would be so engulfed in her work, would have not noticed all that had gone on back in the states. She was a mysterious soul that when she did visit she appeared to glide, disappearing and reappearing in and through the maze of rooms throughout their new estate. One could call her passive but with a second look one may be able to see all she spoke with a simple glance. She gave a first impression of someone cold and detached, cold not unlike the house that day. But then first impressions are not always accurate.
to be continued
(note: the above is an orginal work. copyright 1998 khe)
